Last weekend I was trawling sites looking for something to do. I made my usual stop at Midnightridazz.com and noticed a couple of interesting rides posted, but, as usual, they seemed to start too early for my convenience. I generally hate leaving the house anytime before 7 or 8 in the evenings. Sometimes I get really excited and leave early and end up being the first one at the party or arrive before doors open. So now I compensate for fashionable Los Angeles lateness by never leaving home until 8 or 9, so that I reach venues at least an hour after the door opening times mentioned. I might miss an opening act or two, but with 4-5 bands on most bills I still catch over two hours of music, which is more than anyone can actively digest on a night anyway. For me day long festivals are tiring, boring affairs. How much music or art can you really absorb at a sitting? With a alcohol habit to feed and sustain over 10 or 12 hours, it gets expensive as well. In little clubs there are ways to get around the overpriced booze problem as you shall see.
This was my first excursion into the much reviled Silver Lake area of LA. On my way I got lost for a while in the confusing mesh of streets around Beverly and Temple Boulevards. I took a steep hill up Temple only to realize after that I was on the wrong street. Doubled back and rode past a nervous looking woman taking a stroll and did a little U-turn inside my lane to talk to her. Now try doing that in a car. As I rode up to her she covered herself tighter with her sweatshirt and vigorously shook her head to convey that not only did she not know where Silver Lake was, she also did not think we should even be talking. Talk to a stranger? Heavens no! How unseemly! It was laughable because it was obvious she knew where the street was, since she lived barely 3 blocks from it, as I soon found out. That is one of the most important streets in the neighborhood bringing in the steady influx of skinny Am -Apped PBR repping ghouls who bankroll all the chic coffee shops and restaurants. Still, it is nice to be able to scare a middle aged woman every now and then.
After correcting my bearings I found the street. Riding along Silver Lake Boulevard for a few minutes I saw the skirt of lake on my left; dark, ghostly and silent, without any lights along its shore to brighten the jogging path that runs beside it. At that late hour I noticed a handful of dog walkers and runners. It seems that they feel safe enough to use it after 8 PM with minimal lighting to guide them, which is a perk of living in a nice area. Compare that to the area I live in where two people got mugged in the afternoon just yesterday. When I arrived at the intersection of Glendale and Silver Lake I did a quick map check and realized I had overshot my destination. Back along the lake shore and down some hills to roll up next to my destination - Club Spaceland. I never walk into a club as soon as I arrive. If possible, I check all the exits first, then stake out the area and look for interesting neighbors.
As I rode past the club I noticed a couple of valet parkers and a doorman in a black jacket. I stopped to ask the doorman if I could leave the show after entering. He sarcastically said - "No you can't!" I laughed at this and told myself - that's what you get for asking stupidly worded questions. I kept riding, crossing the street at a gentle pace. I walked into the 7/11, conveniently located on the opposite corner, to buy a tall can of Bud. Inside, I saw a trio of dressed-up, out on the town types, with a striking looking older punk among them and put them down as Babyland fans almost immediately. Babyland have a dedicated following that has remained faithful for them from the early to mid 90s and I could tell that some of that core audience would be at this show. Refreshment now secured, I took a seat on a little section of short brick wall next door with a view of Lamill Coffee opposite me. I sat with my beer hand tucked neatly out of sight between my thighs and stared curiously at the coffee drinkers. They are a different breed from me entirely. I cannot understand the type of person who goes to a brightly lit boutique to buy and consume an expensive cup of coffee, while typing away on a laptop. Some of them may have had questioning thoughts of their own about the beer drinking cyclist slouched, not un-amiably, on the sidewalk, looking a little exposed and leery. Two worlds eyed each other and sipped. I wanted to tell them - "Men of Coffee, I have a life too. It is a strange one certainly, but there is purpose there amidst the disorder, the scattered droplets of foam and the rattling, empty, aluminum beer cans of night’s end. Try to understand it. Perhaps some night you will leave your caffeine stained keyboards and join me for a brew and experience some of my drink’s lazy pleasures and burp-riddled insights."
To my right and across the black, ever-rolling carpet of street, I noticed a sign announcing Silver Lake Liquors. Odin himself would champion this parcel of land I thought, they have all the necessary tools for producing a riot—beer, music and coffee (for alcoholic rioters in recovery), while the entire area was so full of signs of affluence that it provided a ready target for the unleashed ire of participating looters. Alas, such a day will perhaps never come again. The closest I can get to such mayhem is at a good concert. A great concert is in my imagination like a small scale, controlled riot; Altamont without the stabbing essentially. I have yet to experience that but I have seen some approach that kind of greatness.
I rode back down the street to the club and locked my bike to a stand across the street, attaching my blooming, red parachute of a USC bag to the gap between lock and spokes. This is my first piece of school merchandise ever, bought only because I needed a bag immediately. A few weeks ago on a beer laden trip to the C.R.A.N.K. mob ride, one of the cords popped out and when I walk around one end trails behind me sheepishly like an absurd tail. My hope is that the cheesy USC logo acts as some sort of peace flag as I weave through damaged neighborhoods late at night. The door has a sign saying something stern like: "Once you enter no leaving for any reasons, no exceptions". This made me feel justified in my earlier questioning of the doorman, but I learned quickly that it's just a little piece of unenforced authoritarianism which can be flouted at will. All the better, for my plan of action that night required frequent egresses from the club.
Once inside I bought myself a beer and walked around the floor just as a band was packing up their equipment. The stage at Spaceland is backed by sleazy, glittering blue and silver curtains that I could imagine behind a burlesque show or a strip tease. Why have stage curtains when they don't open up to anything? That is as potent a symbol of Los Angeles artifice as the people in movie character costumes walking the streets of Hollywood getting snapped for a fee.
There is nothing like silence to make a lone show-goer feel self conscious and isolated so I retired to the side room, where there is a pool table, jukebox and additional bar. 70s-style couches and what looked like retired commercial airline seats were scattered around the floor, while a TV ran live footage of the happenings next door. I suppose this is for the customers who pay an 8 dollar cover (extremely reasonable) to watch the live music happening next door on a tiny screen. Only in poor Lost Los. Someone put James Brown on the juke and I just unwound myself, uncurling like a baby seal relaxing postprandially on a sub-arctic rock. The Godfather has that effect on my joints. Soon another band had set up and I found out from an audience member that they were called "the Kris Special".
By this point in music history seeing just two people on stage for a rock show is no surprise. A careful reader would have noticed that two of the bands that I have written about before this were also two-pieces. The Fag Bashers and Voices Voices, however, are not conventional rock and roll bands. They use a lot of pedals to augment the lack of conventional musical firepower that a 4-piece can provide. This is not the case with the Kris Special who play a high traditional form of pop punk that typically features the larger trio or quartet formation.
How come bass doesn't matter anymore as the White Stripes suggested 6 years ago? Why has the funky, once omnipotent trunk-rattler become redundant? The 70s, at least until punk came along, was dominated by bass, which was, arguably, more important than the guitar during the jazz fusion, funk and disco eras. Perhaps because what was once suggested by bass has now become the riff. Punk simplified music enough that the electric guitar with its mid- to higher-range sound is flesh enough on the skeletal body of its songs. This is a highly simplistic and reductive account of rock's development but a somewhat valid one in my opinion. 30 years of Punk and alternative rock has certainly made certain sounds that would previously have been considered unacceptable by popular audiences, palatable and even commercially viable.
So is the Kris Special the natural end result of musical devolution? The simple truth as Nick the drummer revealed to me later was that they started out as a larger outfit that lost 3 members over a period of time, some of them defecting as late as a few weeks ago. So why the theorizing and grandstanding you ask; because it wouldn't be as fun and I wouldn't have much to write about. Besides, that is the interpretation that a historian might arrive at from looking at trends in music. The popularity of other recent 2 piece acts like The Kills and The Raveonettes surely has made it easier for people to experiment with the format. If a duo’s songs are strong enough, then having a limited sound palette is no longer a hindrance to expressing them.
Riff can be enough, all-encompassing even, with an observant and sympathetic drummer who coaxes the songs out of his partner and helps truly flesh them out. That's what Nick does to Ann's songs, drumming in the interstices of her riffs, nodding and encouraging her and playing to her strengths. Nick has the earnest face and welcoming presence that immediately suggests a kind soul without artifice or cynicism. He has the perfect empathetic personality for a drummer. Best of all, he has a dinosaur fossil logo on his drums that screams dumb fun. A friend of the band designed this campy number that is also featured prominently on their CD. Their friends and followers are a dedicated bunch. I spotted one of them snapping photos. His name is Richard and he was kind enough to mail me these pictures.
Ann meanwhile has great stage presence. On this night she wore a health nut shirt that she whipped off a few songs in, to Nick's sarcastic cry of "Boobs!" All ye bands, read and learn—give the crowd a little transformation in your act, if possible. We can't all do a show with multiple costumes like "Of Montreal" but a little mid-set change is always fun.
See what I mean. Now we have to reckon with her in a tank top with a sewn on rose and gold stars. Using those little logos on her shirt to get at her personality and her songs would be a little simplistic. While on the surface the songs are starry-eyed and romantic, they seem to be informed more by pain and experience. Amidst choppy, upbeat numbers like the X'ish "Little Red Song" you 'll hear quieter songs like the twangy and depressing "Wet Payphone". This sad song tells the story of a young burnout who pukes "every night through the night and then (is) ready to party".
As Ann sings she catches your eye and sings to you. There is a candor to her stage presence that I have seldom seen in performers. When she sang "if you get the spins put your foot flat on the ground" I felt a momentary fear for my own mortality. I felt rebuked for taking my life for granted with hard living and booze. "There are fall down drunk nights that are fun and they are going to be followed by years"—she seemed to be saying, "Save something of your pathetic young self for the rest of your life." Ann reveals a part of herself on stage in a way that most singers shy away from and this draws you to her. A lot of musicians involve themselves in the professionalism of stage performance, fiddling with gadgets and knobs and interacting with the music and other musicians instead of with the audience. While Nick and Ann have an energetic interplay, Ann never forgets you, and you, and you in the audience.
The Kris Special are a band that should be experienced live. Their album - "Alone Feels like a Hotel Room" which features the bass guitar missing onstage, sounds like it has soap in its ears. The production robs their songs of their power and drive. Live they are faster and the playing feels more communicative and reciprocal. Isolating instruments in a recording booth does strange things to a band, and unless it is done correctly it can often paint a false portrait of their sound and chemistry. Instead of sounding as exciting as the Pixies or X, they sound like pop rock lightweights or VH1 confection.
They could also do with a name change. It's the perfect time to do it since they have had a lineup change recently and a new identity never hurts one in rock and roll. What is a Kris Special anyway? An inside joke perhaps that I should have asked them to explain to me. The point is that a name should need no explanation and should be able to stand alone.
Right after their set ended I left the club in a tearing hurry. With less than 200 dollars to my name an expensive round of drinks was not an option. It would have taken me at least 60 dollars to get properly sozzled to prepare for Babyland's set at the Spaceland bar, so I took myself down the street in a rush, so as to not miss any of the intervening music. At Silver Lake Liquors I bought myself a bottle of Canadian Club whiskey. I had never tasted this stuff but the price was right. At the moment of decision I was sorely tempted to buy a good scotch or at least Jameson, but I decided to forgo that simple luxury in order to save 7 or 8 dollars. This is the kind of discipline you will find only in an alcoholic who prides himself in the small denials of life while thoroughly indulging himself in bacchanalia, thus ignoring the larger issue of abstinence and self-control. It is a unique form of self-deception that can be maintained only in the first phase of a night's revelry. After a few drinks even this control on spending disappears as the spirit of revelry takes over. Then, all thought of prohibition and abstemiousness is banished and the idea of a budget seems as fanciful as the existence of unicorns or the possibility of time travel.
After a few desperate, hacking gulps of the Canuck Club I thrust the bottle near a cactus bush, congratulating myself tipsily for being so careful with my possessions. No one in Silver Lake was going to look here I decided, and the bottle could safely await my faithful return in a short time. I rushed back into the club only to be confronted by the horrible sight of 4 skinny Germans playing clunky nu-metal songs. They were led by an anorexic young man who I had observed earlier in the bathroom. He seemed quite content back there, smiling at me friendlily through his triangular wave of trendy, side-swept hair. What was he doing on stage, balefully monotoning in accented English about the cataclysmic pains of the world that had been inflicted on him, and that he promised to return tenfold? It was more than I could take. Why withstand a sodden musical buggering, when firewater beckoned? It did not require a Socratic mind to resolve this choice and I ran out again, just as speedily as I had entered, to resume my dissolute ways. I had made some half-hearted efforts to find out the Teutonic music molesters’ name but after seeing them play I did my best to suppress all memories of ever hearing them.
I gave them a good twenty minutes to finish their set while catching up on my bi-weekly drunk dialing of distant friends. One or two that answered were rewarded with my excited voice and no doubt cursed themselves for not screening. Soon I was inside again, just in time to watch Babyland take the stage. This was the main event of the night but I unfortunately could not obtain any pictures of their set. Very soon I'll have my own camera and then there will be a complete set of pictures for every show review I do. I did however find excellent videos on youtube. I want to thank the guy who shot these as well. On his channel page he mentions that he wishes to start an underground video show and is looking for help.
Take the hollowed out, echoey, truncheon-on-skull drum sound that you hear at the start of "She's Lost Control". Imagine that sound, sped up, dosed with hits of EBM and multiplied, shooting forth polyrhythmic extensions out of its basal stem. That is the sound that drummer Smith creates via the strange hyrda-headed beast that is his drum kit. Imagine Dan's Robert Smith yowl overlaid on top of it and you’ll have a good idea of Babyland's basic sound. They like to tag themselves as "Electronic Junk Punk" which is a fair description of their older, heavier and less poppy sound. They now sound sanded down and mature.
At this stage I do not want to go into their sound in depth because of some very good reasons. The first is the aforementioned lack of pictures. Also, they are playing a free record release show on the 31st of January at the Smell which I am definitely going to cover in depth. Given the range of the music of a band like Babyland, a second viewing is definitely needed for me to capture the full effect of their onslaught. The only incident that I will describe from their show happened midway through the set. The singer, Dan, stopped the so far lackluster proceedings to berate the audience. We weren't nearly drunk or boisterous enough to keep up with their high-energy electronics and he asked us to take a trip to the bar.
Being in an ecstatic mood from the music and the drink, I impulsively yelled out that I would not pay these bastards a cent for their overpriced drinks and that I had my own bottle of Canadian moonshine waiting outside in the bushes for me. "I’ll give you a minute to run out and get a drink" Dan said, and this led to another sprint across the street to add to the rubber tire fire building in my belly. I made it back in time too! Phew, for a stumblebum drunk I sure do get a lot of exercise. The key is to avoid the easy luxuries of life and keep your substance of choice at a physical distance, so that securing it each time occupies your time and expends your surplus energies.
One interesting thing I did learn after the show was the fact that they are bringing the power drill back at the Smell show. Ever since the fire at the Great White show in Rhode Island, safety regulations at clubs have started to get stricter and stricter and it is harder for bands to use pyrotechnics. So there you have it, the Great White legacy in a nutshell—shitty music and the tightening of screws on fire regulations country-wide that make it harder for performers like Babyland to push the boundaries. Fortunately things can get fast and loose at The Smell as any readers of the Fag Bashers show below already know. Here is a taste of how good things can get in there and what a fascinating show you can expect in about 10 days.
I went in to this show hoping to see the legendary spark shower and hear the corrosive commentary of screeching metal expanding Smith's rhythmic vocabulary. The noise of the drill opens their sound up in a way that the two of them are not able to achieve live. I was somewhat disappointed by the drill's absence and would rather write an expanded review of a show featuring this additional weapon than do a tame review of the circumscribed version of their show as I saw it that night. I encourage everyone in LA on the 31st of January to come down to the Smell and see the primal phenomenon of the full Babyland show featuring power drill, for themselves. I for one am very excited.
Here is the reason I will be a life long Babyland fan. As their show began I started pogoing for the first time since going flat footed from running last summer. As a result, I quickly twisted my ankle. I have little natural balance as it is, and with my unnaturally stunted gait, it was almost certain I would do some damage to it if I tried anything physical. The force of their music was so overwhelming that I forswore caution and leaped into the air anyway. Even after feeling the sharp pain of an unsteady impact I kept going all night and slammed about with the small circle of gentle moshers. Later, I mentioned this to Smith as a way of telling him how exciting their music was, as he gave me a small snazzily designed EP. The next day, after I came to and opened the case I noticed a little inscription saying—"Sorry about the fucked up leg". Anybody that gives a fan that kind of detailed attention is worthy of your respect and love.
Similarly Ann from the Kris Special, when asked to describe her music, took the time to draw a giant heart connected to a guitar on a paper instead, with back of the high school notebook style messages to go with it. Some of my friends wouldn't do as much for me. The way these bands treat their audience should be a lesson for bigger artists and musicians. Anyone who goes to their shows gets to not only hear great music but also interact with them as peers and equals. This is impossible at larger venues where the stage is filled with the inflated egos of the overpaid stars who inhabit them. This is why I support D.I.Y. bands and smaller shows, as opposed to the big stadium shows that leave me feeling numb and disconnected.
After the show and a chat with Babyland I took off in high spirits, expecting a good, hard ride back home. As I went past the7/11 I saw a pack of riders and detoured to join them. I had seen a message on Midnightridazz.com about the “Chynatown” ride led by the friendly and ever popular Chyna but decided on the show instead because the ride started too early. Miraculously they had ended up at the same street corner as me, and, what was even harder to believe, they were also riding back downtown. Ordinarily my post would end right here on a joyful note. As it turned out I nearly rode off the wide screen of your imagination, into the ranks of young corpses on the street. When we reached 2nd street, the entire pack turned around and started to go back toward Chinatown, to who knows where. I saw a rider I had met on my first Midnight ride and decided to join him and his Japanese girlfriend who were going back to Koreatown, about 8 blocks from where I live. We headed back down Grand or Hope, one of those downtown streets that have steep inclines that allow bikes to reach speeds approaching 30-40 miles per hour without the pedaling of the cyclist involved.
The two of us were chasing his girl, who was leading us by default, since she seemed to want to ride fast that night. Going downhill on a bike is a wonderful experience but requires caution when stop lights are involved. Running reds on downhill rides is not a safe practice, for, at those high speeds, one has no time to see, much less react to traffic coming from the side. This girl was drunk enough that she didn't care much about these elementary cautions and plowed through a half a dozen lights, several of them reds. Me and her boyfriend rode a few yards behind her, yelling at her throughout to slow down. In about 30-45 seconds we rushed past about 7 lights in succession without making a stop in between. I think what saved her that night was the fact that all the drivers at the intersections were alert, letting her pass when she cut them off. I was going too fast to register if they were slamming the brakes or if we made it past them early enough at the start of their green signal that they hadn't yet started their engines yet. Their slowing down, in response to her heedless speed, must have allowed us trailing riders the requisite time lapse to safely make it past the red lights.
I could have stopped at any moment myself but I wanted to stop this girl as quickly as possible. I won't say that I didn't enjoy this recklessness. I have a death wish in me that found expression that night, but what was strange about her riding into the maws of possible death was the innocence of it all. If you met her, you would never think that a kind of suicidal spirit existed in her that, unbeknownst to her consciousness, comes out when she is drunk on a bike. She is a lovely person, untormented in her interactions with people and maybe even in everyday life, unlike her headlong plunges into open traffic would suggest. What kept her alive that night, I suspect, is her innocent unawareness of the self destructiveness of her riding style. If I, or her boyfriend, was at the head of that pack, riding as she did, our self-aware hesitation would have killed us instantly. Instead, her unquestioning embrace of the downhill-wind spirit kept us alive.
We finally caught up with her as she took a right towards the Staples Centre. All three of us stopped at a corner, saddled our bikes to the sidewalk and collapsed on the grimy pavement. I handed my whiskey to the guy and inquired about his girl's ability to make it back home. I told him that she really shouldn't be riding in her state, to which he replied that he was glad that I cared about their safety, but that it was their typical riding style. If I didn't want to ride with them, then I should go my own way. She, in drunken turn, told me that she was worried about my ability to safely reach home. They seemed to me to be the biking Sid and Nancy. When we resumed riding after the shared libations, I parted company with them at the next block and headed for home.
