The Silver Lake Jubilee - Day 1 - Part 1 - Saturday May 22, 2010

Barely dodging the lurching homunculus who'd been whispering his erotic intentions into my ear for the entire ride, I slipped out of the closing bus door. "You liar!" the half-bright cretin shouted at me through the narrowly cracked window. "You said you were going to get off with me at the end of the line!" I absently thumbed my nose as the bus pulled away down Sunset. I could still see his scabby gums and smell his gangrenous breath.

The violent noon sun gnawed at my shrieking bitch of a hangover. I tossed the day's third can of Bud aside, then threw a crumpled five at the beady-eyed geek manning the Silver Lake Jubilee's admissions table. "Sir!" he called after me. "Your teecket!"

I paid him no heed, as I'd spotted Mouse from Classical Geek Theatre, standing catatonic outside the TastyMeat food truck. He wore a pinstriped three-piece suit. His lapel sported an Indianapolis Colts pin and a drop of greenish drool. He'd been hitting the ibogaine again, and hard. I slapped him across the head.

"Get with it, man! Ye gods! It's only noon!"

His lips moved but nothing else. "Who's 'at?"

"It's me! It's L.G.! Snap out of it!"

"Here," he mumbled. "Take this." He handed me a pill, wasting no movement. It looked like a Xanax.

"Xanax, man? That's the last thing I need. Have you got something with a little speed to it?"

"It's not Xanax."

"I know a Xanax when I see one...."

"It's not Xanax." He finally looked at me. There shone a glint of Nixonian wickedness in his otherwise dead eyes.

I took the pill.

*

Just kidding! Psyche! Gotcha!

You didn't really think I was going to do some tired-ass, played-out "The Silver Lake Jubilee Is Decadent And Depraved" Hunter S. Thompson homaaaage, did you? I hope you know me better than that.

Well, to be honest, I wouldn't mind writing such a piece. It sounds fun. But, as I think I demonstrated above, I'm barely able to maintain my own style, much less imitate someone else's for an entire review.

So I guess I'll just tell you about the very first Silver Lake Jubilee in my own way. There will be fewer drugs in this version (though there will be some!). But it's all I got.

Let me begin by saying that, knowing myself, I was prepared for this weekend to be a super-duper-mega disaster.

Are you the type of person who feels aggrieved when you find yourself looking forward to something, because you know it's going to interfere with your routine?

I am.

When you see an advertisement for an inexpensive street festival with all sorts of yummy food and seventy-five percent of your favorite local bands performing, is your first reaction, "Goddamn it all to fuck, do I really have to go to this?"

Mine is.

Do you feel unbearable anxiety when you're faced with anything that conflicts with your long-standing weekend plans--which are to do the same old shit that you always do?

I do.

But, somehow, I went to the Jubilee anyway. I told myself that it was my responsibility as a blogger. This would be a big moment for The 704, the weekend when I cast off all my long-winded, idiosyncratic self-indulgence, and covered an important L.A. music event professionally. I'd plan out my schedule, highlighting set times, designating time periods for lunch and dinner. I'd favor seeing bands I'd never seen before over bands I'd already seen and written about at length. I'd even take notes!

These lofty plans were officially null and void by 1:40 on Saturday afternoon. Things were already running behind schedule, and the amount of direct sunlight I was withstanding surely violated the Geneva Conventions. Professionalism schmrofessionalism. Who had the energy?

I'd had my lunch right on time, but once it came down to deciding between Spirit Vine (never seen before; heard good things) and Big Whup (seen twice; going to see again next week; totally adore), I opted for sitting under the Sunset bridge and collecting myself.

Eventually Big Whup started up on the adjacent stage, so I walked on over. It was early, so the crowd was sparse and curiously unresponsive. But the band played a tight set. Even a nearby cop seemed to be into it (and he was the last cop you'd expect to be into it; he looked to me like the type of guy who mourned Daryl Gates deeply and sincerely, but what do I know?).

I'm glad inertia led me to Big Whup's set. Their self-described "Pegasus-pop" is damn near perfect (and the "Whoo!" at the :43 mark of the song "Yaaaay" is currently my favorite thing in the world; make a note of it). It's hugely fun, mind-bendingly sophisticated, and it made the odious sunlight feel like a blessing. The two singers--Drew Denny and Geoff Geis--have such weirdly complementary voices, and this came through with an unexpected clarity. Geis's voice is very much of the earth, while Denny's seems to engulf the song from some ecstatic place in the heavens. And Denny's 50/50 split between bashfulness and joyous excitement proved to be one of the more authentic appreciations of what was happening that I saw all weekend. She made playing music outside on a sunny, breezy spring afternoon look like the most fun activity in God's creation. It probably is.

Invigorated, I walked down to see if I could catch Spirit Vine. I could indeed. They had just started.

I was prepared to love it, but it didn't deliver. While the band is inordinately charismatic, with an undeniably engaging singer who'll be hard to forget, I found their big, flashy, bluesy sound to border on the ponderous. It was heavy and hard to digest. It tasted like musical garlic fries.

I went for a walk.

Tomorrow: An old friend in a pink skirt returns; I meet the real Mouse, who totally isn't on drugs as far as I know; I get bored; I get less bored; my mind is blown twice; the long journey home.