Photo by James BunoanJoshCairnsusedtobeahardcorekid,used to sing for It's Time to Rock, and now's he got his own club: the majestically named JFK, commemorated each night it happens with what Cairns calls “a shitty li'l fanzine,” which is a nice indie spin on the party favors to be had at the upscale, corporate-sponsored parties we gave up all hope of ever attending with our first spin of SlantedandEnchanted.The zine itself is indeed as lo-fi as they come, featuring in-jokes, drawings, short stories and plugs for other club nights. Not particularly riveting, but it's cool to have a lasting reminder of the night that isn't insert-your-favorite-STD-here.
JFK happens at Din Din at the Bamboo Terrace, a proper Chinese restaurant by day and a semi-suave bar by night. An older, khaki-swaddled couple were enjoying their dinners when my darling chauffeur and I arrived at 9:30 p.m., and by the time we returned from a gum-and-cigarette-refueling mission, an elaborately tattooed and coiffed crowd of kids was having a blast. And I do mean kids—at 24, I felt I should be offering relationship advice, tucking stray locks of hair behind ears and performing renditions of the VelveteenRabbittoward the end of the night.
Much to the delight of some high-pitched screamers, balloon headgear was being crafted and subsequently popped on the patio, and a friendly gentleman demonstrated for me how the balloon could be employed as a sex toy—perhaps he should have pitched his idea to the erotic boutique a few doors down. Nearly as crowd-pleasing was the fully costumed Spiderman who sidled through the masses—in my estimation, a little too Vicefashion party circa 2001, but hey, ironic T-shirts don't wash themselves.
JFK is more about social networking than show-going, but the bands were entertaining. After an intense set from Arkham, headlining band Wiskey Biscuit played. A seven-member-strong group of industry vets—they were signed to Geffen for five minutes and have been playing for roughly 15 years—they offered an agreeably hazy set; unfortunately, by then, the bulk of the crowd had tumbled out to the patio for smokes, beers and raucous conversation. They missed a good but slightly tepid performance by a seasoned A-Team of what my dad would call “rockers,” including a bearded guitarist working both a cigarette and his instrument.
In charge of the “ones and twos” (I learned that from Ellen—did I use it right, dude?) was DJ Frankie the Face, spinning between sets. He claims he was “bribed into DJing,” but his awesome garage and '60s set was meant to be. That said, this was a crowd that evidently subscribes to the notion that scenesters shouldn't dance—barely anyone hit the floor or paid much attention to the music in favor of cavorting with friends and acquaintances. When I asked a couple of girls what they thought of the guys in attendance, one made a sour face and said, “They're just friends,” and then disappeared into the rowdy, happy horde.
JFK at DIN DIN at the Bamboo Terrace, 1773 Newport Blvd., Costa Mesa, (949) 645-5550; www.bambooterrace.com. Check website for JFK dates and times. $5.
