Leatherface is my favorite band, ever. They don’t get out of their hometown of Sunderland, England very often, and as a result I’ve never had the pleasure of seeing them live. They haven’t played a show in the U.S. in nearly a decade, and as fate would have it I missed them the last time they came around. In the years since I’ve waited patiently for their return, and as time passed those hopes turned into something of a pipe-dream: they aren’t popular enough in this country to financially warrant a months-long sojourn (and God knows singer/guitarist/ band leader Frankie Stubbs is getting old). So you can imagine my surprise when I found out a few months ago they were scheduled to play a few U.S. dates as part of a special mini-tour. Then came word of the inevitable complications: the band was only scheduled to play four stateside gigs, all of them on the west coast. To make matters worse, the only date that fit with my schedule was the show in Los Angeles, on a Monday night. Not that I was going to let that stop me.

If you’re like most people, you’ve never heard of this band. It’s hard to describe their music, but if forced I guess I’d say they’d sound like if you could imagine Tom Waits singing for Hüsker Dü. In other words, they’re pretty much perfect. Their sound has evolved quite a bit over the years: their first album, 1988’s Cherry Knowle, sounds a lot like Mötorhead, but they dropped most of the metal trappings over the years in favor of sound that’s noticeably more pop-nuanced. The result evolved into something staggering between the street-simple one-two of Stiff Little Fingers and the melodic panache of the Replacements. Their later albums retain the same energetic pop punch but incorporate a lot of folk and ‘traditional’ rock. With most people, the challenge in ‘getting’ this band almost always involves the vocals. I mean, it’s really an acquired taste. To call Frankie Stubbs’ voice ‘gruff’ would be an understatement: his throat meters a gravel grade somewhere between Tom Waits and Louie Armstrong. Listening to him, you can’t imagine anything less than a lifetime of barroom esophageal abuse, a steady diet of scotch and cigarettes – or sandpaper. Part of the allure in the band – at least for me – is in the shades between the major scale melodies of the music and its contradicting, hard-boiled vocal delivery. Their third album, 1992’s Mush, is their artistic pinnacle and is simply one of the best ‘punk’ albums ever recorded. In my opinion, it’s one of the best rock albums of all time, period. Seriously, if you don’t own it, you need to do yourself a favor. For me, flying to L.A. to see this band was a no-brainer. I’d steal a white baby to see this group, and I wouldn’t feel the least bit bad about it.

Mush: The best album in the history of recorded music.

I arrived at LaGuardia a little later than expected (against better judgment I’d stayed out with friends the night before) and of course, I hadn’t planned for the inevitable airport variables. I have a nickname making the rounds at airports all over the country: Random Bag Check. I don’t know if it’s the perpetually grumpy face, a culturally ingrained villainous presumption for Caucasians with slicked-back hair, or if airport security is onto the fact that I like to mentally will terrorist attacks on people and services that waste my time. After check-in, baggage check and gate check, I almost miss my plane before being subjected to everything short of a full-body cavity search by a heavy-set Latina in her forties named Juanita. Really, it’s the most action I’ve gotten in weeks.

I arrived in Los Angeles at 6 p.m. Given the three-hour time leap and my five hours of sleep from the night before, I was beat. The flight wasn’t bad. In fact, it was alarmingly free of incident: no delays, no runway taxing, and best of all, I didn’t find myself wedged between the window seat and a fat person, as I invariably am on domestic flights. I was even able to finish the book I was reading, and I managed to find an airport bar at a layover in Dallas. The Dallas air terminal smelled of cologne and Mesquite. My waitress referred to me as “sugar.” I texted my friend Dannie in L.A. to warn her that I had half a mind to show up smashed. It didn’t happen. I took a bus from LAX to Dannie’s house in Santa Monica. This took forever. I use my frugal transportation habits to later justify splurges on must-haves like records, books and drinks. It works for me. Dannie picked me up in her neighborhood. We went to Ocean Avenue and walked the boardwalk near the beach.

I wanted to do something quintessentially-L.A. while on my trip, like get my asshole bleached or maybe have my balls waxed. Instead, I spent the next afternoon roaming aimlessly around Hollywood. Four hours in the sun and I began to roast. This whole city is like that time you spent the night on your friends couch only to realize early the next morning that his/her windows face east and dude/duder is too fucking poor and/or stupid to get curtains and you would’ve been better off not going to sleep at all. Really, it’s too fucking bright out here.

Best current Los Angeles-area Public ServiceAnnouncement:
“I Lost Me to Meth”

I got on a bus and headed through West Hollywood towards Beverly Hills. The bus driver was unbelievably friendly: I even heard him give a restaurant recommendation to a group of tourists. New York this ain’t. The bus in L.A. is just like a lot of cities though, in that it’s the preferred traversal method for drunks. The drunks in L.A. look a lot different than the ones back east: west-coats alcoholics have nearly identical faces, all of them leathery and orange from the sun. They look like baseball mitts. We were barely into West Hollywood when another of the sunburned imbibers stepped aboard. It was less than five minutes when he began arguing with the bus driver:

DRUNK GUY: “Are you planning on turning the air-conditioner on?”

BUS DRIVER: “No. Every time I do some idiot opens up the windows.”

DRUNK GUY: “Well, if some idiot would turn on the air we wouldn’t have to open the windows.”

BUS DRIVER: “What’d you call me?”

DRUNK GUY: “An idiot. A fucking idiot.” At this point the drunk runs up to the front of the bus and starts screaming at the driver. He’s flapping his hands and generally acting stupid.

BUS DRIVER: “Get your hands out of my face!”

DRUNK GUY: “Get your hands out of my face!”

BUS DRIVER: “If you don’t settle down I’m going to kick you off this bus.”

DRUNK GUY: “You’re a goddamned bus driver! A bus comes every 10 minutes! Pull over – I don’t need this fucking bus!” The bus comes to a screeching halt near the intersection of Santa Monica Boulevard and Avenue of the Stars. The drunk almost falls down. The door opens and the driver shoves him onto the sidewalk. The bus careens back into traffic; the drunk regains composure (relatively speaking) and begins banging his fists on the glass.

DRUNK GUY: “You’re a disgrace! Your whole race is a disgrace! Take your fifty-dollars-a-day job and shove it!”

BUS DRIVER: “Fifty dollars? I make two hundred dollars a day!” The driver gives a reassuring glance to his passengers. They’re horrified. An elderly woman, white as a sheet, is clutching onto her handbag with everything she has. “Sorry about that, folks.” Jesus Christ. Maybe it’s not that different from New York after all.

This is the best record store I’ve ever been to. I’m too embarrassed to tell you how much cash I dropped in this place.

Ten ridiculously named Los Angeles establishments:

1. “funTasia”

2. “Grateful Bread”

3. “Out of the Closet”

4. “Big Wangs”

5. “What Fools these Mortals be”

6. “Panty Raid”

7. “Monkey’s Burger”

8. “Uzbekistan: A Unique Restaurant”

9. “Gower Gulch”

10. “My Way Driving School”

My friend Chris showed up and we started drinking. Seriously. By this point I was terribly sunburned, my Nosferatu whites having metamorphosed into lobster reds, as it is wont to do in the California climes. I look much better under a beer light anyway.

Me and Chris

Silverlake

Velvet kittens. This is one of the most amazing things I’ve ever seen.

I awoke on the third day in Los Feliz with an intense hunger for more exploration. I got my wish: we spent the better part of the afternoon driving around the city.

Echo Park

Los Feliz

Downtown

Dodger’s Stadium

Venice

As we approached Venice beach, I felt something in my nose. I put my hand up to my left nostril and pull back a palm full of blood. Seconds later the nostril gave way and I’m gushing thick gobs of it all over the place. Apparently my fragile capillaries, unaccustomed to the dry California air, decided they couldn’t take it anymore. We parked the car and walked down the boardwalk, blood streaks all over my face, my arms and my pants. I’m really not made for this weather.

Venice Boardwalk

Harry Perry. I bought this guy’s album when I was eighteen years old, after seeing him perform in the otherwise horrible Jane’s Addiction film “The Gift.” My friend McFly and I used to rock out to this album all the time back then. I took Harry’s photo and asked him if he remembered how to play “The Message.” He kicked into the song without skipping a beat and soon I began singing along with him. When he was finished he asked for a tip. I gave him $10.

Malibu

Five amazingly-named Los Angeles-area Realtors:

1. Linda Lackey

2. Ron Viola

3. Rocky Gleason

4. Dave Salzman

5. Aurelio Mattucci

I took a bus into Hollywood and got off on the corner of Santa Monica and Vine. I walked up to Sunset Boulevard, and then Hollywood Boulevard. The L.A. Knitting Factory is nothing like its sister establishment in NYC: for one, L.A.’s is in a shopping center. Above the club there’s a giant fitness center, and a stream of well-built, impeccably manicured women and men exited from its interiors, all frosted blonde and tawny bronze. The culture of appearance is such a pervasive aspect of daily life here. It’s funny, reading the local newspapers you’d thing the entire print industry is supported with display ads offering the latest in Laser Hair Removal, Botox, Bladder Lifts, Aesthetic and Implant Dentistry, Liposculture and Colon Hydrotherapy. I thumb past page after page of ads promising “One-Hour Facelifts,” “Vaginal Rejuvenation,” “Tumescent Sculpturing Lipo,” and “Under-Eye Restylane Therapy.” “Remove up to two gallons of fat!” one ad says. It’s so strange and foreign to me. I’m at the point in my life where I actually like what’s wrong with me: the ghastly skin tone, the receding hairline, the gut, the gap between my front teeth, the funny patches of body hair. I’ve finally begun to identify with it. When I look at the women here it’s not that I find them unattractive – I find myself worrying about them. How are they eating? How much money do they spend on their bodies every year? Do they have low self-esteem? And in the end, after much wrangling over the subject, what bothers me most isn’t the stereotypical Los Angeles association of selling one’s ‘brand,’ but that maybe they’re just being more honest about our consumer culture than people in other cities. Either way, it’s a phenomenon that both scares and fascinates me.

I walked up to the corner of Hollywood Blvd. and La Brea. I was on my way to meet my friend Erin for dinner when I saw some familiar faces making their way up the street. It was Leatherface. I saw Frankie Stubbs in the crowd and immediately cornered him. I shook his hand. I was really nervous so instinctively I began talking his ear off. I told him that Leatherface is my favorite band of all time. I told him that I’d been waiting almost ten years to see them play live. I told him of my love for Gordon Smith guitars. I realized I was blathering by this point. I shook his hand again. He was incredibly gracious about it. He smiled, he nodded and listened. He struck me as an incredible sincere and sweet man. He looks older than my dad. Like an idiot, I shook his hand a third time.

“You live around here?” he asked.

“No, I live in New York.”

“New York?” He looked at me quizzically. “You flew here for the show?”

“Yeah,” I said sheepishly. I felt embarrassed by this point.

“Jesus,” he paused. “Jesus.”

Me and Frankie Stubbs. The stupid grin on my face says it all.

The show: After dinner with Erin and a quick drink at a local bar, I arrived at the club in damn fine shape. The place was packed. I missed the first band. The second band, San Francisco’s Dead to Me, were next. They’re not bad: I’ve never heard them on disc but a cursory observation reminded me of a mix between mid-90s Florida bands like Hot Water Music and early-80s hardcore. Not my thing really, but I enjoyed the performance. I pounded a few PBRs and had a bourbon. Next was Paint it Black, from Philly. I’ll say this: they put on a hell of show. Lots of energy, and the crowd seemed to love them. They’ve got the whole late-80s youth crew thing down to a science, maybe a bit too much. I was getting some serious flashbacks listening to this band: they reminded me of an amalgamation of every youth crew band on the books, from Youth of Today, Judge and Gorilla Biscuits to ‘later’ bands in this vein like Shutdown and In My Eyes. Meh. I already own a copy of ‘Start Today,’ and I haven’t listened to it in years.

Leatherface was up next. I pushed my way through the crowd until I was front and center, body pinned against the stage. The band came out and Frankie said a few curt words. They opened up with ‘Springtime.’ The entire place shit itself.

For a band that doesn’t play out much they were incredibly tight: they didn’t miss a beat; they segued the songs impeccably. Most of the material for the show was culled from the classic Mush and their latest record, Dog Disco (also a damn good disc). For the most part, it was a great rotation of old and new tunes. They didn’t play a single song from Minx or Cherry Knowle (not a monumental loss – though I would’ve killed to hear ‘Pale Moonlight’). They played a few tunes from Horsebox. There isn’t a song in this band’s catalog I don’t know, but they really surprised me with a few numbers, playing stuff I never thought I’d hear live: they played ‘Peasant in Paradise’ from their second album, Fill Your Boots, they played ‘Daylight Comes’ from The Last. They played some singles: ‘Little White God’ and ‘Hops and Barley.’ Goddamn they sounded good. I kept yelling for them to play ‘Bowl of Flies.’ Frankie interrupts: “The problem with you Americans is you don’t know when to shut the fuck up.” True that. They played my favorite song, ‘Dead Industrial Atmosphere.’ In all, they played seventeen songs. They played two encores.

After the show I snagged Frankie’s set list. It still smells like beer.

Ten Los Angeles fun facts:

1. In Los Angeles, there is a tanning business on almost every corner. This is so patently-absurd you could go insane if you think about it for too long, given the city’s year-round climate would be the first place where people could actually save on such expenditures by FUCKING GOING OUTSIDE.

2. The best bar I went to during my trip to Los Angeles was in a strip mall. Taking the law of averages into account, I hope this says more about the city than it does about me.

3. Some of my L.A. friends call Glendale Boulevard the “Axe Corridor,” given the number of Armenians who are wont to frequent the road by foot, a peoples known for their love of (and heavy spraying hand for) Axe Body Spray.

4. Gay cholos like to convene surreptitiously on top of Elysion Park and fuck in its dark pockets of foliage. If you stumble upon some accidentally while taking photos you may be called a “bitch.” Go figure.

5. Amateur hip-hop artists on Venice beach will try their damnedest to sell you a copy of their CDs. The best way to dodge the sales-pitch? Repeat the following: “No thanks, man. I hate hip-hop. Almost as much as I hate black people.” On second thought, don’t say this.

6. People in Los Angeles have taken to saying “really?” a lot, kind of like how Billyburg douche-bags finish every sentence with “right?” I find myself saying the former by the time I leave.

7. Fewer people in Los Angeles own air conditioners than I imagined. But they can all afford cars. I don’t get it.

8. Almost every single person I spoke to in Los Angeles has repeatedly tried (and extols the virtues of) the “Master Cleanse.” Read my previous blogs for my opinions on this.

9. I didn’t notice any smog during my stay in Los Angeles. I did, however, notice that almost nobody smokes.

10. Even Los Angeles is cheaper than New York.

All in all, it was a really fun trip. I hate admitting when I’m wrong, but my opinion of Los Angeles has really changed. It’s a fun town, and there are a lot of fun, great people there. Nonetheless, I was ready to go home. I missed my city. I missed the dirt, I missed the garbage, I missed the stink of the subways and the streets. I missed the ugly people. Hung over and glistening with Aloe Vera, I embarked on my flight back to New York. Six hours later I landed at LaGuardia. I collected my bags and stepped outside to feel the cool east coast air against my face. I felt something in my nose. I cupped my hand against it and reveled in a familiar discovery. I was bleeding again.

The End.