By Gustavo Arellano
By R. Scott Moxley
By Alfonso Delgado
By Courtney Hamilton
By Joel Beers
By Peter Maguire
By Charles Lam
By Charles Lam
Photo by Suparna MukherjeeWe got kicked offstage during Lucinda Williams' yowling set at this weekend's Doheny Heritage Festival Days, or whatever the kids are calling it now, but that was okay: getting kicked offstage just meant we'd managed to sneak up there in the first place, and that's quite a silver lining. But when the security lady wouldn't let me take a last sip of my Bud before sending me out among the unwashed un-VIP, well, my silver lining turned to snot. And poor Suparna had to hear about it for days.
Sunday was a terrific day, though it dawned cloudy and kinda shitty, truth be told, and weren't no one in the bathing suits that so irked the guys from The Church a couple of years ago, even though they're from Australia and they were playing at the beach.
Anyways, pretty Miss Cinda started out with "Drunken Angel"—not a rollicking sleigh ride of a song, but a fine, sad one—and got slower and sadder from there, until she brought us all back with "Joy"and her "Change the Locks," wherein she changes the tracks underneath the train so you can't find her ever again, and which Tom Petty covered so nice on the underloved She's the One soundtrack. Then there was "Righteously," which I won't reprint here because the lyrics don't do justice to the way she phrases them, i.e., with sexy. You can find it on World Without Tears, and you should.
Then one of her dudes came onstage and handed her a rubber snake. I can't imagine why.
We'd already been awoken from our shitty-day stupor by Robert Randolph and the Family Band, whom Sup had seen showcasing in NYC about six months before they blew up, and they were the happiest jam band of jamminess this side of Phish, but, you know, good and powered by the Funk. The bassist was bald and gold-toothed and had entire chapters of verse tattooed on his arms (not to mention his necks), and his thumbs and fingers flew like rabid butterflies. When he'd open his mouth to sing, a pure, preteen Michael Jackson would soar out of this . . . this man. With neck tattoos. Like a fucking angel. They did some Jimi, some of their own happy hits ("More Love," which every person needs, and which kind of reminded me of old Sonia Dada), and somewhere in there, the white keys player stood up to take a break on fiddle, wherein he broke into "Axel F" from Beverly Hills Cop, which I used to have on cassette when I was . . . hmmm . . . 13.
And the people danced.
Saturday night was devoted to The Space, where Pardi Gras was . . . kind of fun. (It was no Leprechauns Gone Wild—the Space's last party—but then, we'd been at Commie Mom's John Kerry fund-raiser across the bridge in San Pedro for going on 10 hours, and we were spent.) At Pardi Gras, Miss Emily's terrific little bluegrass combo sang ditties about handling serpents and speaking in tongues on the outside stage, and the formerly goofy, dorky, dirty and hilarious Shave, apparently jealous of the Bredrin Daddies' draw of idiot white boys, spent their set inside convincing us they've turned themselves into metal-rap crap. Shave, I am very disappointed. Still, Darren from Burnin Groove was there, and he thought you were great!Meanwhile, the singer for The 88's (they've been getting KCRW airtime) looked just like Ruth's always-awkward May/December intern/lover on Six Feet Under, and Dan Lo Fi Champion looked oddly like Clark Gable. Good call making him grow the nasty 'stache, Johanna! Meanwhile, also, Commie Mom raised almost $1,500! Well-done, everyone! Except Shave!
Correction! I accidentally confused my Soviets last week when I said GOP honcho Mike Schroeder had lost 15 years since shaving his Stalin goatee when I meant Lenin. I am hereby enjoined from associating myself with the Reds until I can stop being one of those assholes who confuses Stalin with Lenin, and since Schroeder's the one who pointed it out, I hereby take it back that he looks 15 years younger.
Friday, I stopped into Azteca for an afternoon drink that turned into asada, tequila, and both the Lakers and the Angels games. Was everything delightful? It was! Were we making friends and influencing people (to buy us tequila)? We were!
Then a nice old man and I got into a delightful conversation about politics and religion (which we both enjoyed), and he wanted to set me up with his son, and I said that would be fine! But then he told me that Darwin renounced the Theory of Evolution on his deathbed, that Marconi also believed in Creationism, and that no respectable scientists believe in evolution, and I thought he was about to tell me that no respectable scientists believe in global warming, and my head exploded, and I had to go home to try to bandage it back together again. With bandages. And tape. And some crack.
Did you forget to come to the OC Weekly's Beach and Beer Guide party at Lucky Strikes Lanes? Did we forget to invite you? Pity.
The evening started with a rollicking almost-fistfight between ad wizard JZ and some lady in a minivan, and it only got better from there. I'd never been because it's so trendy and expensive and everyone has such good hair. I leave these things to Mary Reilly.
But, oh! When it's free? And you're not paying for those adorable private lanes with the sitting area of very chic couches? And they're playing nonstop Human League, and you can't stop twitching your ass when it's your turn on the lane, and your ass twitching is funny at first but then you're just a drunk? And the waitresses are there every three minutes because you are an importantdrunk?
By all means. Enjoy.
Thursday, June 3, is my small buttercup of a son's 10th birthday. Unfortunately, you can't e-mail him because he doesn't have e-mail because, since he is almost 10, he would probably use it for porn. And Disney stuff. And Disney porn. But if you are not a molester trying to meet young boys in chat rooms, you may e-mail him at CommieGirl99@hotmail.com. I will be confiscating the porn.