Key Club

A couple weeks ago, the Key Club hosted a show that advertised as their headlining act the L.A. based rock group Prima Donna. Unbeknownst to me, this night would prove to be a mixture of the awesome and the pathetic working congruently to make anyone who attended this spectacle appreciate the event for what it was: fucking rad! I arrived with a friend around 9 o’clock, just in time to miss the first band’s set. I settled in quickly at the bar, ordered the cheapest, strongest booze available and choked it down with greed, waiting for the next act to perform. Then, after a brief cigarette out in front, I merged back into the venue to find myself staring at a lopsided, poorly constructed white banner with bold red lettering that had been draped haphazardly across two Marshall half stacks and read: Motorcycle Boys. “Yes”, I thought to myself, “this is gonna be a fucking train wreck.” Four gentlemen then appeared on stage, strutting confidently towards their instruments. Ten years past their prime sporting unusually tight fitting leather pants and pea-cocked, contrived hairstyles…something told me that it was only getting better from here. Then the music started, the crown jewel of the whole fucking absurdity. I wish I could articulate better the joy I felt at this very moment- it was like a cherry that fell off the top of a pastry onto a pile of shit but was consumed anyway so as not to go to waste.

Personally, what I was listening to was a bastardized version of rock and roll, glam, and punk rock all blended together to create some sort of hideous, mangled deformity. What made me so critical of these guys was not anything personal I assure you, it was the lack of dexterity with which they played their instruments that got me so frustrated. Motorcycle Boys in their essence embodied, emboldened, and perpetuated the pay to play, quid-pro-quo mentality so antithetical and antagonistic to what consciously minded show-seekers have come to be so weary of from soulless Hollywood showcases. “If these guys spent more time on their music as they did their appearance”, my friend leaned over and whispered into my ear ironically to cut in through the music, “they wouldn’t be half bad.” A smile slithered across my bloated face at the pithy observation. Yet, I could not hate this band or write them off completely. Never mind that the songs lacked any kind of depth, substance, or possessed anything near to what would constitute a solid, redeeming quality- but they went out there and for “15 minutes” they thought they rocked the house down. Self-delusion at its finest. Bravo, gentlemen.

The headliner Prima Donna was much more of a relief to the senses. Their music and appearance had much of the same qualities as the other bands playing that night, and their attempt to innovate old-school glam and punk rock sadly fell short of it’s aspiration. However, I have to say: they did their thing with enthusiasm and craftsmanship, the crowd was supportive and I enjoyed what their music had to offer. Show performance, stage presence and confidence go a long way when at a live event. But it’s what happened in between these two bands where the redeeming quality of the night lies…

After Motorcycle Boys ended, I was filled with piss and alcohol. I settled on yet another expensive beverage; the bartendress was all smiles that night and offered provocative gestures but I knew she was there to make her money, no point in even trying, I thought. As I turned to take the first sip of my domestic swill, Sean Wheeler a.k.a Captain Sean Doe, front man of the well-known L.A. rock band Throwrag, and Zander Schloss, eclectic musician extraordinaire, were about to surprise the audience with an impromptu acoustic set performed by just the two of them. From the start of the set I became completely enamored by what was on display- two men, separated by at least a generation, working as one to entertain an unexpecting audience with soul, rhythm and what was so obviously missing from that night: heart. Just words and a solitary instrument utilized to convey something that could only be said in chorus and verse. I could not make out clearly what the words meant in the way he meant them, however, his body language, tenor of voice, and the music harboring it- it was clear to me that he was being personal up there, and sometimes you don’t need lyrics to know what someone is talking about.

The night ended with me at the Viper Room getting piss-silly intoxicated with my friend and one of the promoters of the Key Club we met that night. All in all, it was great- I got drunk, heard a cool band, made a new friend, I couldn’t complain.