Hollywood Homeland Edition
By Ron Garmon
Vile Bodies: I attended the Kurt Vile showcase at Echo Curio last week, but only barely. The tiny art-space was already crammed with more than 50 beards, hip shopgirls and various microcelebs with their sparewheel entourages, but I managed to compress my physique long enough to wedge into the back of the room, cursing whatever Internet buzz had fetched them all here. More piled in anon, clumping on the floor and making the room a kind of hipster steam bath before the engagingly hairy Mr. Vile got down to biz, assisted by multi-instrumentalist Jesse. “Freak Train” was robot-tight Velvet-y stuff, spare and shorn of heart, but the rest of his set strayed into gloomy American Gothic rock, marred slightly by gratuitous Dylan-honking when singing about giving up “ree-lee-jawn.” The crowd – by now grown unwieldy – applauded mightily, bulging the windows.
Hotness: They were running that 1974 drive-in classic Dirty Mary, Crazy Larry last Friday at The Silent, but I spared an hour for the AlterKnit Lounge at The Knitting Factory, squeezing my still-broad frame into yet another posse of rumpled bohos, this time for The Hot Toddies. Four young ladies from Oakland who sweat prettily while romping through tough treacle like “Sugar Daddy” and “Anais Nin vs. the Pirates of Santa Cruz,” they do fresh, engaging and altogether delightful noise-pop with odd, punky lyrics about being horny in Seattle and matters of suchlike pith. A rare treat and I commend their album, Smell the Mitten (out on Asian Man), to your palpitating attention. Your neglectful columnist was spared another type of heat later on as he walked down Melrose toking a blue haze past several carloads of LAPD too bored to bust an obvious lunatic.
The Road to Terra Incognita: Last Saturday night was the venal equinox, but it was far from apparent if this bit of celestial mechanics had to do with why Calvin Harris canceled his DJ set at The Vanguard. The line was still pretty truncated before 11 and the door guard’s conscientious mangling of my black velvet jacket failed to turn up the psychedelic contraband I’d ingest as the evening wore on. Paul Oakenfold had thus far failed to materialize as well, but that had nothing to do with the action on the packed-solid dancefloor either, where the slinky, the sexy and the subtly malevolent did their immemorial courtship thang. I joined them for a span, bounding the velvet rope through one of the venue’s many unauthorized exits before tripping down the Metro hole to downtown. The party tonight was at Space Station 3, an underground pad cunningly secreted in a forgotten cul-de-sac whose roof offered an almost-insultingly gorgeous view of the downtown skyline. The party under my feet had dwindled to about 60 when I arrived sometime after 2 a.m., but the official shutdown time was “whenever.” The place had begun to sway and throb a bit by the time I set for home, taking care to wobble through the jollification now in advanced decay at Smash Labs. Here a different set of sexy folks were quaking to a DJ pulse plugged in at the end of a painted yellow brick road.
Published: 03/25/2009
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