AWARD DATE UNKNOWN; EARLIEST “B” SPOTTING EVE OF 9/29/05

Congratulations are surely in order, gents. From the staff of losanjealous and, dare I say, all of its readers, we commend you. The “B” category places you in formidable company indeed…right on par with the majority of the restaurants located on Ktown’s Western and 6th Street drags, and, yes, within spitting distance of your cousin’s “A” rating. I speak of course of the second Oki-Dog on Pico, the bastard offshoot of you, the original.

Congrats again, gents. As I shed a tear I admit that judging from the hard work that went into scouring the multicade game, you’ve earned it, damn you. You’ve earned this one.

As mentioned in previous articles, I have to be incredibly hungover to eat at chez dog personally. As such I’m offering to pay, in full, for the oki-dog meal of the first three people who contact me at ryan@losanjealous.com. In return I’m asking for a brief review of your experience. Paypal, cash or check will be yours to deposit in an interest-accruing IRA or to be rushed right back to the dog and squandered as you see fit.

During one of the quieter songs from Sunday night’s Dead Can Dance show at the Hollywood Bowl, my buddy Geoff leaned over and whispered to me, “I don’t want to eat the taco because it’s too loud.” You see, the inevitable crunches from the hard taco shell (we picked up surprisingly decent slash greasy Mexican food from Lucy’s on La Brea) would surely have annoyed the various hardcore fans who were experiencing various states of rapture whilst listening to the freaky moans and aural emissions coming from the stage. I turned around, only to see a sea of noodle dancers swaying like strung out hippies and many others gently bobbing in their seats, eyes closed, hypnotic smiles plastered across their faces.

Truth be told, I didn’t know much about Dead Can Dance before I attended the show. I knew that the Bowl show was part of a reunion tour and that singer/instrumentalist Lisa Gerrard also does film scores. I didn’t know much more after the show because Gerrard doesn’t sing words that others humans can understand. According to the website Dead Can Dance Within, Gerrard’s vocals are “mainly phonetics that are sprung from thoughts and emotion she feels as she sings.” Right.

To me, most of the songs sounded like psychedelic renditions of my cantor’s Yom Kippur performance of the Kol Nidre service, along with a dash of your typical Bollywood film score played half speed.

This was a coma-inducing affair all around. For me, that coma was the result of boredom. For most of the fans in attendance (judging by their facial expressions), it was the result of a massive rush of serotonin to the brain, causing impairment.

Impairment of their shitty-music detectors.

DEAD CAN DANCE at the Hollywood Bowl, a Ticket Winner’s Perspective

I.

Let me tell you that I could just kill a man paying $25 to park on a grassy knoll four blocks from the amphitheater. Don’t get stuck on stupid. Park at the sick church and walk to the bowl if you must. Do NOT pay for easy access parking, even if your tickets are free and you are within inches of the Hollywood Bowl.

My Preamble: Although I have grown out of poet black, I am the demographic, and I have not aged well. (Neither has Brendan Perry and Lisa Gerrard, the artists behind the beautiful music, but more on that.) I eat too much fructose and stare at my shoes too often to look like Jesus Christ with a touch of Pan anymore. Although My Arabian Princess petitioned me to see this band and whirled at my side on her way in for having won the tickets from losanjealous.com — so few Westerners perform original music in that peculiar wailing wall style of the far east — my Indigo Girl-enhanced compassion was not with my late thirties brethren in their gypsy approximations of pre-Christian Europe, and their painted faces with the ankhs, smuggling in wine coolers. What chromosomal retreads are my fellow fans. Have they always been this way? I had such an incredibly valid reason for going. Who were these people again?

You see, I did enjoy “Serpent’s Egg” very much as a twenty-two year old lotus eater. I read stacks of Alan Moore’s “Swamp Thing” and played the Cocteau Twins over and over and lived by the passion of Rainer Maria Rilke’s “Letters to a Young Poet”, and seduced beautiful women in bathtubs with the lion’s feet on them, and thought the world was going to be like “Dark Age of Camelot” once I got out of school.

End Preamble.

II.

We got our tickets at the Will Call desk. The line was serpentine, and most of those in line thought they were in line for something else, even though a comely man in a suit with a walkie talkie told them repeatedly to get a clue.

Arabian Princesses need bottled water at all times and will not drink from the public fountain, so appending the time for getting money from the machine and waiting for bottled water, I missed the opener.

The cool thing about the Hollywood Bowl is the innumerable ways you can access it. This time, we took two elevators to a secret level, triggered by a gigantic stone head upon which we exchanged a bag of sand for a golden monkey god statue. Our seats were in back, but the sound is gorgeous at the Hollywood Bowl no matter where you sit and we were not disappointed in this respect. We had a full view of the stage and the monitors, and seated about five minutes from show time.

Right as Brendan Perry and Lisa Gerrard came on with the impressive twenty-five piece orchestra, I heard the first idiot knock over his glass bottle. There would be no subtlety.

Brendan was very masculine in his Kojak incarnation with the silver whisker goatee. And Lisa was Hillary Clinton-like in her agedness, in a yellow frock that would have suited the Lady of Shallot. They began one of their meditative caravan numbers. Then they went into another one. And then there was another.

You know, I’m not going to remember the names of the damn songs. Not that they all sound alike, but the names are like esoteric poems of the nineteenth century. “The Wind that Shakes the Barley”, “Song of the Sybil”, “Severance”. They did the hits. They played well with the orchestra. There was ambiance and bad poetry on the LCD displays. People were screaming out for songs that no one knew. Brendan Perry was hip, introducing his stuff as having been number one in 1472. And Hillary Clinton has an incredible voice. No one missed notes. There were spikes of passion, more than old people can still sing and move than for these funeral dirges. Elijah Wood and other Hobbits moved among our numbers, whispering in a half-afraid way about a ring of power.

Two hours and three encores later, I took my Arabian Princess and made for the exit. I noticed how haunting, irradiated open cell phone illumination has replaced the cigarette lighter as a candlelit tribute to rock and roll or whatever this was. Who were these people again?

You know, I wept to Dead Can Dance and other 4AD bands when I was twenty.

Coinciding with the 10th anniversary of OJ Simpson’s acquittal for double murder charges, the Juice will make his first public LA appearance in more than 12 years this weekend at the NecroComicon horrorshow convention.

Simpson stands to make a killing signing autographs for a modest fee:

• Flat items such as Photos and Lithographs: $95
• Larger memorabilia like Footballs, Jerseys, Helmets and Stiletto Knives: $125
• Inscriptions including “Heisman Trophy Winner”, “The Juice” or “I Did It”: $20

Al Cowlings will join his former teammate to hawk signatures on Sunday. Whether the two will arrive together in a White Ford Bronco remains to be seen.

NecroComicon
Friday, Sept. 30th, 5-11; Saturday, Oct 1st, 11-7; Sunday, Oct. 2nd, 11-6
19401 Parthenia St.
Northridge, CA 91324
Admission: $20. $13 w/purchase of O.J. autograph ticket

Name: Shoshana Shambi
Height: 5′ 8″
Weight: 170 pounds
Hair: Brown
Eyes: Brown
Wanted For: Insurance Fraud and Defrauding the Department of Motor Vehicles

When you look like LaToya Jackson circa 1991, you gotta take advantage. First, head over to the DMV and get your new drivers license. If they ask for an alternative form of identification break out a copy of LaToya’s Bad Girl album. While you’re waiting for your ID, have an accomplice load up on Bodily Injury Liability, Medical Payments and Collision Insurance. Once everything’s in place, ram the shit out of your partner’s car and get the hell out of Dodge. Live it up with your share of the claim money while you can, because the real present day LaToya has psychic powers and knows exactly where you’re hiding out.

More info from the LAPD

A reader forwarded us this Craigslist personal that is a perfect snapshot of the Indie Yuppie zeitgeist:

+1 Hottie Needed For Clap Your Hands Say Yeah — 10/5 @ Troubadour
——————————————————————————–
Reply to: anon-99600818@craigslist.org
Date: 2005-09-23, 7:58PM PDT

I’m on assignment for a national indie music magazine (no, not Pitchfork) to review the Clap Your Hands Say Yeah show at the Troubadour on 10/5. All of my friends already landed their own tickets, so I thought I could use my +1 to meet someone new.

You: Eastsider, knows the band already, appears semi-regularly on Cobrasnake.com, okay with being ignored while I take notes for the review.

Me: pretty much what you’d expect.

Reply by Oct. 1st. Pics are, of course, a must. No fatties.

Cobrasnake–check, Clap Your Hands–check, Pitchfork–check (more accurately, anti-Pitchfork elitist attitude–check). This post has got to be a joke rooted in sour grapes, someone looking in on the scene with envy or contempt. More than likely both. He must be collecting any affirmative female replies for some sinister purpose. Really, what gal replies to this? “Hi, I’m Yvette, I am a hottie, intern at Vice, live on the Eastside, appear on Cobrasnake.com, I want to see Clap Your Hands Say Yeah and I love to be ignored.” And if this is in fact a real plea, it shows just how oblivious and shallow the dudes and dames of this scene either actually are or, more sadly, perceive one another as being. Maybe the kids at Stereogum could help delineate the cultural anthropology at play here.

But the real genius here is that the dude can play it off as a joke or really hook up with it. Maybe both. Likewise, the girl has an out–she can say she knew it was a joke all along and went with it, just for the show. No one has to tell anyone what they are thinking, everyone can hide behind the irony curtain and use each other. Genius, I tell you. And yet somehow it gives one a new respect for those other ads that are blunt and to the point: “M4W - ME: 9.5″ UNCUT; YOU: BIG BOTTOM SUB-DOM” No fucking irony, God bless you.

And if this is real and some hott ladies (no fatties, remember) are thinking of replying, let me help you out with that Me: pretty much what you’d expect part, because I know this guy. The guy in this ad is a pasty overgrown, unshaven manboy, probably in his mid 30’s, lives with roommates, has nice wardrobe of cool T-shirts, is a failed rock star, but thinks that his occasional DJ gig makes him one, tries too hard to look like he doesn’t try too hard, and works the lowest (read: internet) rung at a music magazine, chasing the rock & roll lifestyle from afar. Oh wait, he admitted that last one. Ladies, please form an orderly queue for this catch.

Ladies: Play your cards right and this could be you

thanks to Gary for the tip

From shiny package acrost’ the sea
Tokyo, ’twas said to be
I knew not yet your size nor strength
while nestled in your capsule-pill

WeeeBear
aw hell yeah,
bearbrick
bear, brick
comeforthy forth:
forth from your bathy capsule now now NOWNOWNOW

Visit our concert calendar for a complete list of shows, links to buy tickets and our picks.

***Recommended Show of the Week***
Seu Jorge @ Knitting Factory
Has an actor ever made great music? If you said Julliete Lewis or Keanu Reeves odds are you’re one of their bandmates. And if you said David Hasselhoff you’re probably German. But Brazilian actor Seu Jorge, who starred in City of God and Life Aquatic might actually be the first. Hear Jorge cover Bowie in his native Portuguese Tuesday at the Knit.

MONDAY
Athlete @ El Rey
Athlete @ Virgin Sunset (free)
Jesca Hoop @ Temple Bar

TUESDAY
M83 @ Avalon
Seu Jorge @ Knitting Factory

WEDNESDAY
M83 @ USC Ground Zero (free w/USC ID)
Dungen @ El Rey
Portastatic @ Spaceland
Alkoholics @ Viper Room
Towers of London @ Troubadour

THURSDAY
Fiery Furnaces @ Troubadour
Supergrass @ Amoeba (free)
New Pornographers @ Henry Fonda
Mike Doughty @ El Rey
Legendary Shack Shakers @ Knitting Factory

FRIDAY
Keane @ Greek
Supergrass @ Troubadour
Frames @ El Rey

SATURDAY
Nine Inch Nails, Queens of the Stone Age @ Hollywood Bowl
Prefuse 73 @ Egyptian
Notwist @ El Rey
Soulive @ House of Blues
Autumns @ Troubadour

SUNDAY
Poncho Sanchez @ Amoeba (free)
Richard Thompson @ Henry Fonda

The Rakes
Troubadour
Sunday, September 18th 2005

Indie Brit rockers The Rakes were in town last week. Audree snapped these photos…

See more of Audree’s photos from this show

Earlier this week we held a contest for a pair of Dead Can Dance tickets (link). The winning essay surpassed all expectations and is reprinted verbatim below:

What is the name of your band? Who plays what instrument? What does the LP cover look like? What’s your album name and what are some of your song titles?

I want to form a band called “My Own Very Beautiful Death”.

I want to make up my own language and stage a suicide by beauty to the sounds of reverberated twelve string guitars, played by my childhood friend, Lonsdale Quirke-Addams.

The line-up would be:

ME — Lead tongues
Lonsdale Quirke-Addams — All guitars, mandolins, and bird calls
Ond — doumbek, seed-filled leafs, background tongues
James Gunn — Bass Guitar, electrified sand
Sunny Moonie — reverberated pirouettes on a plastic bulletin board, “sadness”

Our LP Cover is a b+w shot of all of us kissing each other passionately and pointing guns at our heads in front of a gargoyle. The album is called “The Golden Yak Ameliorates…”

SONGS SAMPLING:

The Last Great Free Polish Hilton
The Nine Wines of the Sailing Men
Tea With Steve
The Secret of Moon Milk
Dance of the Rondelet Upon the Balustrade

Thursday, 3pm: Where were you when summer ended? This gentleman was spotted taking a break behind the scenes at the MelloFello shoot, Venice Beach. Erstwhile this gentleman was soaking in the final hours of summer sun like a champ.

Sure, sure. Summer is technically over. Big whoop. When January finds you the odds are you’ll still be wearing that filthy zoo york T-shirt and flip-flops, and you’ll remember that in southern California seasons don’t really matter. Don’t sweat it.

Bonus Photos: Farmer’s Market, Monday
After the rain Monday, the staff of The Gumbo Pot felt compelled to stage a promo shot. Plus, pumpkins are now in season. You’ll need a basket for each one.

So I got into it with my editor—he said he wanted me to stop reviewing Starbucks for a while. He said I was getting “too close.” I said, “What are you talking about?” not realizing I was holding a French press in one hand and a slice of zucchini bread in the other. He said he was re-assigning me until I “cooled off.” He told me to go review a band called Hegemonic Oracles of Annihilation. Sometimes you gotta go away someplace to find out where you are.

Hegemonic Oracles of Annihilation @ the Troubadour
with
Yellowtail
Alexis Leone

I get there around 5:45. If I’m going to do this I’m going to do it the right way. It’s been a long time since I’ve been to the Troubadour. Feels the same. Small. Two levels. A stage. Never been gone. It’s like getting your first parking ticket. 6:45. I’m still the only one here. I’m just that much more prepared. I check out the CD. Oracles, huh? Oracles of hope? Of depression. . . . ?

SIDE A
Operation: Suicide
Mental Enslavement
Destroyed
Question the Questioners
Mindf***
Internet Junkie

SIDE B
Destroyed II
Guns of Hollywood
F***ed Up
Oracles of Depression
Terrified
B.E.G.I.N.N.E.R.

Well that answers that. I’m parked in a loading zone. 7:27. There are four people here now. Time for my second beer. It’s still light outside. Who is Alexis Leone? Who is Yellowtail? . I’ve got questions, and they’re only going to get answered when someone takes the stage. . .or when I read my press kit. I’m already bored

Next Week: More Starbucks Reviews

I just received an e-mail from Ubiquity regarding a couple of events that should probably be added to the music calendar…….

If you can’t make it to MOCA Saturday night to watch Peanut Butter Wolf spin (and/or you simply refuse to for personal reasons), you’ll have some interesting options Sunday: He’s spinning alongside Waajeed (of Platinum Pied Pipers) and Madlib at night, but losanjealous is actually recommending you catch the 2pm in-store set at Fred Segal of all places. Face it, you can catch an in-store at Amoeba any day of the week. But does Amoeba sell $600 cashmere sweaters in mandatory autumn colors? Thought not. The show is free; bring $1500 for clothes and a few bucks for parking in Santa Monica. It is unclear if Fred Segal will be serving cocktails. Plan on bringing a full collapsible bar in your trunk for a serious pre-Segal tailgating session in the parking structure at 2nd and Colorado.

If you plan on seeing the Wolf with Madlib and co. Sunday evening as well in lieu of Dead Can Dance (win free tix from us), you might strongly consider RSVPing as noted below so you can pick up your free pass while there.

It’s a bit of a cheap ploy to force everybody to go all the way out to Fred Segal in Santa Monica simply to pick up a crummy RSVP pass for an event in Hollywood. As such, we recommend wholeheartedly that you go to the Fred Segal show but do not RSVP, do not pass go, do not collect $200, and go see Dead Can Dance that night instead.

PB Wolf and Madlib groupies are exempt from this advice. Bring your stonesthrow albums for autographs and, if possible, hit all three events in a PB Wolf Grand-Slam of sorts, ensuring maximum harassment.

Details from Ubiquity: »continue reading PB Wolf To Rock the Segal; Rock the Segal

Having no outdoor grill, I’m unable to take full advantage of the meaty goodness and knowledge base at Marconda’s Meats at the Fairfax &3rd Farmer’s Market.

Grill or no, I am still fully eligible for purchasing by-the-pound fresh sausage from the daily-crafted hogsheads in the display windows.

Immediately after writing this article I purchased an entire hog’s head, took it home, fashioned an 18″-diameter sausage patty of it, fried the everloving shit out of it, ate it and died a very smoky, sweet, anise-cured death.

Photos
OinkOINK
Counter Left
Counter Right

Marconda’s Meat
3D W S Fairfax Ave
323.938.5131

Output from the Losanjealous Headline-O-Matic 2000

• LA Times tries to “live blog” the Emmys. They just don’t get it. And neither do readers—look at those blazing Comments numbers.
• For better or worse (answer: worse) the Emmys are an L.A. event. A pre-Emmys disaster always makes for good ratings, as the numbers on the Katrina Emmys were the best since 9/11 Emmys. And who are these critics that annually bleat the same damn exact gripe about these damn shows not being “entertaining,” or, even more ridiculously, not “edgy.” Shut the fuck up already, we’re just here to check out Eva Longoria and that’s it.
• Love this press release. Way to use Hurricane Katrina as an attention getter for a new magazine rollout event. (How can a “free” event have “proceeds”?) This is for a home & body event promoting another one of these Martha Stewart/Real Simple rag knockoffs that promote stress-free, breezy, color-coordinated better living through common sense and conspicuous consumption. Mainly the latter. But they’re giving away samples and offering free classes and even manicures for the ladies, so maybe load up on freebies you’re in Venice.
• But a good benefit can bring back some heat to some fading C-listers. Or so Jean Smart and Willie Garston hope. Who? The W’s a nice spot though.
• This isn’t exactly new news–that Downtown has broken ground on the biggest goddamned shopping mall ever–but for some reason, the People’s Daily Online Chinese (and government sanctioned) website ran this as big news over there. I think you know where we’re going with this.
• Turns out there might be some funny business with non-disclosure of a pre-existing condition with the Dodger signing of J.D. “Just Disabled” Drew. Who’s his agent again? Oh, yeah—Scott Boras. Makes perfect sense.
• So long, Vince Vaughn. We’ll still have our DVD of your Psycho remake to remind us what happens when a talented guy can’t say no.
• Hilby gives Neil Young’s new one four stars. No kidding. Haven’t heard it yet myself. You?