Fish & Chips: Using High-Tech Tools to Learn More About Fish
Photo by James Norton
Sign No. 47 that your club may have jumped the shark: When DJ Calvin Harris plays a sold-out set and the club attracts extras from the lost Troma classic, Bodybuilding Snow Bunny Patrol 6: Snow Jobs. I love Voyeur and all, but with Fluxx and Quality Social weeks away from opening, it might be time to reevaluate your demographics. I like my pink fishnets where they really belong: In porn.
Locals Only
Psychedelic spaz-rockers The Burning of Rome are already well known for their raucous and interactive live shows, but the band got a little too close for comfort with U-31 security on Friday night. The band was about halfway into their set at the North Park nightclub when frontman Adam Traub decided to stage-dive off of his keyboard and into the crowd, making contact with a mirrored disco ball on the way down. U-31 security rushed over, but not to make sure Traub or the audience were uninjured.
According to a story written by Scott Lloyd and posted on the band’s MySpace blog, club security wrestled Traub to the floor and started punching him. Guitarist Joe Aguilar was, apparently, also knocked to the ground during the melee, followed by the entire band being escorted from the club until police arrived.
“To everyone that came out to the show, we’re sorry you had to witness such an ignorant abuse of power by the club staff,” the band writes on their blog. “To U-31, fuck you—tame the neanderthals working in your security staff.”
U-31 owner Steve Billings says that, while the club regrets the incident, U-31 staff did what they had to do.
“Look, I realize their show is a bit crazy and that is their thing, and we were all ready for that kind of high energy show,” Billings says. “They disrespected many of the patrons and the property of U-31 and, really, that was all fine, but it got to a point where my staff felt the safety of the patrons was at risk.”
After police arrived, the band refused to press charges and were allowed to reenter the club to retrieve their instruments and gear. On their MySpace page, they’re asking fans to send them any pictures or videos of the incident.
Evidence for future legal action?
Nope. Traub tells CityBeat that it’s so they “can spread the word to not go to this club.”
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Metal band As I Lay Dying have named their forthcoming album in a novel way, holding a contest in which the band’s fans could submit suggestions. The winner was Josh Newton, who recommended The Powerless Rise.
The Enrique Experience
It was borderline UCSD-ish. “Ladies bring your burkas! Men bring your AKs!” an invite to a Burka Party in celebration of Mawlid An-Nabi—a Muslim holiday observing the Prophet Muhammad’s birthday—read on Yelp.
On the comment wall, there was talk about fashioning Snuggies into burkas. “Ladies, make sure you come with your father, uncle, brother and male cousins!” one confirmed attendee’s message read, while another’s was whorishly woeful: “Please don’t stone me for dancing like a Ho in my Burka.”
The party was being thrown by user Tony N., the man behind a previous fête dubbed “The 27th Annual Playa Haters Ball Fried Chicken Eat Off and Drunken Hullabaloo.” I was so there. Who knows? Perhaps Jiggaboo Jones’ Islamic counterpart, Infidel Irene, would show up with a six-pack of O’Doul’s.
Unfortunately, the vague “a big-ass field in San Diego” location proved too hard to decipher—and another user’s finger-wagging words struck a cord. “This event is inappropriate—unless you are actually a middle eastern Muslim and are making fun of yourself,” she said.
So, inspired by her United Colors of Benetton message, I headed down South Bay way. Sure, it’s too early for the garish Technicolor display of Cinco de Mayo and Party City’s “Tequila Pop Dude” costume and “Fiesta Moustache” favors, but what the hell.
The locale was Lydia’s Night Club (1628 Palm Ave.) Boasting a Salvation Army drop-off box in its parking lot and sitting next to IB’s Apache Trailer Lodge, it’s signaled only by an MGD sign with a tri-color neon map of Mexico in the background. The banda music was thumping and the dropped ceiling tiles water-stained. Beer was served in buckets, as ballers munched on Takis “fuego”-flavored corn chips and proudly showed their status with endangered species in their footwear and Buchanan’s whiskey on their tables.
After the Mexi-adventure ended, I noticed an old lady peddling sweaty burritos from a war-torn Igloo chest. I complimented the flavor and freshness of her meat.
“Gracias,” she replied.
“It should be,” another patron intervened. “It was barking earlier today.”
I declare jihad on this shit.
View from a Stool
“Where ya’ll going? We’re just about to start,” says local rapper Miki Vale to a couple who look like they’re leaving Vale’s weekly Bohemian Rap City night at Kadan. The couple politely explain that they have to split but promise to come back another night.
“Oh well,” says Vale once they’re out of earshot. “I guess we better get started.”
Such is often the case at the weekly open-mic and hip-hop night at the North Park club. Vale says that sometimes it’s packed, and sometimes there’s just a few regulars looking to hone their skills on the mic. On this particular Sunday, it seems that it’ll fall into the latter category, but it doesn’t stop anyone from performing as if the place is packed. A little more than a dozen people gather around the turntables while a group of females grind, pop and take advantage of an empty dance floor.
“Tonight is the last day of Black History Month,” announces Queen Kandi Cole, an L.A.-based MC who performs with Cale as the group 50/50. “So, we’re gonna do a lot of black songs.”
“Uh, yeah, we have a lot of those,” responds a chuckling Vale before both launch into the song “Black Girls Rock.”
Throughout the course of the night, about six other rappers perform over beats provided by Vale and DJ Niomiesoulfly. A cowboy hat, of all things, is passed around church-collection-plate-style for donations so that 50/50 can make it to South by Southwest, where they’ve been invited to play a show with Invincible and Psalm One.
“It’s hard to find places out here to perform,” a rapper named Deen tells me after performing on a few tracks. He moved here about three months ago from Philadelphia, where he says there are plenty of places for local MCs to spit. And who knows what’ll happen with Bohemian Rap City. Open-mic nights, it seems, much like the crowd on this Sunday, are gone as quickly as they arrive in San Diego. A few clubs have tried but stopped after awhile, citing problems with the crowd and weak bar sales.
But given time to grow, Rap City could become a go-to destination for anyone who enjoys hip-hop, whether it’s performing or listening. Judging by the talent on this night, not to mention the vast reservoir of ignored rappers in this town, it’d be a damn shame to lose this kind of thing in its infancy.
