"Studies show that when city revenue goes down, traffic tickets go up," said my brother Mr. Smarty Pants a few weeks ago.

My brother is right given this story about Devonshire Division LAPD filing a grievance against superiors for forcing officers to adhere to traffic ticket quotas (and the Federal Reserve report from which he quoted). I now thoroughly believe that this is the reason behind my traffic ticket issued by Devonshire Division last May for "failing to come to a complete stop." (I tried to argue that I did stop or, at least, "totally paused" for ten seconds, but you try arguing with LAPD when the officers are actually being decent to you.) The ticket alone was under $150, but with all of the processing fees, driving school fees and misc. charges, it came to just over $300. Plus, there is that hour-and-a-half that I had to spend in line at the Chatsworth courthouse that I will never get back. Los Angeles, sometimes I really hate this place.

Irritation with L.A. was the big topic of discussion between Carlos and I last night. We were at the Knitting Factory watching Death of a Dancer ("Hey," I said to Carlos. "They forgot Disco. Are they trying to keep it one word shy of copyright infringement?" "I don't think you can get busted for naming your band after a song," he answered. "After all, there is Pretty Girls Make Graves. That is a great song title."), The Bubonic Plauge (excellent band, although the mix inside the Alterknit Lounge left much to be desired) alongside Pop Noir and Cute Phase, who we have mentioned here plenty of times before. Both Pop Noir and Cute Phase played the best shows we have seen them perform yet.

In between the sets and after the show, we were talking about the bands and the whole dynamic of the Los Angeles scene. We will be the first to admit that our music scene is awful, but, this isn't because of the bands. In fact, I would argue that Los Angeles has more top notch acts crossing all genres than any other metropolis. The problem with this city is the people, those L.A. types that seem to personify the city (i.e. the people who want to know what you do for a living and how successful you are at it before they will befriend you) even though we are willing to bet most of them are actually from some shithole where everyone makes fun of L.A. for doing just those things.

Carlos and I have spent over a decade involved in the music scene, not just going to shows but booking them, DJing at them, writing about them, etc. Each of us could probably make a successful claim that we have seen well over 1000 bands play live. The one constant with local band nights is that the crowds are always small, much smaller than you would imagine for the second biggest city in the country. A large crowd for a local show is somewhere in the neighborhood of 100 people. Your typical show probably has between 20 and 30 people in attendence. (For the record, last night the crowd fluctuated between 30 and 50 people.)

People make excuses all the time, saying that it's just because parking is expensive or covers are too high or we all have to sit in an hour of traffic every morning to go to our job that is only two miles from home. I'm not convinced that all those are valid. There have been plenty of times where I was the between-band DJ and somehow ended up with an open-ended guest list. I might have 30 people tell me that they want to go and, out of those 30 people, five will actually show. It's hard enough being a DJ out here, but I can tell you that DJs have it much easier than the bands. Imagine playing show after show for years, constantly improving your sound, slowly turning into something exciting and still not being able to count on your friends, let alone the people on your MySpace page, to make an appearance.

Really, the only way for an L.A. band to get big in its hometown is to blow up somewhere else. (Examples: The Blood Arm, Ima Robot, Cold War Kids, The Adored.) Once you have been namechecked by a foreign band or on an out-of-town blog or your song ends up played on Steve Lamacq's show, you are pretty much set. In L.A., you don't have to prove that you are any good. You just have to prove that you are popular.

Here is a little personal aside that might help explain this mindset. When I was in middle school, I listened to KROQ, wore my mom's castoffs from the 1960s and 70s and was in the midst of a begging scheme to get a pair of Docs out of my parents (which I got right after eighth grade graduation). My friends were voiciferous in their opposition to my wardrobe and music choices.
("Liz, why do you have to look so weird?" "Why must you listen to all those sad sack British bands?") Then we started high school, where all of the cool juniors and seniors wore Docs with their uniforms and vintage clothes on free dress days and played Stone Roses and Primal Scream on their car stereos. My friends quickly changed their tunes and their wardrobes. This city is like a fifteen-year-old girl searching for reassurance that she is cool.

Hey, if you're still on this Internet thing, think about logging off and going to Knitting Factory. Pop Noir is playing with Cute Phase. It's the twins going away gig, as they will be in the U.K., playing In the City amongst other events, for the next month.

People, I have discovered the true reason why radio is virtually unlistenable. Arbitron Ratings.

I thought Arbitron ratings were a figment of the media's imagination until a few weeks ago when I happened to answer the phone when Arbitron rang. I answered a high-pitched "YES!" when they asked if I wanted to participate. I had to find out what all of this Arbitron business means.

They sent me five dollars cash followed by a small package featuring four diaries (one for each member of the household), each of which contained three dollars cash. For one week, we had to track every radio station we heard. Not every radio station we actively listened to during the day, but every one that we heard in passing. This meant that every time I was in a building and was forcefed KOST, I had to write it down. This is the problem with the ratings, as stations that you do not like, but must listen to because of work, doctor appointments, etc. will ultimately gain points because you heard them. Therefore, MOR stations like KOST and KBIG and top 40 stations like KIIS could likely earn the ratings that they do because they are continually blasted through establishments where people have no other option. Then, the powers that be, ignorant as they are to the ways of the real world, truly believe that really want to hear the latest hit from Tim McGraw all day long. Radio grows formulaic because they think that's what people really prefer, even though it's just a matter of us being without a CD player, iPod or computer access at that moment.

At the end of the diary, there was a section for comments, so I wrote the following:

"KOST is the most vile station on the dial. In its attempt to be completely unoffensive, it has offended me as a music fan."

I doubt anyone will listen.

P.S. I refuse to support KOST by posting a link to its site. However, I will offer an actual quote from one of the on-air promotion spots.
"It's perfect background music. It doesn't offend anybody."
-- Some lady who works in some office.

I just interviewed Laurent Garnier. For the record, Garnier is my flat-out all-time favorite DJ. He is the person who mixed "House of Jealous Lovers" with his own "The Man with the Red Face" at Coachella several years, thus causing me to sieze in the most violently happy way possible.

I am so enamoured by Laurent Garnier that I will probably get the Spanish edition of his book Electrochoc, because it isn't available in English, even though this means that it will take me a year to read and I will have to call Carlos every five minutes to ask, "Does this sentence mean this or this?"

So, did you hear? They finally shut down CBGB this past weekend. Patti Smith presided over the final performances on Sunday night; Richard Hell wrote the eulogy. I decided to walk down the Bowery on Monday afternoon to see what was left. The answer? Not much. The famed logo awning had been removed and disassembly of the interior seemed to be in full swing - preparation for the relocation to Las Vegas, I guess. Farewell messages were scrawled around the door and someone had scattered wordy, indignant sidewalk stencils - something about the decay of art and museums and the church and the world as we know it. Okay. I paused on the sidewalk and watched two middle-aged men with camcorders filming the ex-club's entrance. And then, since there was nothing left to see, I went on my way.

As someone who was drawn to New York at least in part because of its rock'n'roll history, do I feel a tinge of guilt for not actually caring that CB's is gone? Yup. Am I kicking myself because I never set foot in the place, not in all the times I visited the city when I was in college, not once in the three and a half years I've lived here? Nope. Thing is, I can't remember the last time a band I wanted to see was booked at CBGB (well, Patti Smith the other day would've been good). I've seen loads of shows in New York - but at places like Southpaw, with its dramatic curtained stage and friendly bartenders; the Delancey, presided over by the inimitable DJ Mojo and BP Fallon every Wednesday night for Death Disco; the Bowery Ballroom and Irving Plaza for big-event shows; Northsix, with its awesome bleacher seats and scuzzy basement. I'll tell you what clubs I miss. I miss the Luna Lounge on Ludlow Street, because every show was free and you could wander in any night of the week and see what there was to hear. Sometimes what you found would be an out-of-town band playing their first New York show. Or you'd find a horribly inept attempt at pop-punk. Or maybe you'd find something really fantastic. You just never knew. Some people joked that "anyone can play at Luna," but that was half the fun. (The building is being converted into luxury condos even as I type.) You know what else I miss? The cheesy goth decor of the Apocalypse Lounge, where the bartenders poured sake (no hard liquor license) and served dishes of M&Ms. I had the immense satisfaction of playing a show in the Apocalypse basement, with a band of suburban teenagers opening and a crowd of people jammed into the corners and up the stairs. I skinned my knees on the concrete floor and bled on my skirt; at the end, everyone danced to the Archies.

Back to CBGB. Sure, the place has history - just not my history, at least not my personal history. My record collection's history, maybe. It's a step or three removed. I respect what it was, but at this point its absence means, well, as much as its presence meant to me: not much. My only clear memory of it is walking by one evening and seeing a pre-teen boy standing outside with his dad, both of them wearing brand-new official CBGB t-shirts. I can't relate.

A thing I've found interesting is that in the midst of all the discussion about what CBGB's loss means to New York, a lot of people have made reference to the city's heart or its soul or its character. But that's just it: shutting down CBGB is the character of New York, because the real soul of the city is its relentless pursuit of upscale change and development. Its heart doesn't lie in the increasingly nonexistent lofts where the kids play their guitars; its heart is better reflected in the glass condo towers rising over Greenpoint. New York was built on commerce, not art or punk. Those things happened symbiotically, perhaps, but mostly in spite of New York. They still do, and probably still will, although the hunger for luxed-up real estate will build barriers faster than they can be torn down.

Then again, New Yorkers (and by this I don't mean that I am one yet, just that I've developed a habit of theirs) spend an awful lot of time ruminating on Topic A - their own city. That narcissistic cartoon map of the United States that shows Manhattan in the foreground and the rest of the country blurred out until the Pacific Ocean isn't too far from the truth, sometimes. Maybe, as little as it matters to me, it matters even less to you, dear comrades on the west coast.

The October issue of The Rockit is now available in L.A. area record shops, coffeehouses, nightclubs, etc. It appears that the online version is going up today, so keep checking the page. Looks like all of the features from October are already online.

Anyhow, here is the rundown:

-- Summer Strummer review and photos
-- Ima Robot
-- The Lovemakers
-- Avenged Sevenfold
-- World Party
-- Strike Anywhere
-- Cute is What We Aim For
--Pop Noir (MySpace Review)
-- PodShow
-- Kate Bush ( DVD review. If it were an interview, two of us probably would have killed each other over who got to do it.)
-- Nitzer Ebb, Motor & Babyland (live)
-- Soulwax (live)
-- Bright Light Fever (live)
-- The Trachtenburg Family Slideshow Players (live)
-- James Murphy and The Juan Maclean (live)
-- A Static Lullaby
-- The Tender Box

Plus, there's a brand new Animal Sounds strip. In this edition, our heroes Pedro Lion and Manda Panda contemplate old rocker buttcrack as the record store remodel goes horribly awry.

The title of this story is so apt.

Bono, Preacher on Poverty, Tarnishes Halo with Irish Tax Move

The L.A. Times printed a much shorter, much less scathing version of the article.

I'm not a big fan of income tax. Hell, I can't imagine anyone really wants to part with a heavy chunk of income every year so that Congress can sit around and ponder ways to waste money. So, I really couldn't give a shit how someone wants to evade the taxman either here or abroad. But, this is Bono, who has somehow got it into his head that he is Jesus in bug-eyed sunglasses and spends the time he could be using to make an album that isn't flat-out terrible trying to tell governments how to spend their, I mean our, money. That's just a wee bit hypocritical.

Bono sucks.

Sometimes I wish I lived in NYC, just so that I could catch something like this.

Check out some videos on You Tube.