I’m currently in the process of writing up a post about my short stint in Palm Springs, CA earlier this month, which will be followed by an in-depth look at my Bosch500 trip, from which I just returned home. In the interim, I located this piece I wrote in 2011 about Fuck Yeah Fest: the headliners that year were the Descendents and Death From Above 1979, and took place at the LA State Historic Park. The festival which was started by Sean Carlson in Echo Park in 2004 has since moved to the Los Angeles Sports Arena and Exposition Park. This piece was originally included in my senior thesis, “Small Things” (2014), and touches on several locations within Los Angeles where music continues to thrive; see also: the Smell, the Fonda Theatre, et al.

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Los Angeles, FYF Fest — 09.03.2011

The Blue Unicorn

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The baby blue unicorn etched on the underside of my wrist shoots me daggers as I drag myself from bed and throw myself together, anticipating Shirae’s early arrival that never comes.  Debauchery in the form of a stamp allows me to recall last night for what it was: bloody toes, crowd-surfing turned face-planting, mysterious conversations sent from a cell phone abductor, vodka shots swigged from a water bottle in the alleyway behind the Smell, and internal bruises and contusions traced with wobbly fingers hours later, wondering when the Hell any of us had beckoned for our mothers among all of it.  Friday was a series of misbegotten events that began and ended with Lily muttering from the back seat in her concussion-induced state, Amanda doesn’t know how to fucking drive.  The fact is I’m the one without the license; Amanda’s the one without the sense of direction.  Sometimes the combination proved problematic, but many times meant welcomed, albeit unexpected pit stops in Malibu at one o’clock in the morning.

Saturday is a different story.  Round two.  Touche Amore, Dangers and Joyce Manor are now just unicorn-shaped flashes of Friday’s past.  Anna’s spooning stale tortilla chips into her mouth with her legs folded under her when Shirae scrapes the bottom of her bowl of soup with a metal spoon and tells us that she no longer feels up to going to FYF Fest.  It’s the morning of and I’m speechless. She has the car; we have been fucked.  As it turns out, scoring an extra ticket to FYF Fest proves to be both a blessing and a curse.  The thought is fleeting, but in the moment I cannot help but think, Fuck No Fest.

In the duration of an hour and a half, the game plan is changed completely.  Daniel joins Anna and I, becoming our third musketeer and designated driver for the day.  He doesn’t have a driver’s license either, but does have a fully functioning car.  He chances the freeway, manages to cart all three of us to Downtown LA, Morrissey’s sonorous voice narrating the traffic we hit along the way.

It’s already one in the afternoon by the time we get to the LA State Historic Park.  We waste $2 on a parking meter with a one-hour limit, and end up spending another twenty minutes wading through pedestrian traffic and the hilly residential neighborhoods of Chinatown.  We retreat two miles downhill before making our way through the Metrolink depot where ticket scalpers stand in droves, escaping the harsh heat of the early September climate.

“Ticket!  Ticket!  Water!  Water!”  They enunciate, opening red and white coolers filled with refreshments buried beneath fragments of melted ice.  We walk on.

I’m exhausted before we even make it inside the music and arts festival.  I’m pained from the night before, and the night before that, and the week before that.  But I can pull through.  If I’ve learned anything since April, it’s that FYF Fest is a cake walk compared to Coachella.   What concerns me is how Anna and Daniel will perceive FYF Fest—neither of them has ever attended a music festival of any kind. Would they despise the crowd of 25,000 people, the overpriced foodstuffs, the static drawl of music played in an outdoor, day-time setting?  Little certain, we trudge through the police blockaded street, trailing past the blue and white outhouses with streamline precision.

The lot of us frolics through the dirt-patched line corrals, hop-scotching over empty bottles of Jack Daniel’s, crunched cans of raspberry-flavored Four Loko, and exploded tubes of sunblock.  After flashing our tickets and vendor wristbands, we beeline it to the Leonardo stage, where we catch the tail-end of the Head & the Heart’s formal goodbye to summer.  The combination of sun and set makes me perspire.

From then on, it’s Ty Segall and Japandroids and two-man outfits playing rowdy, twangy garage punk on the Michelangelo stage where mulch sits in place of grass.  It is all dirt and mud, all throughout the plot of land.  Festival veterans tramp about with brightly colored bandanas pulled taut over their mouths for this reason.  They know the drill—that the dirt will really kick up come nightfall; that the mix of filth and pungent air will cling to the nostrils and skin of sweat-sheened bodies.

For some reason, I’m on barricade for The Smith Westerns’ set, standing beside the step-brother of Cold War Kids’ front man.  To my left, a teenage male acts a chump, an ape mask draped over his skull.  Both appear enraptured by the smooth, quelling reverberation of guitar paired with eager, yet catchy bass lines.  The Smith Westerns prove too quiet for me, bridging too heavily in the pop stratosphere, their vocals too sporadic and hush-hush soft.  Anna and Daniel are taken by jet-lag-beleaguered Cults, who open their set with the Twin Peaks theme song.  Their performance is a mix of bondage, schoolgirl innocence, and lo-fi music box lullabies.

We wander through a group of thirty-some people huddled around a water spicket, slink past the fenced-in beer garden where we are confronted by the combined scents of mildew, dirt, ready-made pizza from the fast food trucks, urine mixed with UV Blue vodka, body odor, spilled beer, fog machine, and cheap marijuana.  It’s here that you run into guys who look at you like you’ve never met (though you definitely have), and you thinking, Thank God I chopped off my hair and dyed it purple.  You can’t afford food or a cup of $6 watered down lemonade, so you swash Listerine, and let the bright green liquid scorch your wounds because it proves to be more rewarding than leaving FYF Fest with an empty wallet.

“I just want popcorn, dammit!” Anna routinely repeats throughout the day.  A bag of popcorn lands at our feet during Descendents’ set, but we’re too busy pushing our way into the pit to rip into the snack food we spent a large portion of the day craving.  We toss dirt-encrusted smiles to each other before being swallowed by the swirling sea of rambunctious bodies.

We’re crushed against the chain-link fence, our legs crunched beneath us, trading looks between Guided By Voices’ gravelly, 80’s-throwback performance and the Los Angeles skyline illuminated by a downcast sun.  It dawns on us then that we’re sitting in the heartland of LA, buried in the gullet of that shady city sprawl, absorbing not only the dewy chill of the summer night, but the vivid incantation of live music.  This is all I really want and need in life.

Death From Above 1979 breaks into an erratic, frenzied set, tearing into heavy metal inspired dance-punk that makes me forget about this morning and last week and six months ago.  The recently reunited duo is a strict diet of bass and drums—loud, ferocious and cosmic.  It doesn’t ever cross your mind that the delicate flesh of your heel will be torn off by the stomping of a beer-toting male, but it happens nonetheless. We leave before their set is over, Anna wrapping napkins around my ankle where blood crusts in narrow streams.  I carry a handful of ice, dragging my ankle behind me, leaving a little shard of me somewhere in the pit that I’ll take away as souvenir the next time around.  A scar and a sway; we stray back to the car Daniel parked two miles uphill in residential Chinatown, appreciating the fact that all good stories conclude with blood and symbols.

Sunday is a different story. It’s round three and I’m (more than) slightly delirious. I toss the ice pack and prepare for Death From Above 1979’s stint at the Music Box, praying for what will be my third wind. It beats me over the head and by Monday, I am dead.

LAX to LAS — 02.03.16-02.04.16

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Just before departing for Orlando earlier this month, I decided last minute – on a Sunday, for arrival the following Wednesday – to jet to Las Vegas. Six days before heading out to Florida. That was the day that I caught the news that the last surviving Vegas showgirl revue, – Jubilee! – and the #1 attraction on my list of Vegas to-dos, was ending its 35 year run on February 11.

I didn’t think twice about it. The doors were sputtering on my last chance to experience the glitz, glam, glitter of musical domo Donn Arden’s final production, and I wasn’t going to miss out if I could help it. Wednesday was the only day that made sense. It would be a quick turn-around: I’d fly in on Wednesday, fly out on Thursday in time to make it back to work. Do-able.

I could spend a night in Las Vegas by myself. Sure.

With the logistics figured out, I proceeded to purchase an early a.m. flight out of LAX on Spirit. I arranged a Super Shuttle to take me to the airport. I booked a room at the Rio All-Suites, which provides complimentary shuttle service to and from the Strip – however intermittent. And then I purchased my ticket to the Wednesday 7:30 p.m. performance of Jubilee!, and the backstage tour which preceded it.

The only thing I wasn’t prepared for was for my camera to break. An oversight: a casualty of over-preparedness. Luckily phones have cameras nowadays.

The thing about going to Vegas during the “off season” (or, when the pools are drained and undergoing maintenance) on a weekday, is that the only ones really out and about are those in for a World of Concrete convention, and the locals. Not a deal breaker, because it’s cold anyway. Really cold. And it’s kind of nice not having to vie for the casino server’s attention when ordering gin and tonic after gin and tonic.

After some minor, sleep-deprived confusion about the Vegas busing system, I was able to get to the transportation center and hop on the Deuce, the bus service that shoots down the Strip to the Fremont Street Experience in Downtown. I got off at the Venetian and wandered the palatial marbled casino until I eventually found the elevator that takes you up to the manicured topiary-lined (albeit empty) pool, and to the casual French eatery, Bouchon.

Surprisingly, I was able to be seated immediately: this feeling of surprise would eventually dissipate as the day wore on, and restaurant after restaurant was able to seat me without a reservation. Being a party of one does have its perks.

I think I may have a gone a smidge overboard on breakfast — I’m not even a buffet person normally, and I usually go for the lighter fare. On this occasion, however, not so. I ordered their handmade cinnamon doughnuts complete with fresh strawberry jam and Nutella, followed by the Croque Madame, and a glass of champagne with an edible Hibiscus flower. The doughnuts were perfectly crisp and served right after they were made, so they were still incredibly warm and moist and delicious. The Croque Madame itself was a piece of art – I didn’t even want to eat it because of how sophisticated it looked. But the desire to taste it eventually overcame its aesthetic allure, and it was heavenly. And just look at that mountain of perfectly cooked fries! I certainly enjoyed eating them cold out of the take-out box in the bathtub later that evening.

After napping for a couple hours, I moseyed on over to Bally’s to scope out the Jubilee! Theater. There it was, in dazzling lights: my foray highlighted by syncopated light strobes and curvaceous script.

I played a couple of virtual poker hands, and ordered a few drinks before heading in to the backstage tour of the soon-to-be-vestige-of-Vegas-past. We were greeted by none other than a glittering, top hat-bedecked, leggy soon-to-be-Vegas-lore showgirl. For having only been a part of Jubilee! for close to four years, she was extremely knowledgeable about the show, articulate as well as animated, and able to answer just about any question thrown her way: what I now believe to be just a few of the trademarks of a Las Vegas showgirl.

We stood on the stage, where twice a night, Saturday through Thursday, eighty-five dancers waltzed down stairs in elaborate Swarovski-adorned livery and feathered headpieces weighing up to 25-pounds, retelling the sinking of the Titanic and the story of Samson and Delilah through choreography, costuming, and set design. Believe it or not, the Jubilee! stage is considered one of the largest in the world, measuring wall to wall at nearly half the size of an American football field.

She then led us downstairs where we were able to peak in to the wig room, the dressing rooms, and the feather room and closet, where backpacks, hats, and headwear adorned with plumage spanning up to two feet tall – and wide as angel wings in volume – are housed and maintained by a crew of 18 people. This same crew is responsible for the 1,000 costumes worn during the show; they do everything from repainting scuffed shoes and repairing soles, to shining Swarovski crystals, to resewing fishnet stockings, of which every girl goes through about 100 in a year.

Headpieces and costumes too big and ornate to be put on downstairs in the dressing rooms amid the “organized chaos” of costume changes and cues are stored upstairs, and hang overhead on the sides of the stage, sheathed in curtains to shield the garments from the stage lights. They are brought down for the performers between cues, like clockwork, every night.

We also were able to see some of the iconic set pieces, stored in a manner that both defied logic and yet made sense to the stage technicians: our guide reiterated that “organized chaos” was the lifeblood of Jubilee! The 40 foot long replica of the Titanic sat below the stage on a hydraulic chassis which lifted the ship up to 45 degrees and that slid onto the stage lift; during the show, the combination of elevator and chassis made it look as if the Titanic were really sinking. There were also many pieces of the finale “cake” staircase arranged around miscellaneous set pieces and backdrops.

It was a really great experience to be able to learn about the history of Vegas’s final showgirl show from the perspective of a woman who twice nightly performed in it. Actually being able to walk in her proverbial shoes as we trekked up and down the (off-stage) stairs made it feel as if my 5’2 self ever had the chance of dancing in a revue that’s minimum height is 5’8. My only wish on this particular outing was to lust after the glamour and opulence of the marabou head pieces, embellished braziers, elbow-length gloves, $6,000 hand-sequined gowns, and feather fans; I’m still swooning nearly a month later.

After the tour, there was a little time to kill before the performance. I had a quick cocktail in the casino before making my way across the street to Caesar’s Palace, where I was able to grab a seat right away at Bobby Flay’s Mesa Grill for an early dinner. I ordered the most delectable Yucatan chicken skewers, served with crushed peanuts and smoked chile barbeque sauce, pickled red onions, and mint with a side of flour tortillas. I also ordered a side of Anaheim chile relleno, a perfectly breaded pepper stuffed with black beans, rice, and Monterey Jack cheese. An expertly seasoned meal fit for an evening that would be spent at the theater, in the casino, and at the bar.

Even with all the build-up from the afternoon tour, Jubilee! still far exceeded my expectations. Every dance was beautifully choreographed – even those employing newer, hipper tunes that were adopted during the 2014 update. The lighting was absolutely breathtaking, illuminating every bejeweled costume and highlighting the features of every dancer’s face. The grand finale, complete with gilded starburst and rounded, art deco “cake” staircase was the perfect send-off: I would be taking off on a plane the next morning having fulfilled my desire to experience vintage Vegas, abandoning the desert and its empty pools and its few remnants of the past by consequently blowing back into Orange County.

Following being absolutely wow-ed, I headed over to Giada at the Cromwell, Giada De Laurentiis’ happening Italian restaurant.

I grabbed a drink there and enjoyed the atmosphere at the bar – you know, watching ‘Diners, Drive-ins, and Dives’ an arm’s reach away from drinks on tap.

Pictured above is the signature G cocktail – a combination of Kappa Pisco, pineapple simple syrup, fresh lime, homemade apricot preserves, egg white and Angostura bitters. It was very light and refreshing, not too sweet, but frothy and delicious: pretty much Giada De Laurentiis in drink form.

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No way, no how was I intending to go gluttonous on this trip, but somehow, I did. Warm from my G cocktail, I went across the street to Serendipity 3 outside of Caesar’s Palace. I was seated quickly, and I scanned through the menu, honing in on the item I saw Duff Goldman chow down on in an episode of “Guilty Pleasures”: the Party Like it’s Your Birthday Cake.

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At 16 layers alternating between confetti-spiked white cake, Neapolitan ice cream flavors, and buttercream frosting, it is the end-all and be-all of decadence. I wouldn’t finish it in one sitting, but I’d take the rest to-go (that’s the portion I didn’t finish), and walk off the shame of indulgent eating by visiting the Flamingo habitat across the street at the aptly named Flamingo. Of course, I’d finish the rest over a flute of champagne while lying in bed in the hotel room later that night.This would soon be followed by a warm water bubble bath curated by a Lush Pink Flamingo cocktail-inspired bubble bar, a rosewood and ylang ylang scented flamingo on a stick that when crumbled under the spigot, turned the water a frothy, aromatic bubblegum pink.

Even when I did have to head home the next morning, back to California and the heyday-mayday of work and pre-vacation ~stress~, I could sigh in acknowledgement that I successfully had a getaway before the getaway, in which I merely relaxed and reveled in the glamour, leisure, and pleasure of travel.