I’ll Have Coffee with My Bon Iver
‘Twas a cool September night, just past midnight on a Sunday, when Hollywood Forever Cemetery’s gates creaked open to allow a massing crowd to enter and lay claim to haunted real estate in anticipation of a rather unique exhibition: Bon Iver, fronted by famously hermitic Wisconsinite Justin Vernon, was slated to play a sunrise show in Los Angeles as the crowning pièce de résistance to its nearly two-year tour.
Once inside the graveyard, concert-goers spread out blankets, sleeping bags, picnics, and candles on the lawn beside what I’ve always understood is Valentino’s Cathedral Mausoleum. Over the course of the night, organizers projected several Vernon-selected films and shows on the large white mausoleum wall, a la Cinespia nights. The singer chose a few of my personal favorites for the evening, including Wes Anderson’s original classic Bottle Rocket and “Episode 8: Jungles” of the Planet Earth series. Between the films, DJs kept the crowd awake and moving with jams by artists as varied as Tammy Wynette, the Dirty Projectors, and Sade, again hand-picked by Vernon.
I kept warm throughout the night with a multitude of Kalimotxos and several blankets, and remained concious thanks to some choice Bolivian marching powder Red Bulls, while many around me succumbed to naps before the set was to begin. The feeling of camaraderie among the attendees was palpable, and everyone, sleeping or not, seemed content in the surroundings. Around 3am, I ventured out on a Port-a-Potty mission and glanced back toward the lawn just as a thick and incredibly eerie fog rolled in from the west, streaming through the palm trees bordering the seating area and overcoming the plentiful headstones nearby. Within a couple minutes, it had enveloped the entire cemetery, hanging cold and wet over everything and everyone, muffling sounds and lending an appropriately spooky air to the night.
(An aside: Legend holds that for many years after Valentino’s death, a mysterious black-clad woman frequented his crypt with flowers in hand. The fog brought the tale to mind, and I soon found myself questioning many of the shapes that I could make out in the distance.)
At 5:45am, the film projections and music ceased, and silence fell over the crowd for several long moments until it was finally broken by an initially unrecognizable chant. A group of Buddhist monks slowly materialized to bless the crowd, the performers and the locale. As their united voices echoed through the early morning air, a sense of security and tranquility washed over the assembly. Those who had been sleeping awoke, and all sat in quiet contemplation and reverence.
Immediately after the ceremony, Vernon appeared on an adjacent stage and briefly introduced his band’s first song, “Wisconsin,” which provided an ideal transition into the set. Though they played extended versions of nearly every track on their breakthrough album, For Emma, Forever Ago, the singer paused before the final song to announce that, because of their limited material (For Emma being their debut compilation), the band would not play an encore. Attendees, content in their blankets and hoodies, accepted the announcement sans protest. As Vernon et al. progressed through their set, the sky brightened before the sun finally rose from the haze, and the congregation amassed in this makeshift temple came into clear view, illuminated by the day’s first light and transfixed by the ethereal melodies flowing from the stage. A truly lovely experience, friends…
Respectable Men Do Not Wear Mustache Tattoos
We’re a day late on this, but the LA Times piece on Norteño-turned-faux accountant Richard Rodriguez has us mulling and pondering: a.) How long till the cop gets sent up the river? And, more importantly; b.) Is an upper lip tat necessarily detrimental to the credibility of a court testimony? Mightn’t it bring in sympathy points in some cases? An example: Say you’re on trial for a petty crime in Australian ranch country — shearing sheep out of season or disparaging Chopper Read, I dunno. The jury is composed entirely of poor ranching folk whose cattle compete with kangaroos for a shrinking stock of grassland. Your upper lip reads “kangaroos are great…for dinner” in Olde English. Helpful or harmful? I say helpful. Chopper would probably agree.
The moral of the story is that sometimes growing a moustache to cover up a tattoo is not always a smart legal maneuver, though in the case of Rodriguez it would seem to be a good move because without it he basically looks like your standard-issue Dodgers bleacher fan slash Latino gangbanger. And no jury in the world likes both of those things.
For our sadistic brethren, graphic video of some fat (and hopefully soon-to-be-indicted) policeman steel-booting Rodriguez here.
The Moss Impact on Culver City
Culver City is experiencing a major re-development at present, spearheaded and contributed to by architect and SCI-Arc Director Eric Owen Moss. Mr. Moss and his team of 25 at Eric Owen Moss Architects have dubbed the revitalization Conjunctive Points, and have and continue to work on more than 20 projects in Culver City, many of which are located on Hayden Street alone. Known for unique interpretations and a diversity of form, Moss’ varied projects fortify Culver City’s hefty reputation as a community teeming with arts. Pictured above are 8511 Warner Drive, a parking structure and retail project and a city-sponsored Architecture as Art public artwork entitled What Wall.
Pictured here is a rendering of the Gateway Art Tower, an “information tower” and office building, constructed at the corner of Hayden and National, marking the primary entry point into the revitalized zone of the city. The building includes 5 screens that advertise messages to passersby pertaining to local tenants’ events and news.
Another of the Architecture as Art public art works, the Beehive, occupies the front section of a two story office building housing medschool.com.
Finally, this image depicts the interior of 3555 Hayden Ave, an office building and television production facility.
On the Road Again
If you’ve read any of the previous LA posts, they all derive in some way from driving. It’s what you do in LA, and the bane of my existence. While driving today, I was thinking about how my commute is completely void of human interaction, which made me miss interfacing with bums and crazies along my walk and MUNI ride in SF. I digress. I was also thinking about what I could write about this evening. If nothing else, Los Angeles is pure fodder for writers. As I’m stopped at a red light, I see the chrome spinners doing their thing on a shiny black Prius, complete with carpool lane sticker. I wonder who would drive such a vehicle and inch towards the car in front of me to catch a glimpse. Once the light changes, I’m able to see that it’s an ancient, sage-looking asian man. Hip, convincing grandson the culprit here? Maybe.
I also encountered a baby blue 1980s Mercedes station wagon along my journey home. Reminiscent of the manner in which I rode to preschool, a small boy was riding in the back facing seat. He even had the decade-appropriate bowl cut. He waved goofily at me and I smiled. But then we got stopped at the next light beside one another and he got embarassed and slunk down in his seat to avoid eye contact.
I think it’s just Friday-induced glee speaking, but maybe commuting isn’t so bad in LA. It could also have been the good-vibe influence of The Wrens’ “The Meadowlands.”
5-0 on the Chase
For the second night in a row, I can elect to fall asleep watching live news coverage of a high-speed police chase.
