While there's still an air of "amateur night" about it, New Year's Eve will always maintain that mythical status as the ultimate evening out of the year. What will you wear? Where will you go? And most importantly, who will you be with when you get there?

Most of young L.A. seems to be leaning towards the Metromix-sponsored Hard New Year’s Eve, and with good reason. It should be massive. I wonder how many will be surprised to discover that headliners Justice are DJing and not playing a live set? I suspect most will be too partied up to care and/or notice.  

With a multitude more similarly themed end-of-the-year blowouts happening around town, it’s easy to miss a really, really cool NYE show happening at the Echoplex starring reggae legend Sister Nancy (pictured). Even if you don’t know her by name, you probably know her signature song, “Bam Bam.” This Dub Club event also features Brooklyn’s red-hot Ranking Joe on the bill.

While I’m all for the big rah-rah party times of Hard, Giant Maximus, etc., the simple, feel-good charms of Sister Nancy and the Dub Club crew sounds like the perfect way to roll out of 2007 and into the first day of the rest of your life, you know? Keep it irie in the New Year, y’all!

—Scott T. Sterling 

   

I'm currenty in the woods in a tiny town called Whitehall (population: my parents).

My phone—let's call her "Eunice"—decided to take a dip in a sink of soapy water. While I'm happy she has an interest in aquatic athletics, I'm now concerned for her mortality.

I grabbed Eunice of of the sink, took out her battery and administered an emergency blowdry. Then I set her atop my parents' wood stove to dry her electronic organs, and she flickered to life long enough to Bluetooth her brain (and you assorted comrades' numbers) onto my Mac.  

But (sob) she's slipped into darkness again. I think she needs a battery transplant, or just time to recover. If you're texting me, or wondering why I don't call back, please know that little Eunice, my fuschia phone, my portal to communicating, is very sick right now. Do Cwithmath miracles exist?

We'll see.

 

(Eunice and I, in better times.)

 Happy holidays from the wilderness,

-A hopeful Miss Alie Ward

 

 

PS- Not in the wilderness? Enjoy some redonkulousness this week. Oh, and get ready for New Year's.

 

 

I know, records are just so 20th Century. But for some of us, there's nothing quite as awesome as a perfect piece of fresh vinyl, like the sweet Mark Ronson remix of Bob Dylan's "Most Likely You’ll Go Your Way (And I’ll Go Mine)”  that I picked up on 45 at Amoeba Music last week.

So I'm sad to report that the Virgin Megastore on the Sunset Strip is closing at the end of January '08. The same Virgin shop that hosted in-stores from the likes of Jennifer Lopez, Courtney Love and live sets by Pete Yorn and Annie. It's also where I found my beloved Prince "Purple Rain" t-shirt. But in a world where paying for music is an increasingly antiquated idea, it's depressingly predictable. 

"After protracted discussions with the landlord, we were left with no choice given the high rental levels required for any sort of renewal of the lease,” is how Virgin Sr. Music Product Manager Andrew Gyger explained the closing in a message to distributors (Virgin is also closing it's famous NYC location in Manhattan's Union Square) and reported in the industry trade mag "Hits."

While I'm always bummed to see a music store shut down, I do love a good close-out sale. I'll be the one raiding the vinyl room and t-shirt racks for those last-minute deals that can't be beat. Sigh. Another one bites the dust...

—Scott T. Sterling

Yes, that's Lindsay Lohan kicking it with the man L.A. loves and/or loves to hate. But we're not talking about her today (unless you want to get into director Quentin Tarantino recently proclaiming his love for her...work).

Do you ever wonder what a DJ does when he really, really has to go to the bathroom in the middle of a set? This video from a party in Montreal answers that question more graphically than you probably ever wanted to know. Found on the "Drunken Stepfather" website (be careful, as the site is the very definition of NSFW--that's "not safe for work," in case you're new to the internets), this clip finds our pal Stevie making like your little brother on a long road trip when the call of nature starts screaming and dad refuses to pull over. Somebody tell Fergie (and the most unfortunate busboy ever stuck with cleaning that nastiness up) the news. See if Steve can hold his water when he steps to the decks as part of the massive (and Metromix-approved) Hard NYE party in downtown L.A. With all of the excitement, anything is impossible!

—Scott T. Sterling

There's "Black Friday" for shopaholics so it only makes sense that there be a "Black Christmas" for alcoholics, er, nightlife warriors. Right? On Saturday, the electro, hip-hop and disco artists that make up Le Branché are taking over the building at 125 W. 4th Street to throw an all-night bash. The event is 21+, but that's the only thing that makes this bash sound legit. The flier says it's BYOB and that guests must enter through an alley next to Bar 107. Downtown + alley? All that's missing is a hard boiled egg and a password for entrance like that "Beverly Hills 90210" episode. But don't expect to see Brenda and the gang at this one. I've never actually been to a Le Branché event before, but the website is provocative to say the least. Email rsvp@bbrave.net to get on the list.

That not satisfy your Christmas cravings? How about this?

—Alexandra Le Tellier
 

Because I'm nothing less than an unrepentant coffee fiend, I've been waiting for the new LA Mill store to "open-open-open" as anxiously as someone hopped up on caffeine—not that I am. Right now.

OK, so I don't live anywhere near the Silverlake location. And, it's not that I can't brew a cup of the yummy coffee myself. I just love the existence of places that aren't Star-sucks, especially in a city that's sorely lacking in coffee culture. I don't anticipate that it'll ever be like what I had at Berkeley—spending four winters there pouring over Trollope and the Brontes obviously did nothing to curb my coffee enthusiasm—but with Intelligentsia and LA Mill (eventually) on one side of the city, it's a good start.

Oops, but I'm getting ahead of me-self. Here, let me dig up the lede.

Despite what the banner says below:

LA Mill won't be opening it's doors until after the New Year. Construction is taking longer than expected, the LA Mill folks told me last week. While Eater LA's report on LA Mill's Craiglist posting for baristas estimates the opening as "only days away," it does look like after the hiring and the training and all the "honest mistakes" (see below), I won't be trekking out to Silverlake any time before January. Unless everyone's trying to throw this caffeine hound off the trail.

Meanwhile, I did get a kick out of reading LA Mill's company policy included in the job posting: "We love what we do, we believe in honesty and honest mistakes, we believe in promoting within, we believe if you work hard success will come, and we believe in treating our co-workers with respect and dignity. We also have great health benefits. (emphasis mine)" Dude, a place that will let me eff-up and give me health coverage. Where do I send in my resume?

—Jiyeon Yoo

 

How to break in a pair of jeans

One of my co-workers, professional foodie Ms. Jiyeon Yoo, was kind enough to donate a few pairs of more-expensive-than-I-realize designer jeans to the "Stop Alie From Dressing Like a Ross Commercial" cause. The problem? Jiyeon is tiny, and these are the tiniest doll pants I've ever tried to squeeze my Italian-bred caboose into.

But I found a solution for fitting into them: Sleep in your pants, people.

Saturday, I was lurching around like Robocop in these too-tight jeans, until faithful comrade Georgia called. I then discovered, if your pants are too tight, do the following:

1. Attend the Liz McGrath opening at Billy Shire in Culver City. Spot a Ryan Gosling and an Alexis Arquette and view some lovely weird pseudo-taxidermy sculptures:

2. Then head towards Little Radio's Winter party, accidentally drive down a one way street while lost, then park in a red zone and hop in to have some spiked eggnog.

 

3. Next, go to your friend's loft downtown. Watch your comrades consume the Strongest White Russians Ever Made, and encourage them to throw a pumpkin off a 3rd floor balcony.

4. Fall asleep on said friend's couch in a pile of Georgias, Alies and assorted drooling canines while watching Scrooged at 4am.

5. Wake up on friend's couch, still wearing the jeans from yesterday.

6. Go to iHop, still in the pants.

7. On your way home, decide to stop into the Barnsdall Art Market and look at awesome crafts. Still wearing the pants.

After a total of 19 hours straight in one pair of jeans, including sleeping, I can now say I've bonded with the pants emotionally, and have stretched out enough wiggle room for the booty.

High five peeps,

Yes, Amy Winehouse is a hopeless addict of the Pete Dougherty variety. It's sad but true. Her stunning voice and open-book songwriting skills (which scored her six Grammy nominations this year, including Best New Artist) have been all but overshadowed by her increasingly cracky public behavior (like wandering the streets of London with cocaine smeared across her face in bare feet and bra). But she cleans up well, pardon the pun:

 

Still, it's tough to find the humor in the new website "When Will Amy Winehouse Die?", which allows browsers to enter a predicted date and time when Ms. Winehouse finally shuffles from this mortal coil. The "winner" receives a free iPod. Hmmm. It sounds like the beginning of a really messed-up horror movie, where the ghost of Amy Winehouse terrorizes the winner until they too are hopeless crack addicts working the corner of Santa Monica and Highland to finance their habit. Or not...

—Scott T. Sterling

Have you been to Bordello yet? I checked out the recently renovated space last night for the first time to spin records at a show by my favorite L.A. band, West Indian Girl. Here's a shot of them spreading their big sonic love all over the packed room:

Their new album, "4th and Wall" (recorded in a studio on that sketchy corner of downtown) is in heavy rotation at Blipster HQ. It's loaded with great songs like "Hollywood" and “To Die in L.A.,” but today it’s all about “Solar Eyes,” which W.I.G. absolutely murdered last night. I call it “the bullhorn song,” as singer Mariqueen sings it through a (wait for it) bullhorn.

DJing for them was awesome. I was able to play all sorts of cool tunes from the likes of the Teenagers, Wooden Shjips, Of Montreal and the Fifth Dimension, whose “Up, Up and Away” served as the perfect opener for W.I.G.’s set.

I spent most of the night chatting with super-cool sound guy Adam between songs. Here he is in action:

Adam requested I play some Frank Zappa. Hey Adam, I’m spinning “Catholic Girls” just for you next time!

W.I.G.'s bass player is my dear friend Fran, who I've known ever since we used to terrorize Ann Arbor, MI back in the day like the hooligans we were. He’s one of the best people you’ll ever meet. Fran is the man:

I wish there was an upcoming W.I.G. gig that I could mention here, but the sweet children will be taking it easy for the rest of the year. When they return to the L.A. stage, we'll be all over it. Believe!

Instead, let me point you towards this Saturday night, where L.A. is blessed with an overabundance of great shows. I mean, how often you can choose between Stevie Wonder, Etta James, Les Savy Fav, Pigeon John, Snoop Dogg and the almighty hip-hop legend DJ Premier on the same night? There ought to be a law!

—Scott T. Sterling 

 
I can’t believe it’s Thursday already and that I’m still hung over from last weekend’s drunken debauchery, which included a Jesus-like Michael Sutton at Goa, cougars at Central and hipster scientologists at On the Rox.

 
I started off the weekend on Friday with good intentions. I stuck to wine at Metromix's holiday bash at 86 and, aside from hamming it up in the photo booth for about three hundred shots, I remained relatively composed. 

 

Then came Saturday. Word on the street was that Shereen Arazm's new lounge Central would be impossible to get into because John Mayer had booked it for a party. But Pouty Lips never made it over, preferring instead Arazm's other spot Parc. But someone bigger was in the house: Demi freakin' Moore, not that I saw her. Instead, I saw Paula Abdul outside—girl must wear one layer of make-up for every year she's been alive because she's almost unrecognizable.

 
 
Meanwhile, my partner-in-crime Amir Kenan was a few blocks away waiting in a three-hour line alongside Danger Mouse to get into Michael Sutton's new club Goa. But you know who got right in? Girls wearing pink Uggs and Lindsay Lohan, the one person who probably shouldn’t be allowed in drinking establishments.

 

Next stop for me was On the Rox for the Juliette Lewis & The Licks after-party, where girls were getting carried out of the club by forceful security guards and brawling on the sidewalk. (Overheard: “I just crushed that girl’s skull!”) Meanwhile scientologist Danny Masterson spun hipster-approved indie pop while Suffrajett singer Simi (above, right) made out with assorted girls and Juliette screeched, “this is L.A.” I love famous people. I can’t help it. To celebrate, I drank a full cup of whisky until couldn’t feel my teeth or my legs. (The next morning I threw up in a cup. I know, I know…)


Next up: Chloe, which opens tonight! It's French and impeccably designed. Parfait pour moi.

—Alexandra Le Tellier

...is obviously ironic.

2007 is almost over. It's the perfect time for some the year's best new restaurants to rest on their laurels and give this editor a little breath of mistletoe and holly. But, no, they just got to be all enterprising and creative and alluring before the year is out. 

Guess there's no rest for the weary food hound, either. Find below the newest and brightest happenings that I'll be checking out in these last December days. Good thing I got a cute and really roomy tent dress at last week's H&M 'friends and family' deal. 

 

Fraiche, my hands down favorite new restaurant of the year, wants diners to stick around awhile and enjoy the music. Thursday nights now feature a DJ from 10 p.m. until 1 a.m. The lounge menu is fantastic, and the alcohol-fueled histrionics of bar chef Albert Trummer is fantastic-er. 

The Foundry is also cultivating its nightlife scene, updating its already beautiful patio and introducing the Foundry Lounge with a menu that features lobster pierogie (!). And for the arboreally-minded, the olive tree in the patio is doing well: chef/owner Eric Greenspan has provided a proper hole through which it can "continue to grow and prosper."

All'Angelo is introducing ciccheti—Venetian-style appetizers—for dinner service. But before you think it sounds like another restaurant jumping on the small plates bandwagon, the menu is focused and so decidedly Italian: meatballs, radicchio lasagna, octopus salad with bottarga, house-made pasta with beans and rosemary, gorgonzola-infused polenta with braised pork belly, canape with bone marrow. Oh my goodness. In mouth now.

Brunch and breakfast a la brasserie is finally here. Comme Ça has started breakfast service this week while the brunch is set to launch this Saturday at 10 a.m. How would like your oeufs? Les oeufs brouillés, s'il vous plait: I've been practicing for months. How's my French?

Finally, it's not a part of the '07 class but Lou on Vine deserves a special mention, not only because it rocks, but in its sophomore year, Lou is introducing "Tasting Tuesdays" as a follow-up to its deservedly popular Monday Suppers at Lou. As the newsletter wise-cracks, "because absent something witty to say, alliteration is your best friend." The evening will offer two to four different flights of wine with thematic correlation to each other. But what about Lou's sign? It's still looks as unfinished as ever.

(Artist's representation. Not actual sign.) 

—Jiyeon Yoo

 

If you've perused the Metromix Party Pics, you'll gather more than enough evidence to convict our staff of excess revelry. Our very first holiday party was on Friday at 86, an underground speakeasy once owned by Rudolph Valentino. There was free booze. And a photobooth:

 

Suffice it to say that the next day turned out to be pretty mellow for The Ward. I shuffled around in slippers and finally ventured out at dusk. On my way back from the Hollywood post office, I passed by the Capitol Records building, and spotted an apparent crazy person stationed out front.

If you live in Hollywood, you know that it's not unusual to witness crank addicts bathing themselves in the Sharky's bathroom, so I wasn't too shocked to see a guy with fabric tied around his head, in colorful, mismatched garments, tinkling away at a keyboard next to a mound of wilting flowers on a street with zero foot traffic.

All alone. Singing to no one. Bathouse crazy. 

But the flowers and long-extinguished candles piled on the sidewalk did suggest a memorial. So I parked my car in a red zone and—wearing my slippers—went to investigate.

I approached, said hello and he looked up from his Beatles songbook, shockingly lucid. "Oh hey." He didn't call me the devil, he didn't mention aliens, and he smelled sober. This was getting weirder every minute.

He told me his name was David. I asked who died, pointing to the lumps of carnations and cellophane. Turns out it was John Lennon's star underneath all that well-intentioned detritus. He died 27 years ago on December 8, and every year—for the past two, at least—David sets up shop to play Lennon's music and talk to people about peace.

A few people with acoustic guitars had joined him earlier in the day, but at this point he was alone on the barren stretch of the Walk of Fame. It was sunset and freezing out, and I asked how long he planned on being there. He said "Oh, probably the rest of the day." I noted that at 5 p.m., the day was over. He shrugged, and said "Midnight, I guess." 

I ended up standing against a lamppost and listening to him stumble through verses of "Imagine" and "Eleanor Rigby,"  then chatted about how he'd moved out from New York a few years ago to study theater here. He also explained the battery life on portable keyboards. I gave him a pair of my gloves, listened for a little bit longer, and when a few stray tourists ambled past to take a photo, I said goodbye, and told him I'd see him next year. 

 

-Alie Ward

I laugh every time Deb asks me, “So, who’s going to be in the Super Bowl this year?” It just never gets old. I mean, I wish I did know. I would be a very, very rich man around mid-February. The point is that no one will know the answer to that question for weeks, although I’d hazard a guess that betting odds are leaning towards a Dallas Cowboys-New England Patriots match-up. Although the Pittsburgh Steelers could still spoil the Patriots diabolical march toward immortality, and there are lots of us that would love to see Brett Farve and the Green Bay Packers snatch the NFC crown from the Cowboys. OK, enough insider football-speak. Here’s what we do know about this year’s Super Bowl:

1.    It’s happening in Phoenix, Arizona. What happens in Arizona? You’re asking the wrong dude. Wikipedia tells me that it’s where both “Raising Arizona” and “Bill & Ted’s Excellent Adventure” were filmed, so it must be at least OK. Plus NBA star Steve Nash (pictured above) lives there, and he’s a bad-ass.

2.    The musical guest during the halftime show is going to be the almighty Tom Petty & The Heartbreakers. This is good news on a few levels. First, Tom Petty is awesome. Second, he recently promised a writer at Rolling Stone magazine that they wouldn’t play any medleys. “It’s not the kind of band that can remember a medley,” he admitted.

3.    Which brings us to the NFL making Petty pinky-swear that the Heartbreakers wouldn’t play the song “You Don’t Know How It Feels,” since they aren’t too keen on the line “Let’s roll another joint” being broadcast around the globe on a Sunday afternoon. Rolling joints, not being able to remember medleys—It’s all starting to make sense!

4.    Now for something completely unrelated: Did you know that Ronnie James Dio is going to be signing autographs at the Grove on Monday night? Please inform your neighborhood metal-head and stand back.

—Scott T. Sterling

You know Parc, the Hollywood spot with a tree in the dining room? Owners Shereen Arazm and Pantera Sarah have hooked up again to open Central just around the corner at 1710 N. Las Palmas Boulevard. Like Parc, the lounge will take an avant-garde approach to "nature," but instead of an indoor tree, Central will be decorated with lit branches and have a glass “tree house” for the DJ booth. The lounge opens this Saturday, December 8 and I’d suggest getting there right at 9 p.m. Sarah can be a tough at the door, but if you tell her you’re voting for Barack Obama, you'll have an easier time. But please people: mean it.

Parc life: You'll notice the sleek wooden tables and the Swarovski crystal globes hanging from indoor tree at Parc. I can't wait to see what Central has in store.

—Alexandra Le Tellier

Riddle me this: when does 24 not equal 24?

Apparently, when L.A. is opening an around-the-clock restaurant.

It happened yet again. Another restaurant which not only made promises of opening but opening with 24-hour service has failed to deliver. If you've been keeping track, Mode played the hurry-up-and-stop game more avidly than the usual L.A. restaurant. Opening on Halloween? Nope. Some time before Thanksgiving? Uh uh. Finally, finally, the last day of November promised a full-fledged opening. 

You've probably heard about the snafu already—Mode is closed. Indefinitely. Again. Why? Why, people? How was the estimation that far off? It's one thing to get delayed with city permits and all that, but why overreach the 24-hour mark only to fail. We saw a bit of it already with Lift in Hollywood: it didn't open to never close, and now it's backpedaling a bit, hoping to open for 22 hours...eventually. And what's up with Kitchen 24? 

While we here at Metromix would usually have the luxury of hearing Mode's demise from the comforts of our office, we actually had to experience the debacle firsthand last fateful Friday. Since it's right down the street, we thought we would drive over around 9-ish—a fair time to scope out the scene. Unfortunately, its spot along Olive isnt' that intuitive, and Mode's halo of light doesn't outshine its neighbor, an unseemly place with a huge sign that reads:

Heh. It almost too perfect and literal a joke considering Mode has this fashion-model-theme going for it. Can anyone say objectification?

There's absolutely no street parking allowed along that block of Olive in front of Mode except for a couple of lots that will let you park your car for no less than $5. No thank you.

After the business of finding parking three blocks away and avoiding eye contact with panhandlers, we finally found ourselves inside the shiny glass box, gaping at the lighted runway (there's actually a freakin' runway) with the plasma that streams Fashion File or Models, Inc. or other on a constant loop. The host walked up to us nervously in a white puff parka that looked straight out of "Zoolander" and a passable "Blue Steel" impression on his face. 

"Uh...we're closed...?" (Of course the model/poser speaketh in a upward lilting end note.)

"What? You just opened today."

"Uh...yeah..but now we're closed? The kitchen ran out of food."

"Okay, so you don't have anything to eat at all? Not a speck of food?"

"Um...that's what they told me?"

"So aren't you supposed to be 24-hours?"

"Yeah. Just not today."

And scene. 

Perhaps Mode failed to account for anything more than model-sized appetities (ah, no wonder Fashion Cafe folded!). Or, perhaps it's redefining the 24-hour restaurant: open for a mere 24 hours before closing for good. Now, that would be ingenious.

—Jiyeon Yoo

 

Oh jeepers.

This weekend was all about comfort foods, indoor forests, open bars, bedazzled trees and pancakes. Here are some stops made by Ward's Party Short Bus this weekend:

Friday, 8:42 p.m.: At the wedding of some beloved comrades, I consume several glasses of shiraz. Wine-logged, tearful congratulations follow, as does the consumption of two slices of cake. 

Friday 11:21 p.m. Post-wedding, I scoot over to Truxtop for the "Winter Wanderland" show to view their synthetic tree installation, faux confetti snow, and countless pieces of cheap tasty arts (Full disclosure: I myself have a few pieces all up in this thing.) 

(Andy Haynes "White Out," priced at a mere $200 bones)

(Faux snow) 

Saturday, 9:51 p.m.: Some comrades and I seek out a pumpkin pie shot at The Woods (verdict: taaaasty.) Other verdict: I wanted more, and forced asked them to make a larger one in a martini glass. Next it was hopping about from the Hive Gallery to Edendale to the Brite Spot for breakfast at 3 a.m. Why am I aggressively courting diabetes?

Ten minutes later:

Sunday, 11:34 a.m.: Doing some "journalistic research," I consume a stack of pumpkin pancakes at La Conversation on Doheny, while taking notes. They are not delicious, but I finish them all. 

Sunday, 2:46 p.m. I shuffle through 2.5 laps around around Silverlake Reservoir to (weakly) compensate for my many dietary transgressions. Along the way, peeped a tree decked out in purple bedazzlements. Flashy! But I like it.

 

Until next week, my comrades, please do rock on.  (And here's a cheat sheet for the week in the event that you've forgotten how.)

 

High five,

-Alie Ward