Sifting through the Darkmatter

Baseck live at Darkmatter.

Saturday night, we headed out to Darkmatter, which I was set to cover for the LA Weekly. We thought it would be a very cool event, but nothing out of the ordinary. Then Venetian Snares showed up for a surprise gig. You can read about it in the LA Weekly music blog, West Coast Sound.

I woke up Sunday morning convinced that I was going deaf. I could hear and there was no ringing or buzz, but my right ear, the ear that was pointed towards the speaker for a bit the night before, was massively plugged. After some Advil and countless sticks of gum, the pressure alleviated slightly. Fortunately, this morning I'm back to normal.

I'm still exhausted from the weekend, but it was incredible fun.

Related: "Weird Ripper: Baseck redefines dance music with two turntables and two Game Boys"

Because Sometimes, You Must

Carlos got the itch to leave the house and since I always have an urge to escape the glare of the computer screen, I accompanied him to Air Conditioned in Venice.

We recalled that back in our college days, this was a pretty sketchy bar. Now it's slick and modern, hosting a crowd of t-shirt and jeans Westsiders and burners, who I swear only exist within a mile of three mile radius of Venice Beach. We had never been to this bar before, although we had made a pact six months earlier to come down on a Wednesday to check out Irwin's Conspiracy. Tonight just happened to be the night, in part, or primarily, because Derek Michael and Baseck were playing.

We had seen Irwin's Conspiracy before, at the Abbot Kinney Festival, but that was outside in the midst of a September afternoon. Inside the club, with one or two video artists projecting giant psychedelic images behind a one-man drum/electronic/theremin band, the vibe is different. I, for one, was more inclined to dance, even if by dance I mean twitching my leg as I sat down on a sofa.

Henry Strange looked instantly familiar to me as he hit the stage after Irwin's Conspiracy with his ponytail bouncing up and down. In fact, we had seen him on Halloween at a Droid Behavior party somewhere in the warehouse riddled depths of Vernon (we think). His set was primarily dubstep oriented and featured a live bassist/MC and a dancer.

Derek Michael and Baseck played together, with Michael DJing in front of the stage and Baseck hiding in a corner while scratching. These two work really well together and I would love to hear something akin to a 12" single (at least) from them.

Related Stories:
Weird Ripper: Baseck Redefines Dance Music with Two Turntables and Two Game Boys
Droid Behavior: Robot Rock

Krumpalong Lizzie*

This post is inspired by Baseck's dancers, seen here live at the Cocaine, 2/23/08.

Baseck has these dancers, Nina and Marlon. They are, from what I have been told, professional dancers who perform with him when they have the chance. They dress in wild costumes, like the ones above or these feather-filled bunny suits from the same show.



And then they perform super-pro hip-hop moves set to the 160+ beats per minute pumping out from Baseck's turntable/gameboy apparatus. It's absolutely inspiring, so inspiring that I decided that I was going to relearn to dance.

As it turns out, my gym offers a free hip-hop class once a week. Last week, I decided to try it.

I went into the class figuring that it would be a challenge, but I might be able to handle it. After all, I did study dance throughout my childhood and adolescence. Back then, though, the closest we got to a "hip-hop" class in the Valley were jazz routines choreographed to Beastie Boys' songs (my first recital, when I was nine, involved "Brass Monkey"). On top of that, I haven't taken any dance class since freshman year of college and was not really certain what the verb "krump" means.

Needless to say, I sucked. I couldn't remember much after the first eight-count. I kept wanting to plie when I should be doing this krumping thing and spent half the time I was wondering when were going to grand jete.

And then there were the issues of stamina. Essentially, I don't have much. Less than half-way through the class, my throat grew raw from dehydration. The persistent ache in my right shoulder went away, but that was only because my entire body wanted to collapse. I wondered what would happen if I passed out in the middle of a spin. Would someone figure out which key chain was mine? Would they be able to scan the membership tag on my key ring and find out who I am? Would they be able contact someone who could tell the ambulance where to take me?

Mon dieu, what kind of hell have I created for myself?

I somehow got through the class and was still able to meet up with Carlos at Roberto's later that evening. The next morning though, there was nothing but sharp jabs of pain shooting through muscles that clearly hadn't been in use since 1996. That lasted for three full days.

And because I am nuts, because I love the aftermath of failure, I took another class tonight. Yes, I still suck, but not as badly. This time around, I actually remembered the moves for the entire routine. Well, sort of. My throat was still sore and I still feared collapsing in a pool of my own vomit, but I couldn't stop the dance. Now, I'm fairly certain I can define the word "krump." Whether or not I can perform the act of crumping without looking like an asshole is another thing. We'll save that for next week.

*edited because krump is spelled with a K, not a C

A Beautiful Mess

Five minutes after we arrived at 2nd Street Jazz in Little Tokyo last night, Paul Roessler, who has played with the likes of the Screamers, Nervous Gender and Nina Hagen, took to the piano. Yes, a piano. Just because you're status in the history of L.A. punk is somewhat legendary doesn't mean you can't tickle the keys in a lilting fashion. After the prompting of Monkey Bucket, aka the dude in the fez, the crowd sat on the floor.



This was the only point in the show where there would be some semblance of decorum within the crowd, which is fine because decorum is overrated, except for when someone is playing the piano and a little less chatter is necessary.

Following Roessler was the Tleilaxu Music Machine, which is the brainchild of D. Bene Tleilax of RoMak & the Space Pirates. Feeling at a loss to describe his music at 10:30 a.m., I am instead posting the following photo that might help you get an idea of his sound.



It is a blurry, red lit haze of electronic madness, the sound of frantic dancing and feeling like you might lose your shit, or at least your watch, as one person did last night.

The crowd tossed balloons like volleyballs as a sign of approval.



And a dinosaur pinata made its way into the crowd, where one guy hoisted it upon his shoulders as though it were a drunk, topless girlfriend at a Motley Crue show.



And then the mosh pit began.



We were sitting at a table on the edge of the pit, where patron after patron knocked back to granite table top. Fortunately for the club, the table was posted into the floor. Unfortunately, for the crowd, it was not conducive for bumping.

"That girl in the plaid is going to have one bruised back tomorrow," I told Carlos, which prompted him to recall a time where he hit the pit and took a cymbal to a rib.

"My mosh pit days are over," he said.

"So are mine."

Carlos laughed, knowing full well that I run away at the sight of swarming punks.

The mosh pit may have been fun for those caught in the wave, but it was hell on the balloons.



And then there was Baseck. After a few of his tamest pieces and a collaboration with a rapper wearing raver fingers (who was that cool dude?), Baseck got all grindcore on us and brought out his dancers to help establish the mood.



At this point, the dinosaur pinata had been slaughtered and most of the balloons were popped. And the crowd, well, I gather you can guess its response.



For his last song, "Creatures of the Night," the dancers reappeared in bunny outfits.



The outfits were supposed to be puffed out with packing material. Instead, feathers were used, much to the joy of the crowd and the dismay of whoever had to close down the bar.



I feel badly for the people stuck cleaning up this mess.