I have this layer of filth on me that won't wash off. Seriously, Megan and I started scrubbing our hands and underneath our nails in the bathroom of a Denny's in either Claremont or Ontario (thanks for the directions, Balth, we wish you could have seen us!) and yet my hands are still grimy in that dry, dusty outdoor concert in San Bernadino fashion. My hair feels like it has been doused with Aquanet and I didn't put anything in it. I assume it's some sort of concoction involving dirt, sweat and sunscreen. It might be a few days before I begin to look human again.
The weird thing about attending major concerts as press is that it doesn't feel like you are just going to a concert. It's definitely work, albeit much more fun than sitting at a desk. For example, as Strapping Young Lad played, sometime before 10 a.m. (I think), Megan and I were in the midst of getting our press credentials and finding someone to escort her to the photo pit. Megan took the brunt of the summer concert ugliness. She was in the pit from 10 a.m. until close to 4 p.m. and no amount of SPF 50 waterproof sunscreen could keep her from burning. I didn't get to see that much performance-wise, mostly because I was running around interviewing people. I got some good stories, the best of which you will see alongside Megan's photos sometime in August.
I finished the interviews at around the same time Megan finished shooting, so we both saw Ozzy for the first time from opposit ends of the second stage. Ozzy played an Early Bird Special set, so it was still blistering hot as I tried to find some shade to enjoy "Crazy Train," "Mama I'm Comin' Home," and "Paranoid." We eventually met up on the grass, seemingly miles away from the main stage, and caught Dragonforce and Lacuna Coil. We think we might have been the only people who enjoyed the latter's cover of "Enjoy the Silence." Somebody should have told the Italians that more than half the crowd at Ozzfest consists of the sort of guys who beat up Depeche Mode fans in high school.
Metal shows tend to draw the most degenerate music fans you will ever find. You probably already know this. Let's put it this way, they had a tit-painting booth on the grounds. There were tons of women walking around shirtless with sunbeams protruding from their taped-down nipples. Megan said she saw one with a Confederate flag. Wait, it's California and Skynard isn't on the bill. Am I missing something?
Our favorite was the guy in the cowboy hat made out of Coors 12-pack boxes and shorts held up by a belt with his frat's letters on the buckle. Random people were pouring beer down his throat and he was stumbling around towards us when he started spewing clear goo and we backed up and tried to ward him away with our psychic powers. It worked.

I was a Girl Scout up until the age when being a Girl Scout was on par with being in the school band or on drill team or whatever. I was actually a shitty Girl Scout, given that I hate the outdoors, am loathe to play sports and, wait, did I mention that I've been on the outs with nature since I was old enough to get stung by a mosquito? Not only was I a shitty Girl Scout, but my mom was one of our troop leaders and she might be the only person on the planet who hates nature more than I do. I actually made it through six years of Scouts without ever camping, thanks to my mom. (Oh, how I love her.) If you ever saw Troop Beverly Hills, Troop Valley was kind of like that, except that we weren't rich and most of the troop ended up pretty darn, um, well, you know how Catholic school girls are by seventh grade. Point being, my experience with Girls Scouts was pretty darned comedic, but I did learn enough to be prepared. (I also learned how to make a mean friendship bracelet, but that's another story.) So now, whenever I go to something like an outdoor, all day concert in BFE, I go overboard in preparation. This time around, I have two types of sunblock, astringent, baby wipes, hand sanitizer, hair clips, cigarettes, lighter and other assorted junk just dying to be crammed into my messenger bag alongside the usual reporting materials and earplugs. I keep wondering, though, did I forget something?
I guess we'll find out tomorrow. Ozzfest, here we come!

I managed to put the new issue of The Rockit, my first as editor, to bed precisely 10 minutes before Estelle picked me up to head over to her sister's place, where we waited for our friend Suzie, who must have been stuck in the worst traffic ever since it took an hour for her to travel less than 20 miles. Anyhow, we ate our picnic in an apartment, since we knew we weren't going to get there in time to join Balthazar Monsoon and friends in Picnic Lot 6, where he texted me to say that he saw a guy in a kilt and poet's blouse. We ate tabouli and wasabi peas and peanut butter brownies while singing "America, Fuck Yeah" as we watched the newscasters continuing discussion of Kim Jong-Il's Fourth of July display (he's just really lonely). Wasabi peas are my new addiction because they clear my always-stuffed sinuses in ways I haven't felt since the last time I ate Phillippe's mustard.
Eventually, we ended up at the Bowl, climbing up one staircase after another and making it to our sits as The Shins played The Big Hit (that's "New Slang"). I wasn't terribly impressed with the band, but maybe if I saw them play against a crowd that actually looked alive, it might be better.
Just to get to the point, this was hands-down the most boring crowd I had ever seen in my life. I've seen more excitment in the audience of dance recitals. Perhaps this was because the show started at 7:30 p.m. on a Thursday night, meaning that people showed up right after spending a minimum of one hour in traffice while heading over to the Bowl right after work. Perhaps it is just the nature of KCRW subscribers. I don't know. However, when Nic Harcourt came out with his flaming mullet and dangling earring (s?) and announced Belle and Sebastian, who happened to be play a potentially historic show backed by the L.A. Phil, there was only polite applause. POLITE APPLAUSE! Back where we were sitting, no one stood. Not one single person. So, of course, we couldn't stand either because then we would look as out of place as Protestants at a Catholic wedding. I think Stuart, the most charming of frontmen, noticed this because he made comments reminding people to dance even though they have filled up on wine and cheese. He danced in the crowd and borrowed a dress and mascara from another audience member and cracked jokes between every song. During "Jonathan David," he pulled a girl called "Baby Bee-yatch" out of the audience and then proceeded to dance with her until the equally charming Stevie Jackson cut in, which fit with the song. I can't remember the entire setlist and was too busy twitching to songs to write things down. This is what I remember, in no particular order:
"Your Cover's Blown"
"Dear Catastrophe Waitress"
"Jonathan David"
"Waking Up To Us"
"I Fought in a War"
"Sukie in the Graveyard"
"Dirty Dream #2"
"If You're Feeling Sinister"
The Encore:
"The State I'm In"
"Boy with the Arab Strap"

There are more and, at some point, I will remember everything, but by then it will be too late. Anyhow, during the last song of the set (which has completely escaped me for the moment), Estelle and I decided to wander towards the front and see if there were some signs of life. We made it as far as the front of our back section and danced. Had we come up with this plan earlier, we probably would have been able to sneak up towards the pit and end up dancing onstage with B&S like tons of other people. Instead we danced amongst a crowd of folks who were obviously not content with polite applause, people who insist upon singing the words to "The State I'm In" no matter how many lryics they mess up. It was awesome.

On our way out, I saw the dude in the poet's shirt and kilt, but, unfortunately, I missed Balthazar once again.

Tomorrow, Megan and I are heading out to the dustbowl that is San Bernadino. I bet you can guess what that is all about, right? Anyhow, I have to go to the drugstore and stock up on the all-day concert in Hades heat survival items. Wish us luck.

I'm a bit behind on things (including my laundry) so I'll have to make this short but oh so very sweet, like a sugary cone of vanilla on a hot summer day.

Pop Levi, formerly of Super Numeri and Ladytron (he played bass in the studio and their live sets) invaded Cinespace, that hipster house of hedonism, with his backing band, The Emergencies, for a night of raucous 60s-inspired rock.

• Dollar Bin Rock
• Bloodlust
• Pick-Me-Up Uppercut
• Baby Again
• Sally Sally
• Foxwatch
• Blue Honey
• Sugar Assault Me Now

Levi & band impressed the crowd with a flurry of rock tunes that recalled (perhaps even channelled) Hendrix, Prince and Lennon, albeit with a definite New-wave influence. The recorded tunes fall onto a more psychedelic arena but on stage, every song became a rockin' house tune that had the floor shaking. I'm sure the people dancing in the front room felt it!











Levi, currently residing in Los Angeles, is preparing the U.S. for the release of his debut LP The Return To Form Black Magick Party with more shows.

Pop Levi.com for more.

Don't you want Jarvis to be your friend? I dig this song, it reminds me of something, although I can't recall what. But, then again, everything reminds me of something.
Estelle and I are heading down to the soon-to-be-legendary Belle and Sebastian show tomorrow night at the Hollywood Bowl. I think some of our other friends as going as well. Maybe we will be able to find each other this time (unlike Basement Jaxx/Royksopp last summer). I promise report fully on it late-Friday afternoon. Megan and I will be attending some serious sun-burn inducing dustbowl mega-events in the not-too-distant future. I'll report back on whatever doesn't make it into the word count.

The guys from Pop Noir told me that they were playing at 8 p.m. sharp last night at the Troubadour, emphasis on sharp. Estelle and I walked into the club right as Joe and Luke took to the stage. (FYI, the best thing about showing up early for Troubadour shows, especially during a holiday weekend, is that there is tons of free street parking.) Estelle was pleasantly surprised by the show and was a bit shocked to find out that the twins are only 18.
"When we were in college, none of the bands we knew could play that well," she said.
'Tis true. However, when we were in college, L.A. was colored in shades of dingy flannel and playing well was seemingly akin to selling out. Estelle is now in agreement with Carlos and I that Pop Noir is going to go places soon. You should join our bandwagon.
Photos courtesy of me and my cell phone:

Luke McGarry

Joe McGarry

Pop Noir played a cover of "Paint It Black" that was absolutely incredible. Check them out on July 8 at Zamakibo or on July 19 at Safari Sam's.

The Good Cheer followed. These guys are from Agoura, which those of you might recall as the hometown of several really terrible bands. Fortunately, The Good Cheer do not fall in the same category as Linking Park and Incubus. In fact, we were incredibly impressed with the band. It's kind of like what would happen to emo bands if they listened to more of The Who and less, um, emo. According to the band's My Space page, The Good Cheer is playing at the Ventura installment of Warped Tour. The band will also play The Hear Gallery on July 7.

P.S. I probably won't post any MP3s for the next few days due to a lack of time. However, I humbly suggest that you check out these fine sites that we will add to our links page as soon as we update said links page. Oh, and on a final note, I'd like to wish Webmistress/Old Friend Kar3n a very happy birthday.

Detroit is for Lovers
Green Pea-ness

Last night was my first Safari Sam's experience. Megan and I went to the club last night to see The Spores and Marky Ramone and I was completely impressed. All the hell that the Safari Sam's people had to go through to get the club open was worth it. The space is this former strip joint in the 99 Cent Only shopping center on Sunset and Hobert in Thai Town or Little Armenia or whatever it is. I thought it might be a really divy hipster space, but the owners did a good job of making the club attractive and comfortable. There is a lot of seating, particularly in the balcony, which I think is the restaurant area. The bartenders and the doorman last night were incredibly friendly (another anomaly at cool clubs), the sound is good AND, and this is the most important AND you will ever see in a quasi-club review, the bathrooms are clean. Clean bathrooms? Was I visiting some sort of clubland utopia? I don't know, but I can't wait until there is another show I want to see at Safari Sam's.
That's all for now. I have to get back to work.

Why must good DJs play at terrible clubs? For example, last night we went to Avaland to see Danny Howells. Excellent DJ. Really shitty club. Howells played in a DJ booth designed to be a pirate ship.


That was cool. They even had fans behind the sails to make them blow. There were guys in the crowd dressed as buccaneers. Totally cool. Then there were the girls who looked like pornstars dancing badly onstage. So not cool.

The worst thing about Avaland though, is the crowd. In fact, I don't know why we ever come back to this place because the crowd is always so terrifying that we end up having a rotten time no matter who is spinning. Last night was no exception. Carlos and I were dancing towards the front with Juan and one of his friends when all of a sudden, we were hit by the pungent smell of death. Earlier that day, my brother and I were watching the soccer games and cracking jokes about the repugnant stench of locker rooms. This might have been worse. It makes me wonder what the hell is wrong with people. It was 114 degrees outside that afternoon, they had to have had some sort of warning sign that perhaps it would do them well to take a shower before going to a club that holds 2000 people and is always packed. I swear, one of these days I'm going to work up a marketing deal with some deodorant company and pass out trial sticks at the doors of random clubs in Los Angeles.
As the stench became more oppressive and less avoidable, Carlos and I headed upstairs to the patio, where some dude proceeds to walk into me and say "Fuck you." I wanted to ask if he kisses his grandma with that mouth of his. I mean, I can be pretty foul-mouthed at times, but the thought of saying "fuck you" instead of "excuse me" when I walk into someone is sort of baffling. Dude was pretty trashed and looked like he is probably a jackass when sober as well. He was dressed as though he came straight from the 4th of July Weekend sale at the Glendale Macy's-- head-to-toe Sean John with gold-rimmed sunglasses. Most of the guys on the patio were wearing the same thing. It looked like a casting call for The Sopranos.
It will be a cold July day in Los Angeles before I ever got back to Avaland.