It was during the first of her two-night (and very sold out) stand at the Echoplex. It was during the encore, when she decided to roll out onto the outstretched hands of the rabid crowd in front of her. Only when she rolled over onto her stomach, it was right on top of me (that's what I get for working my way down into the heart of the pit). If I didn’t do something, the star of the show was going to go crashing to the floor. Not sexy. So I put both my hands up to brace her fall. In my right hand I had her arm. Right there in my left hand? Boob city. The inadvertent grab didn’t seem to faze her. She just kind of rolled back towards the stage, where a handler lowered her back down.

The show? Good times. The crowd was well into it. Enough that I watched a couple of heated exchanges almost result in full-on fights down in the pit (one between two girls). DJ Low Budget rocked the crowd with a mix of Baltimore clubbed versions of current hits. But when it was half past M.I.A.’s appointed set time of 10PM, the natives began growing restless. “Bitch, come out now!” wailed a young lady beside me. The same one that kept nailing me with her huge purse, like some prop out of “The Devil Wears Prada.” But down front at an M.I.A. show? Not so much.

When she finally came out to do her thing, all was forgiven. She ran through hits from “Arular” and numbers from the upcoming “Kala,” with “Boyz” and “Bird Flu” getting the biggest response from the partisan crown. I was partial to “Twenty Dollar,” which rides a slowed-down groove lifted from New Order’s “Blue Monday.” But the real winner of the new batch of tunes is “Jimmy,” a Technicolor explosion of Love Unlimited strings and a disco beat that’s on some Donna Summer “I Feel Love” shit. Awesome. Buy the album when it drops 8/21.

It’s Sunday evening. It’s taken this long to fully recuperate and get my head around the proceedings of this past Friday evening. A couple of us Metromixers hit up the Avalon for the Club 82 party. And boy, did we ever. The open V2 vodka bar was routinely abused. We blagged our way into the backstage area, upstairs and eventually ended up onstage. Ima Robot played an appropriately dramatic set. Amir Keenan partied like a rock star, dancing onstage during their set until he was basically another member of the band. Shadowscene (AKA “Hotparazzi”) snapped away furiously. DJ Paparazzi chilled out. Drunk people got, well, drunker. The crowd danced and posed and partied. I was a complete idiot. It was lots of big fun. Hooray for Club 82.

It’s kinda late, I’m kinda tired. I went to see the Rapture at the Mayan tonight. Yeah, uh huh. Whoo! Kids just wanna dance, and the Rapture have got their collective number. At one point I could’ve sworn they were covering P.I.L., but they weren’t. There was a serious Cure moment as well. But most of all, it was about that disco beat and a rumbling bass line, maybe a few faux metal histrionics on the guitar and don’t forget a heavy dose of cowbell giving and saxophone skronking. Just add young, up for it crowd of party people and you’ve got yourself a good time.

The Mayan is one trippy place. I’m convinced some crazy craziness has gone on in that building over the years. You can just feel it. It feels kind of eerie, but kind of hot at the same time. You know what I’m talking about. Check it out when you get a chance. It’s worth the trip. Hey, you’re already hanging out downtown anyway, right? We hear salsa night is redonkulous.

I've always fancied myself something of a photographer. Who doesn't these days? But there’s nothing quite as frustrating as trying to shoot a rock show. The lighting is a bitch, you’re always in someone’s way and most of what comes out are dark blobs of nothingness and the back of some dude’s head. Ugh. I’m sure my point-and-shoot Casio is not helping the cause.

Every once and a while, you get lucky and snap something cool that makes you feel like you know what you’re doing (even if you obviously don’t). This particular snap taken of Tokyo Police Club singer/bassist Dave Monks is one such pic. The show was pretty cool, too. If only the crowd would’ve woken up sometime before the encore… 

Wyder’s Extra Dry Pear Cider – it does a Blipster good. That would be our slogan of the day. Or anything that has to do with robots. Daft Punk obsession much? Yes. I nearly booked a flight to Berkeley to catch them again this Friday night. There were fleeting moments contemplating Red Rocks. Lollapalooza? And then, like a beacon of hope in the cold, cold night: Daft Punk is playing Vegoose in October. Can I get a what what? Halloween weekend. Las Vegas. Daft Punk. Did I forget to mention Iggy and the Stooges playing the immortal “Fun House” album front to back? It is so on. I say L.A just posse up and take over Vegas for the weekend. It’ll be so much fun! Think about it…

...OK, Daft Punk melted my brain on Saturday night. That’s all there is to it. You remember “DeadHeads,” people that would follow the Grateful Dead on tour? I’m officially a member of the Robot Disco Army, and would love nothing more than to hop on the Daft Punk mothership never to return. Well, maybe for holidays and stuff, but you get the picture. That would be the best life ever, just going to the most incredible dance party imaginable night after night after night. God bless Daft Punk and “Viva La France” for reals...

...Yes, other stuff happened too. Last night I tried in vain to see Hot Hot Heat open for Snow Patrol at the Greek . But by the time I climbed the hill and reached my seat (which was next to an extreme hottie named Cindy that looked like a turbo-charged version of Amanda Bynes. Nice work, Keren!), there was no twitchy dance-punk for me...

...Surprise surprise, Snow Patrol didn’t suck. They’re not exactly my cup of Yerba Mate, but I can see why their melodic mini-anthems have such appeal. They’re kind of like an Irish Goo Goo Dolls, each song meticulously crafted for maximum radio impact. But the singer has a strong voice and was charming and really funny between songs. The thing with the dead bug on the set list was classic. You had to be there. I’m officially no longer mad at Snow Patrol. Don’t tell anyone, but I kind of liked it...

...The real fun yesterday was downtown at Little Radio’s Summer Camp . OK, why haven’t I been kicking it down here every Sunday? Color me moronic. I won’t make that mistake again. It’s an easy sell: give them some money, and you get to eat, drink, listen to good bands and watch insanely hot indie girls chilling out in blow-up swimming pools. Sure, they ran out of booze for a minute – s#!t happens. Spindrift and Dead Meadow played ominous, kind of monstrous sets (Dead Meadow were going for Melvins-level volume overload), lots of good people maxin’ and relaxin’—hooray for Summer Camp, people...

...Friday night was real interesting. Sonic Youth, live at the Greek, performing “Daydream Nation” in its entirety. You can’t front on that. Gemini and I made it to our very posh seats (big ups to you, Judy) just in time to see them launch into “Teenage Riot,” one of my all-time favorite songs by anybody. They sounded and looked great, but something was amiss. For one, the sound was way too quiet. So much so that Gemini and I were actually sushed by these dudes next to us. That’s when I realized people that bought “Daydream Nation” when it first came out surrounded us, and that this was a serious deal and kind of religious for a lot of them. Still, you’d think there could be a little more rocking out and less sitting there like lumps drinking beer. I’m just saying. This is Sonic Youth, y’all. The most seminal band this side of Velvet Underground. Most of what's in the indie rock section of your music collection owes them a huge debt. Thankfully, on the other side of us were cute girls getting hammered and rocking out to "’Cross The Breeze" and "Kissability". Hi Mindy, thanks for the margarita. God, I’m such a whore... 

One of the eight greatest dance parties in the history of mankind occurred in Los Angeles, CA, On July 21, 2007. From approximately 11PM until exactly 12:30AM, Daft Punk touched down on the stage of the Los Angeles Sports Arena and proceeded to systematically deconstruct the sold out audience of over 16,000 people into crazed, sweating, blithering, kissing, screaming, smiling, partying, freaking, not-thinking-just-dancing robot disco idiots.  

All hail the robot disco kings. Details at 11.

It was inevitable, I suppose. All work and no play – you know the rest. So tonight, we played. And we played to win. Did it work out that way? Who knows. I barely remember my name at this point. It was all of that organic vodka. Does that mean I’ll have a green hangover tomorrow, er, later on today?

Moving Units kept it angular. DJ A.M. sported the dopest Britney Spears shirt ever. “American Idol” finalist Constantine smiled. Girl Talk sweated like a bastard and had L.A. dancing like goons to Cyndi Lauper and Fleetwood Mac. A man after my own heart. I yelled at a bouncer. I got my way because of it. I tried to start a fight, and almost succeeded. OK, that's not entirely true. I just held up a karmic mirror to some rude d-bag and he didn't like it at all. I did not, however, throw up.

Rob got elegantly wasted. But not before he played the track the Clash made with Futura 2000. Ron Jeremy humored me. Paris Hilton rushed by me. Frankie Chan looked sharp. Ellei took pictures. Joe laughed. Tigarah was sweet. Alexandra was psyched about her trip to Alabama (firearms were involved). I took pictures of cute girls. I traded cards with cuter girls. I’m so effing L.A. right now it hurts. I can’t wait to see Daft Punk on Saturday. Stretch Armstrong played a sweet remix of “Roxanne.” A-Trak was gracious and well dressed. Nicole Scherzinger of the Pussycat Doll was nice (and hot). I met a woman going to New Zealand to compete in the World Bartender Championships. Cristina was on it, and then over it. A drunk couple kept grinding against my back. I was a complete cheese-ball and hung out in the DJ booth during Girl Talk, taking pictures and being so scene. I laughed – a lot. I talked to Steve Levy – a lot. I drank (all together now) – a lot. Alie and Gemini came and went. I heard some amazing gossip. I said "what's up?" to Cisco Adler. I saw some dude that was in the Borat movie. I ran into Shannon's friend that looks just like Vincent Gallo, and took a picture of him making out with a hot blonde. Contrary to appearances, I am not proud. People threw down - hard. 

And then I went home. 

Happy Friday, and can we hurry up with the Bloody Marys already? Dang.  

I know I'm sort of the long-winded type, so I'll keep this one short. There's nothing quite like a Polyphonic Spree show. It's akin to getting run over by an 18-wheeled love truck. All of that feel-good energy eminating from the stage is kind of amazing. Even after a long, crappy day where I found out that one of my dear friends back home was held up at gunpoint by some random thugs, the Spree gave me "the feeling" and made me smile - a lot.

They essentially played two shows in one - the first as the dark-lit, militaristic "Fragile Army" and the second as the robe-wearing, spirit-rocking peace posse we know and love. There were a myriad of emotions, from dark and sad to all-out elation.

The band is brilliant, but for me the power comes from the choir, a gang of women filling the room with so much vocal sound that it can overwhelm you. I swear I would marry every single one of them. 

Lucky for you it's late (the band played for well over two hours, thank you very much) and I'm running out of steam, because I could go on about this one all day. But I will say that their version of Nirvana's "Lithium" blew the roof off the place. And big props to Tim DeLaughter for coming offstage and hanging with the fans long after the show ended. 

You'll probably hear more about it later though. In the meantime, take care of yourselves and each other. Ultimately, it's all we've really got. 

“Dude, people are going to get tired of reading about how you ran into Mark and Cara and stood around talking s#!t.”

Right you are, Mr. Willett. Thanks to the generosity of my new super-friend Scott McDonald, we’re in the thick of the overwhelming crush of humanity wedged inside Little Radio to see John Vanderslice and Spoon, and it’s quite the sight to behold.

For one, the Los Angeles Cute Girl Army is out in full force. I mean, this is redonkulous, as Alie would say. I haven’t seen this many fine ladies in one place since I don’t even know when. Spoon’s Britt Daniel is onstage sweating it out admirably, running through a litany of tunes from his extensive catalog. Everyone else is sweating too, because it’s hot – really hot. It's kind of cool to hear the crowd cheer for "The Underdog" because they've heard it on the radio (nice work, Indie 103 and KCRW). I spy Michael “Gemini” Bauer pushing his way out of the serious scrum in front of the stage for some air. The open Dewar’s bar is on jam, with the hot tattooed bartenders somehow staying cool and friendly in spite of the barrage of dollar bills looking for drinks (hey Dewar’s people – try using Vernor’s ginger ale as a mixer next time. Trust me on this one.). There’s Greg from Autolux. There’s Daniel Gill, super-publicist to the stars. There’s Graham MacRae, holding it down at Warner Bros and an accomplished singer-songwriter in his own right. Pretty women, free booze, good friends – what’s not to love? No s#!t-talking here – this is awesome!

The party keeps going even after Spoon’s admittedly sweet set (which ended on a tight rendition of “I Summon You”). I’m hanging outside with Graham, Daniel and John Vanderslice, who is possibly the nicest guy in the world. Seriously. Make sure to check him out the next time he plays Los Angeles. I’ll keep you posted. He’s kind enough to take us backstage for some great conversation and more beer. Everyone’s just kicking it, no attitudes or pretensions. Britt Daniel is happy to pose for a picture. Lots more cute ladies, the kind that smile back. We love them. That’s when Graham’s friend John reminds me to come check out Little Radio’s Summer Camp party. “Just imagine all of these same girls, only in their bikinis. It’s amazing.”

Sold American, as my dad would say.

God bless Little Radio, making L.A. just that much cooler – and hotter.  

It’s Friday night, and I’m all set for a solid disco nap before heading over to Spaceland to catch the Blitzen Trapper show when a call comes in on the hotline from HQ. I’m needed at the Natural History Museum, stat. To celebrate the release of the Metromix-approved new Interpol album "Our Love to Admire" (the cover art of which was photographed at the museum), singer Paul Banks and drummer Sam Fogarino are DJing in the North American habitats hall. Oh, this I have got to see.

My last excursion to the NHM for something “cultural” resulted in me getting turned away from the Autolux gig there due to the overwhelming amount of people that showed up. I brace myself for a full-contact experience. But when I arrive, things are surprisingly sedate. There’s not even a line to get in. Hmmmm.

I wander inside to find a most colorful mix of the KROQ nation, industry types and the occasional scenester, like Har Mar Superstar. In the Grand Foyer, there are two open bars set up, not nearly enough to quench L.A.’s insatiable thirst. The line-up to the bars is almost comical, resulting in two concentric circles going around the huge dinosaur in the center of the room, which looks like it’s laughing at the absurdity of the situation. Being the practical sort, when I do get to the front I make sure to secure two drinks.

But it’s all so… civilized. I run into my friends Mark and Cara, and they’re already planning to bolt and hit Spaceland. Oh man, this is not looking good.

I wander into the hall where Paul and Sam will be spinning to find a crush around the DJ area as intense as any show. It seems as though every single person is sporting a camera. "Our Love to Admire" is playing softly over the sond system. The DJ set-up is on the floor, so visibility is kind of dicey (yes, I realize it's kind of weird that people look at DJs).

Around 10:30 p.m., Fogarino dressed in the Interpol uniform of red, black and dapper, steps to the decks to a huge cheer from the crowd. He starts playing dark post-punk stuff. His second track is TV on the Radio’s “Satellite.” Soon Banks, looking alarmingly casual underneath a baseball cap, steps up next to him amidst hysterical squealing from a lot of the ladies. He immediately switches it up and starts dropping booming New York hip-hip, which actually gets the crowd moving. The smash up front to get good pictures (which seemed to be the overwhelming priority of the audience) starts to thin out a little. Sam and Paul take turns playing records. The band's road-tested party DJ, bassist Carlos D, is nowhere in sight. Paul takes his hat off, and when the girls start squealing again he puts it back on. And that’s pretty much how it went. I snap a few more pictures of my own.

I do a couple of laps around the museum, checking out the exhibits when I spy my celebrity crush Busy Phillips looking amazing in little shorts. I’m not nearly drunk enough to talk to her, plus she’s with a guy sporting a massive beard. I don’t mess with beards, man.

The line at the bar is still a mess though, and I’m starting to feel my missed disco nap. It’s too late to catch Blitzen Trapper. Sigh. It’s time to call it. Museums are the new night clubs, and I'm cool with that. 

While the Klaxons were doing their best to live up to the hype at the El Rey the other night (and doing a formidable job), we ran into all sorts of Los Angeles characters making the scene. There was Rob Simas and the lovely Cristina Fisher from BPM magazine hanging out, and DJ duo Mid-City West, Josh and Spencer. But when man about town Mark Hunter, AKA star photog Cobrasnake came our way to chat up style ed Caroline Ryder, I couldn’t resist trying my hand at taking a shot. The next Terry Richardson I am not. Well, maybe with a better camera and less vodka…

In a city like Los Angeles, there's something particularly special about having a hot concert venue within walking distance. Which is why I'm always eager to catch a show at the El Rey , which is smack in the middle of my ’hood. So when the Rey hosts one of my favorite new bands like the Klaxons, it’s party time around Blipster HQ.

Stopping at the Rite-Aid up the block from the venue, I was enjoying a Monster energy drink and a bag of trail mix when I noticed a posse of skinny-legged boys and pretty girls coming up the street. As they got closer, I soon realized it was the Klaxons and their sizable entourage. Since the band’s New York-based publicist Alexandra was kind enough to put me on the list and in town for the show, I decided to introduce myself. I sidled up to Klaxons guitarist Jamie Reynolds to ask him which female was Alex. He eyed me suspiciously before pointing her out: “The blonde one.”

The statuesque blonde leading the pack was indeed my PR friend. We exchanged pleasantries and she took the dudes inside to get ready to play.

Inside, Portland band Fist Fite was finishing up their opening set. A feisty girl singer/keyboard player led the interestingly discordant no-wave trio. She told jokes about dolphins and t-shirts. I guess they’re friends with the Klaxons and tour Europe with them occasionally.

As the Klaxons 10 p.m. show time rolled around, the sold out El Rey was at full boil. The evening’s fashion statement was stripes. They were so predominant you’d have thought someone sent out a memo. Enough that Metromix style goddess Caroline Ryder set off to take some pictures.

The band took the stage and launched straight into “The Bouncer” and “Atlantis to Interzone” back to back, which of course had the kids down front pogoing like mad. Keyboard player and anti-“nu-raver” James Righton was sporting a very cool Justice t-shirt that I totally want.

Between songs, they kept going on about how much they love Los Angeles. Towards the end of the show Reynolds announced that the band would be moving to L.A. to record their next album. As they bid farewell for the night, he promised that the Klaxons would be playing another show in town in September, so if you missed them last night, fret not. They'll be back sooner than you think. Let’s just hope all of the sunshine and pretty girls don’t dilute their rough and tumble sound. Stay hard, Klaxons!


 

It was like Christmas in the summertime. Arcade Fire and LCD Soundsystem playing together at the Hollywood Bowl. Oh my. This is going to be seriously fun.

I like the Arcade Fire, but pour moi this one's all about James Murphy and the gang cranking up the disco machine. It's one of those shows that had me all geeked-out in front of my computer at precisely 9:59 a.m. the morning tickets went on sale. Good times.

I've been hot on Murphy's trail for a while now. I saw one of LCD Soundsystem's first shows in Miami during the Winter Music Conference a few years back. They were opening for the Rapture, just fresh from the explosion that was "House of Jealous Lovers." Both bands brought it, but there was something special about LCD Soundsystem that night.

The last time he brought the band through Los Angeles, LCD followed a triumphant Coachella set with a sold out three-night stand at the El Rey. I randomly bought a ticket for the middle night. This would turn out to be a very good move on my part.

The show was what’s becoming for LCD customarily awesome. For me, the highpoint was when they tore through a cover version of Paperclip People's "Throw." Loooong story there, but it's a classic Detroit techno tune produced by Carl Craig. The band covers it faithfully, and on that night, they straight killed it.

So imagine my excitement with KCRW's super-fun Rachel Reynolds invited me down to the studios to watch LCD record a session for "Morning Becomes Eclectic."

I got there just in time to see the band launch into "Time to Get Away." It is one thing to hear the band play at a show — seeing them do it in a small radio studio is another thing entirely. The intricacies of the songs open up like mid-period Talking Heads. Murphy is hilarious between songs. He even called out the Chemical Brothers for "stealing" two Grammys from them. Classic. 

After the show, he was gracious enough to chat. He pointed out that he had the t-shirt I was wearing from Chicago’s Life During Wartime dance parties. I complimented him on his version of “Throw.”

“Oh, you must’ve gone to the middle night. That was the only night we did that song.”

And that’s why it was a good thing I got tickets for the middle show.


The picture above is one that I took at the LCD Soundsystem show at the El Rey.

The picture below is one that I took of James Murphy(R) with KCRW DJ/producer Raul Campos

There's enough caffeine coursing through my veins to induce seizures in a Russian race horse. I've been staring at the same picture of Uffie for so long my sleep-deprived mind is starting to believe that she's really here (I wish). No one has openly cried - yet (although I did just experience a dazzling display of dry heaving in the parking lot. Rawk!). 

In 18 hours, we officially give birth to this Rosemary's Baby. Which is why things are getting particularly brutal at Metromix LA HQ, and it's starting to show. But that's all part of the fun, right? Right? OK, be that way. 

I'm supposed to be listening to the new Interpol album to review for this Tuesday (it's much better than the haters would have you believe, btw), but I can't stop scrolling through the classic rock bootlegs I've been downloading from an amazing new site I found the other day. Right now a Pretenders concert from 1980 (featuring the original line-up), one by the Cars from 1979 and a gig by Cheap Trick recorded in my hometown of Deeee-troit in 1978 are stuck in permanent rotation. As Greg Kihn once sang, "They just don't write them like that anymore."

I did manage to sneak out for a little fun last night, catching the Decemberists' tremendous gig playing with the LA Philharmonic at the Hollywood Bowl . Their opening acts? Band of Horses and Andrew Bird. Pretty sweet, yes? More about the show later - promise. Big thanks and lots of love to sweethearts Laura Cohen and Lisa Bellamore for facilitating this all-too-brief respite from the madness. 

In the meantime, I'm desperately clutching to what little sanity is left upstairs. We'll see how it goes. Details at 11...

It’s approximately 36 hours before this thing goes all the way live. “Situation Critical,” as Platinum Blonde once said (and if you’re not up on Platinum Blonde, let’s just say they were Canada’s answer to Duran Duran back in the ’80s, and their first two albums are the kinds of guilty pleasures that in a singular, inimitable way are sort of amazing). My nervous system is fried from too many Extreme Mocha Lights from the Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf across the way (hi Alie). It’s late and I can’t sleep. What’s a boy to do? Oh right, cozy up to a nice pile of vintage vinyl.

Which is where I unearthed this amazing feat of sonic dexterity, the second album from the Cars, “Candy-O.”  Originally released in 1979(!), this album puts 99.9% of these current skinny-legged indie bands trying so desperately to make you dance with their angular guitars and discofied beats to shame. The Strokes even tried to write a Cars song with “12:51.” These dudes (from Boston, people) were waaaaaay ahead of their time, like light years. Not only were they quirky as all get out, but also wrote catchy songs that slaughtered FM radio and they rocked – hard. Hard enough that stoners cruising the strip in T-topped Cameros would blast singles like “Let’s Go” and the title track with pride.

So if you’re feeling particularly neon and maybe a little elegantly wasted, and your boy snatched your Klaxons EP (again), just nab yourself a copy of “Candy-O.” Blast this in front of Cinespace on a Tuesday night and all the cool girls will want you to take them for a spin. 

"You go dancing in the dim lit club/some pressure cooker crawls up on his knees/flashing sensation like a one on one/stomping around in the jitterbug breeze/oo how you shake me up and down/when we hit the nightspots on the town" — "Nightspots"