I promised myself I would not use this space to complain about things similar to what I’ve spoken on here before.  In fact, I’d rather not complain at all.  I’d prefer that this blog was only here to recant enjoyable experiences, good music, and good times.  I unfortunately cannot commit to that at this time (ed. note: probably never), and so sometimes, as was the case with this shit-ass weekend, we have to recant the unpleasant; review the bad tracks, If’n you will…

                So skip all the stuff about me saying how it’s crazy that a place that used to be a dive bar could now make you pay $12.00 to have a shot of whiskey while you watch Carlton and Preston wrap their “ain’t hittin’ it right” cardigan sweaters around some broads they bussed in from the ‘bu because Venice is so it right now.  Lil’ seedy, lil’ happenin’, bitches get …! (ed. note: morons).  

                 Anyways, skip all of that stuff, and let’s just bitch about the music I was treated to for a $5.00 cover charge at the underground speakeasy at the Town House in Venice Saturday night.

                I don’t know the band’s name.  I would not give them the time of day to look into it.  So if you are a member of that band, consider the fact that you made it impossible to make out the name of your group, which you repeatedly tried to say, a blessing in disguise, because now I can’t shit on you directly, only by reference (ed. note: shut up if you said to yourself what I think you said).

                So why you ask was it impossible to hear the name of their band if they said it into a microphone in a small ass room with a small ass crowd?  I’ll tell you.  It’s because these numbskulls had 3 fucking drum kits.  The drummer had a drum kit.  The fucking other drummer had a drum kit, and to top it off the fucking lead singer felt left out so she got a drum kit too.  How does that make sense?  It wasn’t a drum band, it wasn’t the dirt-bag circle down at the beach, it was a band playing rock music, with guitars, keys, a singer, in a small space, with 3 fucking drum kits!  How can the rest of the music work, if every time one drum beat stops another fills the void?  It can’t.  It was god awful.  The lead singer chick kept screeching into the mic, the drumming would not cease, and I got dizzy as hell.  I lasted about a minute for every dollar I spent (ed. note: that’s five minutes). 

                So townhouse, thank you again for a magical evening.  You owe me about $35.00 now.  We can discuss the details further at a later date.  As for the music enjoying community as a whole, if you or someone you know is into something (musical) that is clearly a horrible offense to sound, please, feel free to tell them that three drum kits is fucking ridiculous and it’s ABSURD that anyone would listen to it, let alone allow them to play for money on a Saturday night in Los Angeles (ed. note: because there’s a lot of fucking bands here that don’t suck)!

                On the bright side of things, this weekend provided me with an addendum to the list of things I’d like to have when I’m old and senile and live in that house on that hill where I can blast my shit as loud as I want.  So yeah, add one of those pools with the current that you can swim against to that list.  Them shit’s is fuuu-un.  Watching a little kid in floaties continuously get washed down the current and love every minute of it, well that shit’s just downright whimsical.  I’m not so interested in the little toddler when I’m all crotchety an’ crazy, but the current pool overlooking the hilltop, bucket list that shit for me bitches.

Other than that the weekend was quite uneventful.  I got in a quick pump-sesh with Fitty Cents at the mecca.  He scoped my form, I encouraged his hustle.  Remember that next time you care to bite your thumb at me sir…  Now onward Monday, to insanity, and beyond!

Los Angeles, these are your suggested shows for the week of 8/8 – 8/15:

8/8 – PH-ISH at the B-OWL.  Ain’t no tickets left fo’legal sale suga’pies.

8/8 – Infantree opens for Stone Darling at the Satellite, RSVFREE.

8/9 – Tea Leaf Green is at the Grove, I believe it’s free.

8/9 – The Allah Las resumes their fuzzy residency at the Echo, fo’frizzle.

8/9 – Deer Hunter gets all sentimental and shit at the Wiltern.  $20.

8/10 – Mavis staples beltin’ it out at the Hollywood Bowl.  It will be bowl prices, google that shit son!

8/11 – Starfucker fucking stars at the El Rey.  18 bucks to fuck stars, heady deal.

8/12 – Eels, sometimes creepy, sometimes depressing, always interesting, at the El Rey with the Submarines opening.  Thirty-Dol-Ors.

8/12 – Rodrigo y Gabriela at the Hollywood Bowl.  Do not, I repeat  DO NOT kick it with Craig and then stare at their fingers moving really, really fast over the strings.  Do Not!

8/13 – Pacific Festival at Oak Canyon Ranch.  Cut Copy!!!Toro y Moi, and Snoop a Loop, amongst other thizz head acts.

8/13 – The Henry Clay People and the Get Up Kids at the Satellite.  I’m loathe to put this here because I think it has the stamp of the dinkus on it, but whatever, decent show.

Links for the Day: 

– Daddy’s Lil’ Angel (one?) (via Stereogum)

 One a them things where Bob Dylan, and Joni Mitchell, and The Band all get together at some event and sing some old folk jams, ‘cept it ain’t Bob Dylan or Joni Mitchell, and the Band Broke up.

– First person to smack kanye in the face and call him a bitch-ass-trik get’s a t-shirt.  (via NME)

– So apparently this exists. (via Wired)

– Somethin’ to listen to at your Monday desk situation.  (via KCRW)

– Begs the question, does a .75 round up become a solid One if she can sing perty? (via MOKB)

– BEER CITY WHAT UP!  Brett Rifkin, Andrew Maitland, AHS Alumni, Track one is legit fellas.  Glad to hear some quality comin’ out that basement.  I know y’all practiced quite a bit.  (via the Headiest spot below the Mason Dixon Line)