Our Last Gig: HOB Hollywood
We gather on a blistering September evening for the haul out to LA.
The weather has been brutal lately, and the heat shimmering above the city does not dissipate with the fading light: it’s gonna be a hot one, motherfuckers!
Tonight’s assignment is a mid level billing at the Sunset House of Blues with Dead Kennedys, JFA, Killroy and Union 13.
Oh, I know,it’s not very punk rock and it certainly ain’t the fuckin’ blues, but hey! where else do we get to play at a corporate shack with decent backstage chow?
Besides, it’s a rare night: a big bill with an amazing lack of dicks in the bands—all good people involved!
Getting off the packin’ 101 early at Silverlake gives us the perfect excuse to stop in to Tiki-Ti’s for that goddamn Zombie we’ve been dreaming about!
Has it really been 6 years since we said farewell to Ant’s big brother Fred?
Freddy was a good one, a musical mentor and man about town, and he tossed back a few Uga Boogas in this room, don’t you worry!
So we toast his memory with another glass of potent 151 camouflaged in syrupy sweet goodness, and watch as the gaudy decor comes to life….so this is what kids see at the Tiki Room in Disneyland, eh?!
We get to the House o Blues just in time to unload on the curb and hump the gear up a maze of staircases.
Goddamn it’s still hot!
It doesn’t matter how many times we play at this shack, we always get lost in the catacombs backstage, and somehow end up opening a random door only to witness some poor soul giving or rececivng an unwanted blowjob……whoops! Carry on fellas!
Heh, but soon enough we tuck into the backstage spread and watch the proceedings from side stage.
The run a tight ship at HOB, but we’re all sharing backline gear so turnovers are quick. Between bands we adjourn to the sultry patio on Sunset and let the swampy night air cool the hard earned sweat on our brows…..
It’s a welcome early set time for us, and we take advantage of our 30 minutes onstage by playing out of tune and forgetting lyrics.
Now that’s punk rock, baby!
The crowd is tuned when Dead Kennedys hit the stage.
Oh, I know all the talk about how this isn’t the real band, since Jello’s not involved, etc.
But this has always been a band made up of unique and really, well–fucking good! -musicians regardless of who’s up front singing–I mean these three guys, I’m thinking of like, The Who here, yeah?
And when they rip into Police Truck, Skip singing his heart out and the whole damn room is singing along, you can’t help but be caught up in the excitment and energy that is music!
We load out drenched in sweat, the night still boiling around us.
We briefly consider pissing on each other’s carotid arteries to keep from boiling over.
And that’s how it ends, another night on the Sunset Strip, on the fatal side of another Summer.
Another night in the sweet city heat, surrounded by pals and hearing music that makes you happy.
Soon enough we’ll be huddled in the chill, nothing more than cavemen peering out into the unknown darkness.
And this unrelenting heat? It will be nothing more than a desperate but welcome memory.
We’ll sit in the dark and hear the snap of twig and wonder if that noise is food or death.