A song called “The Walls are Coming Down” featured in an eye-catching new video that spotlights one of the world’s only remaining escape artists? How could that not pique someone’s interest? Catch up on what’s new with London’s Fanfarlo, and delve into their genre-bending, anarchistic plans for world musical domination.
Is it time to hipster-ify your life? If so, the Silver Lake Art, Craft and Vintage Market is the place for you. Trust me, this is not your typical craft fair or flea market crowd, nor are the vendors selling Grandma’s knitting or haggling inexplicably over Aunt Irma’s prized ping pong ball collection. Held in the heart of Silver Lake, CA (near the plaza where indie rockers Silversun Pickups reportedly got their name), you’ll find everything you need to turn your apartment, your wardrobe, hell, even your boyfriend, into a funky, eclectic version of its formerly mainstream self. (No offense, honey.)
Don’t let the fact that the market takes place in a lackluster field belonging to the Micheltorena Street Elementary School deter you. Once inside the fence and wandering the amongst the tents, you’ll discover antique furniture, retro sunglasses, one-of-a-kind home decor, handmade jewelry by local artists, vintage clothing, long forgotten records and so much more. You may even find a used instrument to play in the rock band you’ll resolve to start, thanks to the inspiring merchandise (and backwards haircuts) that surround you.
Huddling behind the curtain Strim Vintage uses as a dressing room, for instance, trying on yet another expertly reconstructed dress by designer/seamstress Wendy Mirts, I find myself wondering why I would ever shop in a mall again. Mirts’ designs are incredibly flattering and also sustainable—she uses old blouses, skirts and dresses to create contemporary silhouettes while retaining most of the original shape and authenticity of each piece. The result is a look that’s got soul, without prices that require you to sell yours to the devil.
Meanwhile, Rico Adair works a few spots down at the Defile Clothing tent. Adair creates dresses from bits of recycled t-shirts, old fabric and donated clothing. A sign instructs shoppers to “build your own dress” and indicates three patterns to choose from as well as bins of pre-cut fabric for rummaging, mixing and matching. Once you’ve chosen your pieces, he’ll sew them together using contrasting stitching and hand-drawn silk-screening to complete the look.
“If anyone out there knows how to change a string, I’ll get down on my knees and show you what heaven looks like.”
I don’t know what’s more shocking—that Andy Falkous, lead singer and guitarist for Welsh rock band Future of the Left, is petitioning the audience for a guitar tech, or the image of him pleasuring the rather large, gruff-looking fan that hoists himself on stage to fix his instrument. But subtlety and predictability are not characteristics that Future of the Left care to cultivate, especially when performing at LA’s Spaceland to a packed crowd of eager, jostling fans. “I guess it’s something that I’ve broken three strings on the last three songs,” he continues, and the audience cheers, undoubtedly anticipating more frenzied steel snapping from Falkous.
Last night the legendary Travis Pastrana, Motocross rider, Rally Car Racer, Nitro Circus Troublemaker, got toasted by his friends and family at the Avalon in Hollywood California. A veritable who’s who of action sports heros were in attendance as well as celebrities galore. Red Bull was flowing like the elixir of life and an open bar always finds fast friends.
Surrounded by a room full of dare-devils and wild men I pondered a minute on the lives of these guys. How about a day in the office consisting of jumping out of an airplane sans parachute, while your buddy jumps out to catch you before you fall to your certain death? How does that effect my 401K? And does it come with a corner office? But these guys punch their time card, put on a smile and laugh all the way, either to the emergency room or the bank. And then it hit me, if you’re clearly not afraid to die, what are you afraid of?
I found skateboarding Cutie-Pie Ryan Sheckler hanging out in the lounge before the show and I grabbed him to chat for minute. (Mainly because I’d get mad cred with my nephews but also because he’s got the world in the palm of his hand). Not even 21 years old yet he’s got a mansion, a Ferrari, and a black book that reads like the original King James. Ryan has started getting serious ink, and being a fan of the needle myself we bonded. I asked him if he’s ever worried about crashing and wrecking his art. “Naw, its all good, I’ve wrecked em a bit already”. Regarding his thoughts on the man of the hour Travis, “He’s just a big redneck! But he’s the most talented, nicest guy on the planet and I feel truly privileged to call him a friend.” What Ryan’s afraid of…spiders.
At the risk of sounding like my mom, I’ve still gotta say it: They don’t make things like they used to. Case in point: The Dresden Room, a restaurant and cocktail bar nestled amongst more contemporary joints in LA’s hipster-hood, Los Feliz, has been open since the 1940s. When you enter the Dresden, you enter some rare alternate universe where Cheers, Vegas and Sinatra all collide to form a swanky yet comfortable, unique and authentic experience. Walking in to the warmly-lit lounge on a Tuesday evening, you’d think it was a Friday or Saturday judging by the comfortably packed-in crowd, which offers a complete cast of characters—Hollywood executive types rub elbows with younger, fedora-clad twenty-somethings. There are cozy tables sprinkled throughout the room, 50s and 60s-inspired art lining the walls (by Jamie Oliff), and frosted art deco glass behind the bar. The friendly vest and bow tie-adorned bartenders call me “honey” and whip me up a house libation, pink frothy deliciousness poured into an elegant chilled martini glass.
If you have no idea who the Supersuckers are, then I feel sorry for you. Sorry because you have not yet experienced the (self-proclaimed) greatest rock-n-roll band in the world! If you have heard of them then, I’m jealous of you. Jealous because…well, let’s just say if the Supersuckers had a spread in Tiger Beat, they’d be plastered all over my bedroom wall.
The Supersuckers have almost a cult following of die-hard fans. You just don’t kinda sorta like the Supersuckers…you fucking LOVE the Supersuckers. Their sound is honest-to-goodness American rock-n-roll: unpretentious, tongue-in-cheek and sacrilegious. Their songs have an anthem-like quality to them, with raking guitar intros that make you jump up and down waiting for the rest of the band to kick in. Their songs are about fucked-up relationships, getting fucked up and not giving a fuck. They draw upon an archetypal rock sound to make their music: from the Ramones to Thin Lizzy to Social Distortion.
I have an obsession with Southern Rock. I have only told very close friends about this, as admitting to rocking out to some Foghat gets you no RAB points. (That’s Rockabilly points to you squares)
Southern Rock gets a bad rap because some people associate it with the mouth-breathing, red-neck good-ole-boys that blast it outta their tape decks. For me, it takes me back to when I was growing up in the early 70s in Southwestern PA. When coolness was defined by my sister’s full length embroidered jean jacket and my brother’s long hair and aviator sunglasses. When a walking through the woods led you to bombed out lean-tos where kids smoked drugs and carved “Lynyrd Skynyrd” into tree trunks. Dude. And, all it takes is some sweet guitar pickin’ and the high hat to take me back to a carefree summer…
Admittedly, you can get sick of the oldies station and their usual rotation of Southern Rock. There really aren’t any contemporary bands playing in the style of our Dixie brethren. And, then, like the glint of sunshine off an Old English pull-tab, enter Good Man Down.
I caught up with bass player Kevin Baldes after their set at the Hootenanny:
I have a secret to admit…I don’t like the Horrorpops. When given the task of reviewing their set at the Hootenanny, I did my best impersonation of a 4 year old boy forced to go clothes shopping with mom. But, I have to qualify my statement. On the road trip down to the ‘nanny, I listened to a few tracks, just to get primed. Heavy upright slap bass, poppy drums, ska influences, and a strong but youthful vibrato, occasionally dropping to a whisper or rising to command. Then it hit me: Patricia Day is the psychobilly Gwen Stefani!
I like Gwen Stefani. I like rockabilly. I used to be way-goth. I like girl-fronted bands. Therefore, I *have* to like the Horrorpops. And, according to the Horrorpops’ rules, my only answer must be, “Hell YEAH!”
Undeniably, The Reverend Horton Heat, aka Jim Heath, is the biggest, baddest, grittiest, greasiest, greatest rocker that ever piled his hair up and pounded the drinks down. Without question, for all of his outlandish antics, blistering stage performances and legendary musical prowess, the one thing The Rev always gets asked about is the story behind his unusual and rather clerical moniker. “Well, there used to be this guy who ran this place in Deep Ellum, Texas who used to call me Horton- my last name is Heath,” says The Rev. “Anyway, this guy hired me and right before the show he goes, ‘Your stage name should be Reverend Horton Heat! Your music is like gospel’… and I thought it was pretty ridiculous. So I’m up there playing and after the first few songs, people are saying, ‘Yeah, Reverend!’ What’s really funny is that this guy gave up the bar business, and actually became a preacher! Now he comes to our shows and says, ‘Jim, you really should drop this whole Reverend thing.’”- (taken from their website).
Anybody steeped in a certain subculture has to endure time when they are not among others of their own species. “Civilians”, I call them. Be it punk, goth, rockabilly, psychobilly, emo, or electro-whatever. This time spent in the midst of civilians can be exhilarating. The dissonance your individuality causes can be something that defines your boundaries with the rest of the world. Saying what you aren’t can define what you are. But, time spent among your kind is a whole other kind of experience entirely.
