Show Me The Coast - The War on Drugs

Wagonwheel Blues, the 2008 album from Philadelphia rockers The War on Drugs, was a record whose praises were almost-totally unsung by critics. Pitchfork left them out of their top-50 albums of the year - they didn't even get an honorable mention. Normally, this wouldn't mean much. The popular music website also snubbed albums released in 2008 by the Jonas Bros. and Miley Cyrus, mostly because their records are terrible.

And yet Craig Finn of The Hold Steady and Justin Vernon of Bon Iver both listed Wagonwheel as one of their top records of the past year. So it was with little critical buzz and only a travel-sized amount of artist hype that The War on Drugs took the stage at The Echo on April 21st, ready to earn a reputation the old fashioned way - by touring the country, playing shows, and winning fans.

Though there weren't many fans to speak of (that night, most of the Los Angeles music scene seemed to be at Cinespace watching a surprise DJ set by Daft Punk's Thomas Bangalter), it didn't much seem to bother The War on Drugs. Performed live, Wagonwheel's songs played to The Ramones' live credo: louder, faster, tougher. The War on Drugs have adopted a sound somewhere in the spectrum between Bob Dylan and Groove Armada, a spectrum only they inhabit.

The Philadelphia- based trio played nearly all of their released material for a crowd that numbered, generously, in the high 40s, most of them friends of the band. But, the extra space in the club let room for the superfans to emerge. One, intent on shouting his voice hoarse, traveled to the club from Rochester, NY. All in attendance seemed grateful to hear the dense, jangly melodies of Wagonwheel recreated on stage.

At times, the band's music seemed bigger than three could create, and indeed it proved to be at least once - lead singer Adam Guranciel recruited an audience member for her skills on the tambourine.

It was a performance that highlighted just how difficult it must be for a young band to tour without the blessing of the almighty internet elite - and just how little that can matter when you're performing for friends.

Originally in Los Angeles Magazine at: http://www.lamag.com/do/blog.aspx?dt=04/23/2009

Getting Suckered in LA

When you're on top, there's nowhere to go but down—and last week, I was on top.

For me, this meant a 12-year-old BMW convertible and enough beer to fill the fridge. It meant living in a tropical paradise (if, of course, you believe that L.A. is a tropical paradise). It didn’t mean a bank full of money, or even really any love to speak of. It was a very modest top, perhaps, but I was there. I was held at the top by a nearly unbroken string—I hadn't made a regrettable mistake in over a year.

There's no good time for a streak like that to end, so it might as well have happened on a cloudless April day. I was driving home from lunch with the top down, talking illegally to a friend of mine (for those of you who don't live in California, our nation's most liberal and progressive state, we've now made it against the law to have cell phone conversations in our cars).

Not wanting to break the law for too long, I pulled over to the curb of a side street to finish my conversation. As I exchanged the last of my compliments, a white GMC Yukon with clear brake lights and hula-hoop-sized rims pulled past me.

"Hey, boss. You need some help with that dent in your car?"

My BMW had, for the record, been mistreated in the past, but because I bought it second-hand (or maybe third-hand?), the craters and valleys in its left flank didn't really bother me. Unfortunately, in the three weeks I'd owned the car, I made the classic mistake of personifying it. Being German, I named the car Hans. And Hans didn't much care for the dent in his side.

But it wasn't like I had a say in the matter anyways; before I could answer the man, who was about my height but thicker, with black facial hair and droopy eyes, aged between 35 and 40, jumped out of his white Yukon clown car with five or six accomplices, talking fast about a free sample.

Before, “Well, if it's free...” had formulated in my brain, one of the underlings, this one between 5'6" and 5'9", with a ponytail and a mustache, began to jerk at my car with one of those As-Seen-On-TV suction cups and slathering a pink compound on the peaks and valleys of the dent.

While he was working, I met the rest of the posse. Mike, their ringleader, explained that this was their day off work at EuroSpec Motoring on the corner of Pico Blvd. and Houser (90019). We circled my car identifying the dents and the scratches gathered over Hans' long lifetime. Soon, I thought, the dents would be gone and the car would officially be mine. All I needed to do was wait 24 hours to clean off that pink compound.

Oh and, of course, there was the small matter of paying the gang their due for the work they had put in. Proudly, I talked Mike down from $700 to a much more reasonable $250. You couldn't, we both agreed, get anyone to fix even a mirror for that price. So I drove off to the bank, with the Yukon in tow, happy to make a withdrawal from my already-withdrawn account.

Of course I thought scam. The whole thing seemed shady, right down to Mike's droopy eyes. For minutes during my “tune-up” I was thinking that the whole thing must be a sham, I just couldn't work out how, like a child staring for hours at a Magic Eye without seeing the hidden picture.

Truth be told, I thought the true scam was being pulled on The Man. I felt like I was getting away with something, and there's no better feeling than that. In fact, it wasn't until I started to pick off the pink compound covering the dents that my delusions faded.

First, the mystery pink compound was Bondo. Taking it off was nearly impossible without stripping my car’s silver paint in the process. My roommate suggested that my car's new Bondo paint job looked like pink bubble gum. I suggested he fuck off.

His next suggestion was a bit more constructive: go visit the guy at his shop and see if you can get him to remove the Bondo. I thought it was dangerous, but worth a try. An hour later, I was at the corner of Pico and Houser, trying to interrupt a man in blue coveralls from ripping off a young couple over a brake pad repair. Though he seemed criminal, the man was merely a creep. And unhelpful—I didn't get a straight answer about Mike, just a curt brush-off.

Looking desperately around the shop, with its many garages and many other blue coverall-clad mechanics wasting time, I settled on two young, tattooed men in the first bay. They were casually working on a green Porsche 911 when I walked up and said nervously, “Hear me out—I think I got scammed and I was told by the scammer that he works at this shop. I just want to know if the guy works here or not.”

A day later, the three of us were drinking Red Stripe and picking off the last of the Bondo together. The two young guys worked on Porsches for the auto dealerships in the Valley together for years and finally struck out on their own. The idea of a con artist posing as an off-work employee of their new business pissed them off almost as much as it did me. They made brave and tentative plans of slashing Mike's tires if we ever saw the Yukon again. I nodded, safe in the comfort of two new friends in a city built on cons and confidence.

Originally in SpliceToday at: http://www.splicetoday.com/consume/getting-suckered-in-l-a

Second Chances – Fool's Gold

Concert reviews are tricky things. It's entirely likely that the reader will gloss over reviews of bands they haven't heard of; it's entirely likely that those more familiar with the band attended the show and they don't take kindly to negative reviews.

And rave reviews are even worse. If by some chance the unfamiliar reader makes his or her way through a positive review and wants to see the band, they're mostly out of luck. Concerts are usually one-night affairs, so the role of the concert reviewer is one of an eternal, "You should have been there, man" man.

But this is one of those rare times when the stars align: A rave review, a recommendation and, luckily, not one but two more chances for the reader to act. Fool's Gold, as of now this writer's favorite local band, will be playing two more free shows on this month's remaining Monday nights at the Echo.

The show's price, the hallmark of the Echo's new monthly Monday night residency, was enough to lightly pack the small, upstairs club when I arrived on April 13th. At 10:30 PM, there wasn't even a line at the door. Half an hour later, the crowd would be happy for any empty square footage they could find - the eleven (!) members of Fool's Gold weaved through the crowd before the show, clad in a mishmash of tribal regalia and ringspun denim, enticing the audience to chant.

Their arrival onstage was a photographer's dream - three sets of florescent lights colored green, yellow, and red lit the band from beneath, as if by campfire. Their sound, rustic tropical rhythms that have been grown, harvested, dried, ground, and mixed with Luke Top's vocals, fried every molecule in the room, and soon the headgear came off, the facepaint but a melted memory.

Individual performances in the band are deceptively simple and repetitive; the complexity comes from the sheer number of people on stage, as if a much smaller band invited their friends to come out from backstage and jam. But the whirling, hazy repetition would be nothing without Top's singing, which fluctuates between Hebrew and English with such power that I can honestly say I have never heard anything like it.

For some, the vocal incantations might be too gruff, more suited for the synagogue than a rock club. Thankfully, those people left early, giving more room for the rest of the free crowd to dance, most of them already making plans for the following two Monday nights.

Originally in Los Angeles Magazine at: http://www.lamag.com/do/blog.aspx?dt=04/15/2009

Ninja Warrior Tryouts in Santa Monica

The most famous mountain in Japan may not be Mt. Fuji. Though few have seen it in person and even few have climbed it, every man, woman, and child in Japan knows Mt. Midoriyama. 

With 22 seasons on the air, Ninja Warrior is one of Japan's most popular television shows. At its heart, it is a challenge show like American Gladiator or Nickelodeon's Guts. Contestants have to cross one impossible obstacle after another in order to win. And the most impossible obstacle of all is climbing Mt. Midoriyama. Most of the men, women, and children who accept this challenge wind up in a muddy creek bed or stranded as time runs out, far from the steel and glass sadism of the mountain. They miss the Spider Jump or they lose their grip on the log roll, but that doesn't keep them from coming back—some of them twenty times or more—always plugging their small business on the starting grid, always apologizing to their families as they are being pulled out of the water. The only prize for winning Ninja Warrior is to be able to say that you have won Ninja Warrior. 

Since 2007, the cable network G4 has broadcast a dubbed version of Ninja Warrior. Its' late airtime and watchability made it a hit on college campuses and in parent's basements across the U.S. G4 has helped a lucky and talented few of these fans travel to Japan to compete against the mountain. 

The American finalists for 2009 have already been chosen, but bikers and beachstrollers alike couldn't help but stop and watch on Saturday as part of the Santa Monica shoreline was transformed into a mini-replica of the first stage of Ninja Warrior. There was the Spider Jump, which requires a quick split after a very technical trampoline jump. There was the 20-foot tall half-pipe. And on top, there was the buzzer to stop time, the finish line for the course. 

One fan, Ryan Stevens, even flew out from Fulton, Mississippi to compete against the clock. He started the general public line seven hours before the official start of the event, so when it was finally his turn, the crowd chanted, "4A.M.! 4A.M.!" Even the G4 crew cheered as he reached the top of the half-pipe and hit the buzzer. He might not have won a trip to Mt. Midoriyama (or even to California, for that matter), but after years of watching the show at home on tape delay, Stevens finally proved himself: he’s a ninja warrior.

Originally in Los Angeles Magazine at: http://www.lamag.com/do/blog.aspx?dt=04/07/2009

Bar Wars - LA Beer Fest 2009

San Francisco has Anchor Steam. Chicago has Goose Island. Philadelphia has Yuengling and Boston has Sam Adams. What about Los Angeles?

The joke goes that LA's official beer is a martini. The most adventurous beer selection at most bars in the city is usually Heineken or, sometimes, a Stella Artois. These days, it's about as easy to find a good dive bar as it is to find a medium-sized dog on Rodeo Dr.

That's not to say that beer isn't making a comeback. The opening of a second location of the 50-year-old Father's Office in Culver City represents an outpost of the beer underground into mixed drink territory. And now, thanks to the opening of the please-pray-it's-annual Los Angeles Beer Festival at Sony Pictures Studios, it seems that Culver has declared itself LA's de facto Beer District.

I counted around 70 different beer distributors set up at the festival though, admittedly, my addition wasn't perfect after a few. Brewers as well-established as Budweiser (a longtime resident of Fairfield, CA) and as passionate as Dean Bros unfolded their card tables in long, blue rows on the Sony lot. Brew fanatics (by my estimation, 75% dudes to 25% chicks) lined up as if it was a comic convention to fill their bottomless 4oz plastic mugs with new ales and lagers.

The focus was set decidedly towards the new; old standbys like Sierra Nevada (the beer that has been annexed by Los Angeles, even though it has been brewed in Chico, CA for 30 years) had shallow lines. The wait time was considerably (and deservedly) longer for other local contenders Firestone Walker, whose Union Jack IPA was most surprising and very floral, and tiny Coronado Brewing Co, whose Islander Pale Ale was the only beer I tried with a sufficient amount of hops.

At 5:00, in an exceedingly polite fashion, the crowd at Saturday's Beer Fest walked to their cars as the sun set. Though there was no uniform consensus on the beer to be crowned LA's own, perhaps there will be a few more pints of Angel City Ale served at the Farmer's Market, or a few more six-packs of Pyramid''s Thunderhead taken home from Ralph's.

Either way, the line at the mixed drink station at the festival was nonexistent, the mixicologists (or beverage experts, or whatever they're calling themselves these days) looked bored. And in the bar wars, that's always a victory.

Originally in Los Angeles Magazine

"APPLAUSE" - The Pains of Being Pure At Heart

I saw The Pains of Being Pure at Heart twice in one day. First, as an audience member on Last Call with Carson Daily at NBC Studios in Burbank, and then, four hours later, at a sold-out show with White Denim at Spaceland in Silver Lake.

Not only were they the band's first performances in Los Angeles, it was lead singer Kip Berman's first time in the city. "The whole experience has been hyper-real to me” his said. “My first day in the city and I'm on television and then playing a sold-out show. I don't know what to say."

Hyper-real, indeed. In Burbank, a bearded man counted down the seconds before the next song amid bright flashes of 'APPLAUSE, 'APPLAUSE'. It was a mixed crowd in Stage 9, most of the audience had never heard of the band but were still eager to clap (on beat) and scream (on camera). The drum solo that breaks the middle of "Everything With You" got more applause than I've heard for some opening bands.

TPOBPAH seemed more in their element playing in the red-hued and comfortable Spaceland later that night. Their performance was messier, the songs given more space to breathe. The sound system wasn't worth more than a condo, perhaps, and there were no studio lights hanging from the ceiling, no bearded man with an 'Applause' sign. But all the band needed to get the crowd "totally pumped up, yeah!" was to say that they were The Pains of Being Pure at Heart, from Brooklyn.

Watching this young band play twice, I got the sense that anyone who has listened to rock music in the past 10 years and thought, "If only this could sound a bit more pleasant," could walk into a TPOBPAH show and fall in love. Maybe it wasn't the camera that was exciting the crowd in Burbank: After every song at Spaceland, the randomly assembled ticket holders—mostly tourists from North Carolina and area locals—didn't need any prompting to cheer. There's nothing more real than that.

Originally in Los Angeles Magazine at: http://www.lamag.com/do/blog.aspx?dt=04/02/2009