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.

Daniel had alerted me to a Cocteau Twins tribute night at Club Violaine in mid-October. The week of the event, he'd almost forgotten. Needless to say, I just wanted to attend a club that was going to play shoegaze and dreampop.

We arrived just in time to hear the first band (known only as A Cocteau Twins Tribute Band) play a selection of CT songs, starting with "Cherry Coloured Funk." Maybe I was expecting to hear Liz Frasier's voice and I was rather impressed the lead singer was able to mimic Liz's sound rather well. Red Lily played soon after them and you could hear a distinct CT influence in their music. The lead singer had a bit of a lower register than Liz Frasier, but the heavy guitars and synths led me to believe that's how CT might sound now.

After the bands played, someone was spinning some shoegaze staples, including Lush, more CT, and others. Daniel and I shadowed dance with a few others on the dancefloor before making our trip back into the Inland Empire. Club Violaine promises to be back in January with a regular 3rd Saturday of the month.

In the DJ booth on Wednesday night, one DJ asked, "Hey, aren't you the girl who did Transmission?" while another asked a bit later, "Have you ever thought about reopening Transmission?"
It felt good to be asked two years after the fact about a little Wednesday night party that went down in a West Hollywood bar and prompted me to reflect a bit on that venture. At that risk of sounding like a complete egomaniac, I wanted to post those reflections here.
In early-2002, my friend Brian introduced me to these guys Lenny and Andrew, who had just renovated a formerly seedy WeHo bar and dubbed it the Parlour. Their goal was to provide nightly parties that were different from the typical Hollywood and West Hollywood scene and they wanted to know if I could DJ on Wednesday nights. At that point, I was a resident at Bang and Beat It and was yearning for another gig with a more open setlist, so I jumped on the opportunity despite the fact that I had never promoted before, loathed flyering outside of clubs and didn't even know what kind of format I wanted to follow.
The name was taken from a Joy Division single. The main musical goal was to play all of the songs that my friends and I loved, but would clear the floor at my other gigs. A few weeks before the club opened, I bought a copy of the Rapture's 12" single for "House of Jealous Lovers" as a means of giving the band a second chance since I really did not like the first cd. I fell madly in love with the single and it helped form the ideal setlists for the club-- rock vs. dance. In the beginning, the sound was more rock-oriented, heavy on the Faint and Le Tigre with the dance stuff representing what became "electroclash" a few months later (Miss Kittin and the Hacker, Felix da Housecat, Tiga and Zyntherius, et. al.). As time went on, though, the sets become almost completely dance, moving into releases from Bpitch, Kompakt, Gigolo, Disco B and incorporating italo-disco, early house and even the occasional acid track. Transmission was the place where I went from feeling like a human jukebox to becoming a real DJ. I learned more in those two years of the club's run than I did in the five years of club work that preceded that.
What really made Transmission a success in my mind was the crowd. Whether we had a busy or slow night, the crowd was always interesting-- a hodgepodge of hipsters, middle-aged gay men, European travelers, former club crawlers out of retirement, goths, mods, ravers and more. To this day, I have absolutely no idea how that happened, but it probably had something to do with the Parlour's location on Santa Monica Blvd. in the east end of West Hollywood, a good distance from the main club strip down at the intersection of Santa Monica and Robertson. Inside that club, my friends and I witnessed some of the most scandalous activities we had ever seen inside the club (but, dear reader, that is fodder for another post) and also met some of the nicest people we could ever fathom meeting at a club.
I would never attempt to re-invent Transmission. Musically, it was of its time and, since then, there have been scores of other clubs playing similar music. As far as the crowd goes, though, there is no way that vibe could ever be recaptured. Transmission was specifically about the Parlour (which, as we have previously posted, closed over the summer) and the cross-section of alternative lifestyles that met therein. Maybe someday, when time permits, I'll end up involved in another weekly party, but it won't be Transmission.

There is this episode of King of the Hill, one of my favorites, wherein Bobby, in an attempt to find himself, joins a coven, headed by a strange video store employee who refers to almost everything as "resplendent." Last night, at the Club London/Poplife party, we saw a guy who looked nearly indenticle to that character.
"Resplendent," my brother whispered to me. Behold, we had a new word for the evening.
The thing about working at clubs is that there is no routine. One never knows to expect. Sometimes, parties with a good buzz suck. Sometimes they are, well, resplendent. Last night fell into the latter category.
This marked the second time that I have played with the Club London crew. Honestly, I'm humbled to play with them because these guys are some of the most skilled DJs in town, the sort who can take a staid club genre like the 1980s and make it exciting. (Props to whomever mixed Tears for Fears "Pale Shelter" with Flock of Seagulls "Wishing." That made my night.) Knowing full well that I was set to play with some remarkable folks, I spent a lot of time practicing this week-- hour after hour of ensuring that the vocals and "Funkytown" sample on "NY Lipps" play throughout the intro of Richard X's remix of the Bravery "Fearless" without colliding with Moz-a-like's vocals and then bringing in Franz Ferdinand "Dark of the Matinee" at just the right time so that when the guitars on the latter hit, the mix doesn't sound too cluttered. In the end, I didn't even play the set I practiced, outside of that mix, and it actually sounded better.
My conversion to the church of sponteneity began when Le Tigre, for what I think is the first time ever at an LA indie club, cleared the floor. In a moment of hardheadness, I followed it with The Gossip's new single, knowing full well that nobody would rush back to dance, because it's new and I wanted to get it in the set. After a minute of boredom, I screwed that terrible idea, grabbed a tried and true classic, (The Clash "Train in Vain") and mixed it in over Beth Ditto's diva screams of "woah-oh-oh." From there, the set was completely off the cuff. Somebody had requested Ladytron's "Playgirl" and it just happened that one of my extras in the crate was my "Playgirl" versus "Can't Get You Out of My Head" mashup from four or five years ago, so I threw that in, mixed some Depeche Mode with White Stripes, merged Elastica with Basement Jaxx. It was perhaps the most fun I have had in a DJ booth in a very long time.
Likewise, at a club, you never know who to expect to see in the crowd. I ran into roughly half the people on my guestlist, which is typical because a) some flake; b) some show up but can't find parking (sorry, Sarah, I understand!); and c) some might actually be there but in a club as massive as the Catch One, it's damn near impossible to run into everyone. Outside of the usual suspects (Carlos and Juan), I saw DJ Gerber (Clockwork and a bunch of other clubs), who informed me that there are now FIVE industrial clubs in the OC.
"There aren't five industrial clubs in LA," he remarked.
Sometimes it seems like there aren't even five industrial fans in LA, but, then again, I haven't been to an industrial club in ages.
Sam from Imperative Reaction hung out with us for a bit and announced that his band will be opening up for Tiger Army in February, which is a pretty big deal since the band has a large fanbase in Southern California and there is enough psychobilly/EBM crossover out here (don't ask me to explain that) where his band might pick up a slew of new fans. Congratulations, Sam!
Earlier in the evening, I met Andrew, the sound guy at Catch One and promoter of Ground Control and realized that we have far too many friends in common to have never really chatted before. He told me all about the owner of Catch One, who also runs a free clinic and sounds like a really incredible woman. (The club, if you have not been there before, is by far one of the nicest venues in Los Angeles.) He also described Burning Man in a way that actually made a desert-loathing person like me actually want to attend. In the meantime, though, I swear I will go to Ground Control once the Monday night classes end.
In addition, everytime I turned a corner, I nearly walked into someone I hadn't seen in ages. It was a pleasant surprise to run into the people who were regulars at my old residencies, but don't go out much anymore (Holly, Carlos, Edgar). Plus, Comrade Daniel showed up with our good friend Tony. Daniel was in such a trance when Robert Miranda (Vertigos) played Madonna's new single that when I attempted to freak him from behind, he didn't even notice! That's a serious Madonna fan. Resplendent.

Practice. Practice. Practice. That's how good sets happen. Hopefully, tomorrow night's set will be one of the best party rockers you have heard all year. Hope to see you there.

If you are interested in a set list, check out this Depeche Mode website, as yours truly was too busy making a fangirl ass out of herself to take notes.
After spending a lifetime in Los Angeles and half of that lifetime involved in this thing called indie rock, you learn a thing or two about concert decorum. Keep your cool. Close your eyes and think of England or something like that and pretend that this isn't a show that you will recall when you are gray at the temples and remembering what was your life. It's just part of a string of events inside sticky-floored venues with bands playing songs that are important enough for you to be there watching, but not so important that you are willing to lose your mind. I tossed this lesson in the garbage along with a few bottles of Amstel Light before entering San Diego's Sports Arena.
Our seats sucked. Having never been to San Diego for a show, let alone the Sports Arena, I failed in this area. But failure only sinks so deep when you are at a show in a city less than half the size of your own where the Sports Arena is roughly the size of a mega-nightclub. That said, our second-to-last row seats didn't suck as bad as we thought, given that there were plenty of people sitting behind the stage(!) and the fact that from the cheap seats we could see that Martin was wearing a beanie at one point and dark angel wings, a skirt over pants and something that resembled a dark angel's Ugg boots. For that reason alone, I am really glad that we chose to drive three hours in Saturday afternoon traffic to see DM in San Diego as opposed to spending three hours trying to park at Staples Center on Monday night.
We missed the Raveonettes on account of the fact that we spent an hour or so drinking beer in the parking lot while listening to the Depeche Mode collection compiled by Estelle's sister on her Ipod interact with the Best Of Depeche Mode collections blaring from every other car in the parking lot (save for the party who were, for some reason, jamming to Simple Minds). San Diego is frighteningly similar to Los Angeles and, that said, the crowd in the parking lot consisted of goths, Dave-a-likes with Moz-a-like friends and nerdy perrenial college kids who could probably ramble on about some German import of "Master and Servant" with a remix by Adrian Sherwood (uh, I think that's me). Were it not for the intense smell of the ocean, this could have been Los Angeles.
We entered the arena to the sound of Richie Hawtin-esq electronic music, found our seats and, ten minutes later, watched the lights dim.
I started screaming. I tried to control it, but some things are just not worth the effort. These were deep, panting screams, the kind that can only arise when, after more than fifteen years of consistently missing one of your all time favorite bands live, you realize that you are finally there, albeit it several hundred feet and a few stories away from the stage. I let out one extended yelp after another as Dave bent backwards like a yoga instructor and threw off his blazer. The only reason why I stopped screaming towards the end of "A Pain That I'm Used To" was because my throat began to hurt worse than if I had smoked a pack of cloves and drank a bottle of tequila.
By the time DM launched into "A Question of Time," Dave had rid himself of his shirt and began to engage in his whirling dirvish routine.
"He has a really good spot," Estelle remarked later on.
"You're right. Do you think he takes ballet?"
It seems like a ludicrous and completely anti-rock question, but, logically, I'm not quite sure that someone could spin with that intensity for a good chunk of the performance without spending at least a year listening to a thin, aging woman in a cut-up sweatshirt, leotard and tights bang her pointer against the ground and holler, "Remember your spot!"
As amazing a presence as Dave has onstage (and Martin, too, for the four songs where he moved to the front of the stage), this night relied on the songs and it was specifically those songs that made me feel like I might just collapse. As a longtime fan of the band, I have an incredibly long list of DM songs that I would like to hear live. Naturally, most of those songs were not played. But, even though I didn't hear "See You" or "A Question of Lust" or "Blasphemous Rumors" or "Halo," I was really happy with the selections for this tour. In fact, I'm actually glad that I waited this long to see DM live as Playing the Angel is as good as Violator and Music for the Masses and I'm grateful to have had the chance to hear the bulk of that album in a live setting. Getting to hear those choice numbers alongside some of my childhood favorites ("Somebody," "Everything Counts," "Behind the Wheel," and "Personal Jesus"), just made it better.