January 20, 2007
Not Just a Pretty Face
I feel like I've been spending way too much time at the Cinema Bar lately. In the past week and a half, I've been there three times. But how could I not go when last Saturday Ramsay Midwood was playing, and then Randy Weeks and Jesse Dayton were playing on Thursday?
Despite the crazy loyal LA following Randy Weeks has acquired, I had yet to see him play live, and this seemed like as good a time as any. The former one-half of the duo Lonesome Strangers, and the author of "Can't Let Go," recorded by Lucinda Williams on her legendary Car Wheels on a Gravel Road CD, Randy's long been hailed as a favorite singer/songwriter in the LA alt-country scene, and his nasally vocals draw appropriate comparisons to Willie Nelson. Clearly, the audience favorite was his "Transistor Radio," also the title track from his latest CD.
By the time Jesse Dayton started, the tiny Cinema Bar was CRAMMED full o' people taking advantage of the great music for no cover charge. Getting anywhere - to the bar, the restroom, the dance floor - was a chore, but Jesse's performance made up for that. A set that never slowed down included his signature "Kissin' Abllene Goodbye," "I'm at Home Gettin' Hammered (While She's Out Gettin' Nailed)", a cover of Steve Earle's "Hometown Blues," and a killer medley finale that ran the gamut from Johnny Cash to Willie Nelson to Robert Earl Keen. His playing just gets better and better, and his good looks don't hurt either. I was a little surprised that the composition of the audience wasn't decidedly more female, but then again, the last thing the Cinema Bar needed that night was more people.
Then again, maybe more Jesse Dayton fans in this world wouldn't be such a bad thing after all.
Posted by darlin at 5:42 PM
Preaching to the Choir
The last time I saw the Reverend Horton Heat, I was living in Orange County and drove to my favorite venue, the House of Blues on Sunset Strip. Now, I live in Los Angeles and drove to Orange County to see the good Reverend at the House of Blues in Anaheim. Ironic, but as someone pointed out to me, it's much better to see the Reverend in Hootenanny Country.
The House of Blues Anaheim show was the second of a five-night run throughout Southern California. Right away, I'll admit at the start that I feel a little odd writing this review, since our dear friend DJ Wanda was at the Tuesday night show at the HOB Anaheim, and I consider her to be a much more eloquent, knowledgeable, and opinionated writer than I am. But she, bless her heart, is at Punk Rock Bowling this weekend, and I don't see her pausing from her drinking any time soon in order to write about the show, so I'm taking the initiative and just doing it, damn it!
Th' Legendary Shack Shakers took the stage promptly at eight o'clock (thankfully, I'd obeyed Wanda's "Don't be late!" commands), and after standing in the longest line ever at the ticket window (I suppose that's what I get for not ordering my tickets online, but as I discovered, I saved myself $8 in service fees by purchasing at the ticket window), standing in another line to get wristbanded, and yet another line to get have my ticket scanned and go through security, I was in, with plenty of time. I fully expected Col. J.D. Wilkes to have completely undressed himself on stage by the end of his set (he never took his pants off, though - sigh), and with his wild antics, I was surprised when he didn't start walking on the ceiling.
In contrast, Junior Brown just stood in one place for his hour, picking his guit-steel, demonstrating usual Junior Brown greatness, despite a long awkward pause at the beginning of his set and a dead mic that had to be replaced in the middle.
The Reverend is well aware that several members of his congregation may have had plans to see him at more than one show during this run, so in a genius move to create some diversity for those fans, after a solid 40 minutes, the Reverend started taking requests, mixing those in with his own selections. A disclaimer at the beginning of the request announcement gave him the freedom to turn down requests he didn't think he'd be able to do ("I've written over 100 songs, and have killed over one billion brain cells."), but it sure was exciting when someone would request a song he'd clearly not done in a while, but played it anyway.
I understand that the Reverend played until past 12:30a, but I left three-quarters of the way through. That's the problem with cute shoes - they really aren't great to wear to concerts that require you to stand for four and a half hours. By the time I left, my feet HURT.
If you don't already have tickets for the weekend shows at the Henry Fonda Theatre or the Troubadour, you're probably SOL, as I believe both of these are now sold-out. But maybe you'll get lucky and have a chance to sell your soul to a scalper for them. The Reverend will save you.
Posted by darlin at 5:02 PM
Becoming a Mature, Responsible Adult
Legally, I am still a resident of Riverside. There are many reasons for this, but the biggest one is that I'm too damn lazy to constantly be filling out "change of address" forms. While I've lived at four different locations throughout Southern California in the past six years (not counting my parents' house), my parents have owned their home for more than thirty years. They aren't going anywhere (if laziness is inherited, they're probably too lazy to fill out change of address forms, too), so I figure it's way easier to keep the important documents - DMV stuff, voting stuff, etc. - going to the one place where I know I'll be able to retrieve them and won't have to worry abou the Post Office not forwarding something to me.
A side effect of this situation is that my father subsequently believes it is his right to open any piece of mail addressed to me that looks important. While it could be considered a violation of my privacy, it's actually a blessing. My dad knows I need the help. Case in point is my vehicle registration. Last year, when the DMV sent my truck's license renewal to my parents' house, my dad, of course, opened it, called me immediately, and made sure I took the forms with me after my last trip to Riverside, along with a reminder, "Don't forget to send that in!"
He should have been more forceful.
Not immediately having the $153 it would cost to renew my registration, I wrote out the check, placed it in an envelope, stamped and sealed the envelope, and placed in my desk drawer at work, with the thought that in a couple of weeks, when my bank account had the benefit of another paycheck, then I'd mail it in.
Then I promptly forget about it.
And not just forgot that it was in my desk, as opposed to it being somewhere else, but entirely forgot that such a thing even existed in my desk drawer...or anywhere else, for that matter.
Until three months later, when I got a phone call from my dad, who'd opened a letter addressed to me from the DMV, and learned that now I was delinquent with my registration renewal. He was FURIOUS. I promised to mail in the now $277 registration renewal, after convincing myself and insisting to my dad that I HAD intended to mail it in on time, but that it must still be sitting in the pile of papers next to my bed, and I'd just forgotten about it. But darndest thing, I never was able to find the forms in those piles of paper.
Because, as I discovered, EIGHT MONTHS later when I was clearing out my desk at work, having given my two-week notice at the radio station formerly known as KZLA, that that damn form had been ready to go after all, and was sitting right there in my desk drawer, just waiting for me to walk across the building and place in the mail crate. Who knew?!
With this change in job came a decision to make myself over as the girl who has her shit totally together. The weekend after Thanksgiving, I started mailing out Christmas cards...an event which, in the past, I started thinking about on December 23. Last year, many of my friends reported receiving their Christmas cards shortly after the New Year. This year, I disgusted many of them with my togetherness. My Christmas shopping was completed weeks beforehand (thank god for online shopping). I'm trying to make it a point to pay bills on time, to send "thank you" cards (and to send them promptly), and to at least put a little effort into my appearance at work - meaning the days of unbrushed hair at the workplace are over (unless I'm working on a weekend - then the "real" me takes over). It's all about the baby steps, people.
Well, last year's fiasco subsequently convinced my dad that I was COMPLETELY unable to take care of myself WHATSOEVER, and when my vehicle registration renewal arrived at the beginning of this year, it sent my dad into conniptions, because clearly, I couldn't be trusted to send ANYTHING in on time ever again. On top of that, my truck would have to get smog checked this year, too, and if I couldn't even handle the simple task of writing a check and putting it in the mail on time, surely I would be unable to drive to a smog center and have it tested, too, on top of all that. During the 36 hours that I was home at the beginning of January, my dad clearly thought I should make it a priority to take my truck to a smog center. Having enough other stuff to do, I told him I knew a good place in Burbank that could be trusted with such a task, and that if I didn't get it taken care of by the next time I was in Riverside, we could take care of it then. Thinking that I'd probably lose them, my dad volunteered, "Why don't you leave the forms with me, and then when you come back we can take care of it, then?" I had a better suggestion: "Why don't I just keep them with me, and then no matter what I decide to do, I'll have the forms with me?" He was clearly displeased with this offer, but he grudgingly accepted my logic.
It took a couple weeks longer than I'd wanted to finally make it to the smog center. The only mechanic I trust with my truck is named Fred, who works at a Shell Center on the corner of Verdugo and Hollywood Way in Burbank. He only charges $25 to change the oil in my truck, and doesn't try to sell me a bunch of extra services just because I have tits and clearly don't know any better than to take the suggestions of anyone in a pair of coveralls with grease underneath their fingernails. He's gotten more business from me than any of those yayhoos at EZ-Lube.
Unfortunately, Fred doesn't do the smog check himself, he takes it to a place just down the road. But he'd had some problems with his helper at the shop, and didn't have anyone to watch the shop while he ran down to the test-only center. He did, however, give me the card of the center, so I could theoretically take it down there myself. A few days later, when I had more time to drive all over the Valley, I took it down there, bright and early at 8am. But, oops, the guy who does the smog test wouldn't be in for another half hour and did I want to wait? Not a problem, I walked down to Lancer's, a nearby restaurant on Victory that I'm a big fan of, mostly because it's populated primarily by old people, so it's usually QUIET in there.
A couple hours later, I got a phone call from the smog center; did I know my gas cap was missing? Well, I did, but I'd planned to get that taken care of soon, too. It had only been stolen a couple of weeks ago...oddly, just before I got the notice from the DMV. The mechanic informed me that I couldn't pass the smog test without it.
Oh.
Usually, the mechanic has extra gas caps for sale, but today he was out, did he mind if he went out to the auto parts store to buy one for me? NOT AT ALL. And once the new gas cap was in place, I was proud to receive the certificate saying that my truck had passed its smog test, despite the workings of some evil person who tried to screw me over by stealing my gas cap.
And on January 17, a full two weeks before my fees were due, I not only wrote out the check for the renewal, stamped and sealed the envelope, but also PLACED IT IN THE MAILBOX. No $277 late fee for me this year.
My dad says there's hope for me yet.
Posted by darlin at 12:13 AM
January 12, 2007
Night at the Truckstop
You can probably imagine the debauchery that's sure to ensue when a lineup includes bands named Roadkill Kings, Trucker Up, The Cheatin' Kind, and Saints of the Gutter. Throw all those bands together at Alex's Bar (the only So Cal bar I'm aware of that's cool enough to have Shiner Bock on tap) on a Thursday night, and the picture in your mind only gets worse.
The reality of the night exceeded any of those expectations. Where else can you find an LA truckstop girl (complete with mini-skirt, leather jacket, and cowboy boots with stiletto heels?!), a guy so drunk that just when you're convinced he's about to pass out he asks you exactly how much do draft beers cost here anyway, and a traffic accident that involves a fire hydrant, four (five?) cars, and floods East Anaheim Street? Only during the country night at Alex's.
The music started a little after 9pm, with the fabulous honky-tonk sounds of the Roadkill Kings. They're a great band, but broke the unspoken rule that if you're going to cover a variety of songs, you should only cover one song per artist, and not perform two songs by Hank 3, and especially not two songs by Hank 3 from the same album. However, they redeemed themselves in my eyes with their last song, which they dedicated to anyone who has "a dream."
(At this moment in time, the Widowmaker of Trucker Up looks around and announces, "Nobody here's got a dream! You see any dreams here? I don't see any dreams here. I see a couple of nightmares over there!")
They started playing a ballad, which I thought was terrible - I'm all about inspiring songs, but who the hell closes their show with a ballad?! No one thinks it's a good idea to put the crowd to sleep with your last song.
Then they started singing. And the opening line stopped me from yawning.
"Sherry was a waitress...."
It was at that point that, I LOST. MY. MIND.
It didn't matter that I was the only one reacting. It didn't matter that I was the only one who knew where they were going with this. It didn't matter that I was clearly the only one who recognized the opening lyric from Robert Earl Keen's "The Road Goes on Forever."
I cheered like there was no tomorrow.
Trucker Up, per usual, outdid themselves. I tell people that they shouldn't come to a Trucker Up show if they aren't real, true, hard-core country fans, or if they're easily offended, because Trucker Up offends everyone ("including hard-core country fans!" according to the Widowmaker). Thursday night, Trucker Up pulled no punches - and took shots at and offended not only their Merch Girl, but also female lead vocalist and guitarist Southbound Sandi. Why the Widowmaker isn't a star already baffles me.
Trucker Up's lead guitarist, the Kentucky Colonel, was double-clutching it that night, as he followed up Trucker Up's rable-rousing set with his "other" band The Cheatin' Kind, who rocked my world with my "always-favorite" cover of Tammy Wynette's "Your Good Girl's Gonna Go Bad." Saints of the Gutter wrapped up the show, and I'd be lying if I said I didn't like it when the lead singer grabbed his crotch. Nothing could have been more appropriate for a night like that.
I can't wait to go back. No, seriously, I can't wait. All shows should be that much fun.
Posted by darlin at 7:27 PM
Paul "No Relation to Kenny" Chesne
With only two nights a week off from work these days, I really try to make the best of them. I knew that going from a "normal" (Ha!) day shift to a night shift would be a rough change (especially for someone who LIVES for live music), but I grossly underestimated the havoc it would wreak on my nightlife by almost completely obliterating it. To keep myself from losing my mind entirely, I do my absolute darndest to GET OUT OF THE HOUSE on those precious Wednesday and Thursday nights.
Which is how I found myself making the trek from Glendale to the Cinema Bar in Culver City Wednesday night to see Paul Chesne's acoustic show. I've really only seen him play once, and that was at Reckless Kelly's first appearance at the Viper Room. His sound was a little too 'rockish' for my tastes, as was his CD, but I figured that I might as well see if I liked him any better acoustically than I did with his full band.
I did.
I found that only two guitars lent itself better to the singer-songwriter aspects of alt.country, and I was able to appreciate much more what it is he had to say (I wasn't really convinced he had anything to say, or at least nothing that I could understand him saying, at his Viper Room show). Paul made the bold move of doing a show comprised entirely of new material, without any "support" from previously known songs that fans could get excited about and sing along with - and yet still managed to enrapture the small crowd (which for a while included Randy Weeks and Ramsay Midwood). He's lacking a bit in stage presence; I don't think he ever mentioned his own name, but I'm satisfied that given some more time, he'll have quite a following and formidable presence in the alt. country world.
I got to chat a bit with Paul after his show, and asked him if his new CD would be more acoustic, like this show, or more along the lines of his previous CD. I was a bit disappointed when he said the new CD would be "all over the place."
A pleasant surprise was headliner Matt Ellis, who's kind of a Tim Easton with a really sexy Australian accent. If Paul Chesne is an up-and-comer, Matt's another singer-songwriter well on his way to stardom. And not bad to look at, either.
Posted by darlin at 6:26 PM
January 6, 2007
How Not to Hit on a Girl
::Security guard spots my "My Little Pony" backpack as I'm leaving work one night::
"Oh! You must have a little girl."
"Uh - no - it's mine. My friend's daughter saw it and wanted to buy it for me, because she knows I like 'My Little Ponies.'"
"You must be a Sagittarius."
"Um, no."
"Libra."
"No."
"Taurus."
"No."
"Oh! Aquarius."
"No."
"Gemini."
"No."
"Leo."
"No."
"Virgo?"
"No."
"Uh, Aries?"
"No."
"Pisces."
"No."
"Capricorn."
"No."
"Scorpio."
"No."
"What's left?"
"Cancer."
"Oh! Cancer. Yeah, you like to cook."
"Actually, no, I don't cook."
"You only cook a few things, but you cook them really well."
"No, I really don't cook anything. The only things in my refrigerator are beer and the occasional cold pizza."
"Oh. Well, when you're dating someone, you don't have to worry about your cheating on them, because you're not even attracted to anyone else."
Reluctantly, I admit, "Yeah, that's very true."
"Yeah, I was pretty faithful when I was married."
What a keeper.
Posted by darlin at 6:10 PM
