Night time is the right time

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Tower Bar is officially the latest victim of the city’s crackdown on bars and clubs without cabaret licenses. The City Heights bar follows Live Wire and Scolari’s Office (editor's note: the owners of new incarnation, The Office, say they have all the proper permits) on the list of bars that had discontinued booking bands and DJs because the city requires an establishment to have a license if, essentially, there are people moving around to live music. “A bunch of places got letters back in June basically saying, ‘You don’t have an entertainment license, so stop having shows,’” says Tower owner Mick Rossler, who continued to have shows despite the letter but ultimately decided to start cutting through the red tape lest he begin getting cited under what he describes as a “stupid law.” However, Rossler adds, “I’ve been talking with the guy who’s kind of in charge of getting one, and he’s been really cool.” The cancellation of live shows at Tower means local blues-rockers Lady Dottie and the Diamonds have officially ended their longest residency (they’ve played at the Tower nearly every Monday for more than four years) and are moving to North Park’s U-31. Rossler says he doesn’t “see a reason why he wouldn’t” receive a license, but adds that until then, “we just have people playing records, so as long as people aren’t dancing, I guess that alright.”

In other local news, Delta Spirit on Aug. 26 re-released a re-mastered version of their 2007 debut, Ode to Sunshine, on Rounder Records. Buzz on the album has been great, with a four-star review in the September issue of Spin and a scheduled appearance on Late Night with Conan O’Brien on Sept. 3, followed by a U.S. tour opening for Dr. Dog that stops at The Casbah on Sept. 17.

Following opening slots for the Yeah Yeah Yeahs, Rilo Kiley and Black Lips, Grand Ole Party have been tapped to open for space-rockers Spiritualized on a 12-date U.S. tour.
—Seth Combs

New turf

The whisperings surrounding Turf Club are true—Tim Mays and Sam Chammas, owners of the Golden Hill DIY steakhouse and piano bar for the last 10 years, will no longer run it. Mays says their lease expired a year ago, and the owners of the building decided not to renew the contract, citing a longstanding desire to run the Turf themselves.

The change of ownership, Mays says, will be finalized in October or November, at which point Chammas and Mays plan to open a new spot in La Mesa called The Riviera Supper Club and Turquoise Room.

Mays says the unexpected change turned out to be a good one. The Riviera and Turquoise “will feature a much larger grill for patrons to grill their steaks, more seating capacity, a really special separate bar inside the restaurant and a parking lot with 50 spaces.”
—Kinsee Morlan

Poolside at the Lafayette

Q: What’s better than lounging poolside on a Sunday afternoon?

A: Doing so while surrounded by five to 10 of your best friends, sipping on icy cocktails and moving to the sounds of the city’s newest DJ transplant, Eric Johnston.

Thanks to the fun-loving minds at Lafayette Hotel (2223 El Cajon Blvd. in North Park), who open their Olympic-size swimming pool to the public for a paltry cover charge, Sunday poolside parties have become the activity of choice for North Parkers in need of a new house of worship. With a full bar and servers who bring the drinks directly to you, Lafayette is an ideal setting both for those wanting to end their weekend with a bang or bring it down with a soft landing.

Johnston, a recent arrival from Detroit, boasts an expansive music library with an emphasis on minimal-tech and tech-house, as well as a sturdy foundation of artists ranging from Hall & Oates and Journey to Blondie—and everything in between.

A smoking lounge sits just outside the pool area, allowing the splash zone to remain free of ash, smoke and butts. For those who merely want to decompress without the sometimes-frenetic energy in the swimming pool, a hot tub is just steps away.

Poolside mass begins at 1 p.m. and lasts until around 7.
—Justin Roberts

De-evolution at Del Mar

When Devo formed in Akron, Ohio, in 1973, do you think they ever dreamed they’d be playing the infield at Del Mar 35 years later?

The experimental art rockers signed with Warner in 1976 and moved to Los Angeles, where they were embraced by the punk-rock scene. Devo’s mix of aggressive synthesizers, discordant melodies and crude costumes put them at the forefront of new wave.

The concept of “de-evolution” is predicated on the notion that the human species isn’t evolving but regressing, which made Devo the perfect band for the paranoid ’80s.

“What’s that one song they do?” I overheard a clueless attendee ask her friend.

If the Turf Club is ground zero for affluent and attractive San Diegans, then the Del Mar infield is Cougar Central, where women with fake breasts drink bad chardonnay and stare at the sun.

Buzzed on potent beers from a micro-brew festival, a crowd of 30- and 40-somethings cheered on the spud boys as they performed 17 tunes, including “that one song”: “Whip It.” Devo started out dressed in yellow jumpsuits and red energy domes and peeled off bits and pieces until they wore nothing but black shorts, T-shirts and knee socks.

That’s Devo in a nutshell: Preposterous yet simple. By sticking with their shtick, they’ve created a brand that ridicules the notion that the clothes we wear are integral to “being cool.” Yet so-called fans still shell out big bucks to wear plastic flower pots on their heads. Go figure.

The highlight of the set was the “Smart Patrol/Mr. DNA” medley that showcased nonsensical lyrics delivered with operatic urgency. After a brief intermission, Booji Boy, Mark Mothersbaugh’s alter-ego, closed out the show with “Beautiful World,” an ironic song released in 1981, shortly after a new war-hawk president had taken office.

Good thing those days are over.
—Jim Ruland

The Enrique Experience

Much like the man that approached me during my youth in rural Mexico with the promise of the American dream in exchange for swallowing some heroin filled balloons, my memories of Scolari’s Office are tainted and bittersweet.
Sure, the place reeked to high heaven and was stained with any and all kinds of bodily fluids. More often than not, the patron next to you would be counting loose change in hopes of scoring another beer. And, perhaps, a cure for carpal tunnel or Tourette’s syndrome could’ve been found by taking a culture from its gummy carpet, but the place had character.

There was a certain charm to the gutter-punk house of ill repute with its striped lavender and blue façade, wood plank ceiling, busty blonde sexetary logo and that creepy banner with the two old ladies advertising their karaoke night. But, alas, there’s no stopping the gentrification machine. And so, from its puke-tainted ashes, The Office was born.

The first night I went to the new spot, I faced not one but two burly security guards and—gasp—a cover charge. The crowd was less AMVETS-clad hipsters and more tramp-stamped hotties and Downtown bros—gag. Second time I stopped in, DJs Saul Q and Ikah Love were behind the ones and twos, and hate to admit it, but I had a jolly time.

The days of clandestine 2:05 a.m. beer-buying, however, are gone, and most of Scolari’s original wildebeest patrons migrated down El Cajon Boulevard to Chasers before the gentrification dominoes took that place down, too. Oh, and the whereabouts of the coin-operated toy machine that used to take up half of the dance floor at Scolari’s are still unknown.

As I left the revamped hub, an elderly vagrant grabbed me by the shoulders and shook me violently, saying repeatedly: “I’m the King of Siam!”

Living the dream baby, living the dream.
—Enrique Limón

• Published: 09/02/2008
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• Other Stories by Jim Ruland
• Other Stories by Justin Roberts
• Other Stories by Kinsee Morlan
• Other Stories by Seth Combs

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