Since the Parlour closed, I have been in search for a new place to hear quality electronic music, drink vodka tonics and have a good time. Although King King seems more geared towards events than general hang-out sessions, this spot is in the front running for my current favorite space in LA.
Located on Hollywood Boulevard, King King looks a bit like a warehouse done up as a hipster bar. The decor is generic Asian, with walls lined with Chinese characters that a good number of Angelenos probably have tattooed on their shoulders and ankles. Peace. Love. Unity. Respect. Whatever. Appearances aside, however, King King is much more fun than the thematically similar spots Temple Bar and Little Temple.
First of all, our bartender was great. I ordered one vodka tonic from her and felt a buzz, something that has not happened since the Parlour closed and Kim stopped pouring. After that, I stuck with Diet Cokes, which she poured for me frequently and without charge. This alone makes King King worthwhile.
Aside from the sturdy drinks, King King hosts a pretty cool crowd, at least for this Compression party. The club boasted more track-jacket-wearing Europeans than a youth hostel (I heard multiple references to "Ibitha" on the patio) and (fortunately) a severe shortage of Carlos D. clones. While the club was fairly dead before 11:00 p.m., it quickly grew packed with folks dancing on the floor, behind the video screen, on bar stools, probably even in the bathroom stalls.
We arrived shortly after 10:00 p.m. and caught a bit of Robtronik's (Community Service on Indie 103.1) set. John Tejada followed with a two-hour-plus set that began all minimal and voxless and grew to peak of snare-slapping, party-rocking techno. I haven't seen Tejada play in a very long time, so long, in fact, that I almost forgot why he is such an excellent DJ. Tejada does not play it safe, as is common in Los Angeles, and he mixes with such finesse that the tracks always work. He is, perhaps, the most underrated DJ in Los Angeles. If you have never seen him play before, I suggest doing so.
By 1:00 a.m., Tejada was still behind the decks and the crowd was going absolutely insane. A group of four in front of us danced ecstatically with beer in hands, backing up as they moved kick-snare-kick-snare. They were so oblivious to the crowd around them that, at one point, it looked as though one dude was about to inadvertently thrust his ass into Carlos' groin. At this time, a horrible smell penetrated the room, something akin to a patchouli-laden, post-Burning Man hippie carcass. Right as I whispered something to Carlos about the importance of the pre-club shower, a guy walked towards the bar. He was built like a high school/college football player, roughly 6'5", husky and thick-necked, and rocked the Carl Cox look of a shaved head and thick-framed glasses. The guy stopped for a moment, stood on his tip-toes and arched back, as though he might faint, while he waved a hand in front of his nose. The only things worse were the unholy fumes of a curry dinner leaving someone's system that lingered in the ladies room an hour prior.
Juan Atkins appeared somewhere between 1:00 and 1:30 a.m. and drove the dancefloor to Detroit-style techno highs. An older, bearded man busted out the most intense series of pelvic thrusts I have ever seen on a dancefloor, while the previously referenced four ecstatic dancers managed to somehow follow and dance into us as we moved towards the front of the club. By 2:00 a.m., a second wave of club-goers entered King King, thus packing the venue like a rush-hour subway.
Atkins was set to play until 4:00 a.m., but we left roughly an hour into the set on account of the fact that I had intended to go home and work on a paper, which, of course, didn't happen.