1/27 City of angels:
Blood pumping fast as we approach downtown. Late night blaplery at Max's house. Grant buys tacos and burritos, punts them into the rafters. Nasty shoe. Snag a bite of the burrito before it gets chucked into the glass Steinway display. "i hate fucking consuming!" Pass out at the blues bar. Big ass bass drum.
Street performing at the Santa Monica promenade. Shoe shiner wants us to play next to her. Cedric Bixler-Zavala rolls by twice with eyes that burn distant, vacant like Mercury. The original singer for Motley Cru is dressed in black like a space cowboy. He's 'just here to set the record strait, clear all the rumors and stories.' We manage 3 songs before the po-po comes. Got a young new fan: junior Nick in a pea coat gets a battlerag and a CD. High Schoolers at the burger joint are lovin it. Rocking the call and response jam while we head back to the battlevan. Trying to find a place to rock out on Venice Beach. The psychic is pissed she has to take her palm reading indoors. Couldn't she see us coming? Her son is flipping us the bird from behind the sliding glass door. Some vagrants want a quarter. I tell them to give me a beer. Homeless harmonica players sit in with us. Harry Perry has some new blades, chasing a girl around with his apocalyptic metal phaser riffs. Buff blackman with hiked up shorts looking fly bouncing up the strip. Japanese chicas snapping shots while i give them the thumbs up; binocular treatment. First LA show is noise rock night at Pehrspace. 6 bands, 20 minutes each. A bunch of friends showed up: The Space Collective cru, Amelia and co., Yoshi and Melissa, Andrew, Janet, Stevie, M, etc. Last band (NASA space universe) is a collective of a dozen or so hipsters dressed in cut n' paste tribal neon w/sweat bands. One dude has piezoelectric whiskers that he solders on in real time. Ex-drummer for the Germs is outside chugging dual 40s wearing a burka. Turns out he's the host of the electro-Goth night at Hyperion Tavern, where we played the following night.
1/29 Pehrspace, Echo Park:
A hole in the wall w/no markings to distinguish the place. Noisy bit-crusha electro kareoke style with the goth punk fashionistas. Awesome videos projected behind us. Stage is far too small for an act like us. I set up minimal style on the ground. Tensions were high, so we played a fast, fierce set. Angry at the tow company that made Easton pay $125. Intimidated by the opening acts that were capping on us, saying that we should play first and leave or come back once everybody else has gone home. I overheard them talking about our set at Pehrspace: "They were causing a scene getting drunk in the parking lot and taking forever to get set up" [not true: we set up outside and brought everything in right away]. Turns out the haters were having some troubles of their own. Couldn't control their equipment, couldn't hold a pitch, cultish and exclusionary. Nevertheless we won over the crowd and had a great time. Way down with the level of piecechow steeze and for the most part got a kick out of the other acts. Mongolian lord with the jeweled pigtail locks. Wonder what his family jewels are like. Max was bellig, yelling "more hooch!" in the middle of other sets. The Church of Scientology Dianetics Center looms like an infomercial: "Free Stress Readings. Just read the Book." Kicking it at the Space Collective pad. Garden of Eden in the back. Bookshelves filled with scifi, technology, art, philosophy, psychology tomes. Rene schools me on immaterial architecture. Emergent computer visuals. Serendipitous film making. Megan's invention of a mirrored box that you wear on your head. You can look out, but others only see their own face. Mad props to Max for being an awesome host. Big old pot of stew, massage chair, more Rock Band. Puter is hilarious. Short college radio show took way too much effort to move all our ishtar. Pretending I'm a stoned, apathetic god with my deep, echoing contact mic necktie.