By Matt Coker
By R. Scott Moxley
By Charles Lam
By Nick Schou
By Gustavo Arellano
By Gustavo Arellano
By Steve Lowery
By R. Scott Moxley
Photo by Jack GouldWith the tits on a plate parading themselves all over town this week, it's hard to believe that breasts were ever out of fashion. Remember when they were? No one wanted ta-tas; they marred the lines of one's couture, or something. Now they're the size of small children, with little triangles of cloth covering the drooping naughty bits, in the case of the "ladies" of Club Rubber, or, in the case of the young misses at the Hard Rock Café at Fashion Island, it's tight cotton-candy pink tank tops that envelop and contain the mammaries in question, mammaries that are yearning to breathe free. These are the permed and toned blondes who will one day man the pompons for the Lakers, or at least date some of the Lakers, or maybe they'll date people who know Lakers. No matter—in a few years these lovelies will own Newport Beach or sleep with the people who do, and you will be waxing their Mercedesor cleaning their pool.
We were at the Rock to see Pepper, reputedly a Hawaiian band of much and varied cuteness, but in order to do that, we had to see Neighborhoodfirst, which were a couple of black guys in fur coats, a pleasant- and fresh-faced blond girl singer who waved her groovy scarf coyly over their heads à la Stevie Nicks(which was annoying), and some other people I couldn't see because the place was mobbed with frat boys (but for some reason, not the attractive ones) and really attractive and well-groomed girls who just had to be really tall. I was kind of trapped by the bar, where I couldn't get a drink for almost an hour anyway, and then Neighborhood did a Bob Marley cover, and we decided it was time to go because if there's anyone needing to breathe free, it's Bob Marley needing emancipation from the suburban kids who won't let him rest in peace and play his good-time party songs over and over. Then as we were leaving, there were at least three dozen peeps jammed into the vestibule waiting to get in because the Rock is the place to be on Friday nights, and it took us a good five minutes just to squeeze out the door.
So we missed Pepper and sped with relief to the Rock's Bizarro World opposite, Club Mesa, to hear the hick-hop tuneage of Wax Apples, and we decided singers Jamie and Brian Coakley are just about the most groovin' couple ever, and they're just so pretty! and nice! And they don't have perms or fake breasts, and they talk to people who talk to them instead of getting all puffed up and shooting looks like I saw people do at four of the five places I went this week. Then I ran into The Chairman, Dave Mao, and Cassandra the Memphis Waitress (Memphis waitresses are celebrities in their own right). We skipped out of Club Mesa and went to a location that shall remain a little bit secret because the owner said it's already a little too big and—while it used to be that if you were in there on a Friday night, it was because you were at least a friend of a friend—now it's getting a bit puffy and look-shooty itself, so I'll just refer to it as The Bristol Sessions. I said okay because I don't want it to get ruined (like the supersecret back-gate entrance at Club Rubber got ruined when I wrote about that). It's where the beautiful people are, and they have really good hair (very sophisticated, not trashy and permed, even though the girls do shoot looks for no reason), and DJ Danny Love spins some trance that's not too boring even though it's trance, and Todd Oliver of The Todd Oliver Quartet(which plays Thursdays at Memphis) was there being generally charming and cute, and there were a lot of other people, too. But they could have used some appetizers because people were very drunk and needed something to soak up the gin.
On Monday, we'd been at a secret Snooptown location (I'm not sure they've got permits) where the terrifically crunchy-granola band DeJong played medleys that included, like, "Truckin'" and "Bad, Bad Leroy Brown," which I think some of the people in the audience had seriously never heard before and probably didn't even know it was a cover (they were that young, and they all looked like rugby players) and things were so peaceful and mellow and friendly and love-filled, and then—yeah, you saw it coming—all the pretty girls started shooting looks at one another for no reason at all. Well, except for the dozen or so who were rocking out up by the stage while a cute artist boy painted a mural behind the stage to the music; they were too busy being happy and confident to shoot looks, so good for them! Oh, and Rock Bottom sponsors the place, and the beer is really good; I think it's free for everybody (if I'm not mistaken, the whole thing is thrown as a private party) and not just me.