The Late-as-Usual News February 2002 By Falling James

Previous News F.J.'s Top 10 List

You might as well know that the new Leaving Trains CD is finally here, available now on Steel Cage Records. The album's called EMOTIONAL LEGS, for a lot of profound reasons, but mainly cuz it's sexy. It's a rock opera about a sad girl with magic legs, limbs that can predict the future, prevent wars and change the breathing patterns in people who gaze at them. Gams with extra-sensory deception.

Because EMOTIONAL LEGS is our first album since SMOKE FOLLOWS BEAUTY came out in 1996, we added some cool surprises and bonus tracks at the end for a total of 66 minutes of brand-new music. LEGS kicks off with some fast/laconic punk-rock bursts ("Capricious" "Made That Mistake Before," "Big Baby"), but the deepest cuts are the more psychedelic, expressive and darkly melodic tunes later on, like "Allura," with its transcontinental romantic heartache, a slow-twisted version of the Urinals' "Black Hole" and "Use Your Own Weapons Against You," an ambiguous, ominous, quietly creeping song about war and/or lust.

My favorite track on LEGS is "My Lost Danielle," the most personal and confessional and specific (while still mysterious) love song I've ever written . . . It was a long time ago . . . 13 years or more . . . Ask Cathy and Jack, they were sitting in the back of a limousine, which was all ours -- till time ran out and we had to go. And a lament that they tore down the infamous Tropicana motel in West Hollywood . . . I like the way Melanie Vammen's ghostly "ooh" harmonies sail over the sea of angry guitars . . .

Another favorite is "Dumb as a Crayon," which gets really explosive at the end when guitarist Melanie, drummer Dennis Carlin, bassist Andrew Buscher and guitarist I morph the power ballad into a crazy, Who-style psychedelic-dreaming rave-up. "Crayon" was inspired by watching too much FREAKS AND GEEKS on TV. I adore the way actress Busy Philipps portrayed the character Kim Kelly with such an endearing mix of sullen anger, randomly bitchy rebellion, and even soulful wisdom when you least expect it.

Since it's already almost led to violence at one show, I should better explain and clarify the heavy meaning behind the second song on LEGS, "New York Is Gone" (a.k.a. "The Assistant's Magician"). I think longtime Trains followers already recognize that Manhattan is my favorite place in the world, as reflected in older songs like "Extra Vagrant" and "Welcome to New York" (duh!!). But I'll never consider Rude-Adolph Giuliani as a hero or anything less than a scoundrel. In the same fashion that "My Lost Danielle" gets nostalgic about torn-down-and-disappearing Hollywood, "New York Is Gone" decries gentriputrification, the unmagical disappearing act of personal landmarks in NYC and San Francisco. Melanie came up with the music, and I wrote the lyrics, long before September 11, but on a certain level it's prophetic enough, as is "Use Your Own Weapons Against You."

Probably the catchiest tune on EMOTIONAL LEGS is the Ramones-style "Judy Don't Mind," with a bratty lead-vocal turn from drummer Dennis Carlin. "Judy" is about a dedicated follower of fashion victim with a lover who drives "the right car, but on the wrong road." Leggily enough, she does wear the right hose. What else? LEGS includes the Trains covering classics originally by Eddie & the Subtitles ("American Society," also memorably recorded by L7), Black Sabbath ("Never Say Die"), Cheap Trick ("Invaders of the Heart"), the Circle Jerks ("Killing for Jesus") and the Urinals ("Black Hole").

Along with the Trains' core lineup -- guitarist Melanie Vammen, drummer-plus Dennis Carlin, bassist Andrew Buscher and guitarist-voxalist Falling James, a.k.a. your narrator -- EMOTIONAL LEGS was recorded with major contributions from occasional members of the group, including bassist Miss Koko Puff (Pointy Kitty, Sluts for Hire), drummer Maddog Karla (the Controllers, Legal Weapon), bassist Jimi Green (Penetration Moon) and drummer Allen "Alien Rock" Clark (Hot Damn, AC3, ex-Lazy Cowgirls).

For more details about Steel Cage Records (and SCR's Leslie and Larry's rad mag CARBON 14), distributors and how to find EMOTIONAL LEGS -- as well as complete song credits (including secret bonus-track info not even listed on the CD!), anecdotes about each song, current band biography and condensed history -- go to EMOTIONAL BIO elsewhere on this Web of Sights.

LEGS has already received some unreasonably positive reviews in INK.19, THRUST, TOXIC FLYER, L.A. WEEKLY and the LOS ANGELES TIMES, which can be perused on the PRESS page. Keep an eye out for a short article about the band in the next issue of MAGNET magazine.

Now that we're famous, we're arranging a spring 2002 tour across North America. Details to follow.

After our bill with the Beautys, the Dagons and the Helpful Nuns way back on March 21, 2001 (see PREVIOUS NEWS) at the since-closed Al's Bar, the Trains concentrated on getting the album finished, and we didn't perform again until Friday, October 12, 2001, at Spaceland, opening for Dead Moon.

That was a special night for me since I love Dead Moon. They're from Portland and have been around a long time, but I had to go all the way to Europe to find out about 'em in the late '80s! This was only the four or fifth time I'd ever seen 'em (including at the first Las Vegas Shakedown), not to mention getting to be on the same bill! All three Dead Moon-ers, drummer Andrew Loomis, singer-guitarist Fred Cole and singer-bassist Toody, were unfailingly nice to us, and they played a stormy set of the classics ("Dagger Moon," "54-40," "Diamonds in the Rough") and newer songs ("Down to the Dogs," "40 Miles of Bad Road"). Did they encore with "Communication Breakdown"? I think so. As always, Andrew L. burned a candle, using a wax-splattered whiskey bottle affixed to his kick drum as a candle holder, Toody sang some plaintive ballads, and Fred howled like a wild man, something he's been doing since the Lollipop Shoppe back in the '60s. His music is eternally rocking, primal and timeless.

In between Dead Moon and DC Special's energetic opening set , we played with a lot of pent-up energy, since we hadn't performed in so many months. The new war in Afghanistan kept creeping into our songs, and I was reproachful with the actual crowd and the imagined audience and world beyond them in the forgotten shadows and corners of Spaceland.

A few weeks later, EMOTIONAL LEGS was officially released by Steel Cage Records, and we played at Mr. T's Bowl in Highland Park, Friday, November 9, 2001, to mark the occasion. Steel Cage labelmates the 440s drove out from Tucson to celebrate the simultaneous release of their hot new SCR CD (a split with the Chicken Hawks!). The triple-threat bill commenced with Bratty & Jackass, who did these really fierce, angular post-punk (mostly) instrumentals. They were an impressive band I hadn't seen before.

The 440s followed with songs more traditionally punk and rocking, Dave battering his drums relentlessly, Sparkle Plenty screaming over the rumble. They even whipped out their stomping version of the old Trains/Whitey Sims hit "Gas, Grass or Ass."

The L. Trains' set was really fun, ex'speshally because we played mostly new songs. It was also just our third show with bassist Andrew Buscher, who'd replaced Miss Koko Puff a while back. Honestly, the night at Mr. T's Bowl went in a blur. We sold a lot of CDs after the show, and people were so gracious. I was relieved that EMOTIONAL LEGS was no longer just this imaginary, lost whim -- several dusty boxes of recording tape sitting forgotten on a shelf somewhere. It was out in the world, out of our hands. Now it could bounce off other walls. It wasn't our fault anymore . . .

The next show was with the Chicken Hawks, the Starvations and the Goddamn Gentlemen at the Knitting Factory in Hollywood, Saturday, December 29. That was the night where the drunken marine wanted to kill me because he interpreted my jokes as anti-New York and anti-American. "It's such a thin line between clever and stupid," as Nigel Tufnel would say. The Chicken Hawks were magnificent, by the way, with that manic opening drum build-up into "Rollin' and Tumblin'" and Betsy Badly's unholy caterwaul over Sioux City Pete's scuzzy slide-guitar plunges. What a band.

The suddenly productive Trains played again, Saturday, January 12, 2002, at Spaceland, on a bill with the Orphans, Hard 9 and the Humpers. The Orphans are my favorite new punk band, with this crazy cute exhibitionist lead singer named Jenny who says all these rude things to the audience and spazzes out on the ground, and a bassist who's always trying to get himself killed trying to draw attention from her. Songs like "Creature Double Features," plus a chaotic Rezillos cover ("Yeah, Yeah, Yeah"), are short and fast Germs wreckages, total punk rock, silly and scary at the same time.

But my friend Mike Avelar and I missed the Orphans' set at Spaceland this time, you see, because I live not far away from the club. And I've always thought how clever it would be to carry my equipment to the club and just walk from home to Spaceland without having to use the van or get a ride.

Needless to say, my amp is pretty heavy, with no wheels, and it took a lot longer than I'd expected to get there. Mike helped by carrying my guitar, but we arrived just as the last clattering crash of the Orphans' typically brief set concluded inside. We saw nothing, but we were close! And my arms ached.

Hard 9 turned out to be a rocking new band, though I was mostly distracted getting ready for our own set, especially when I ran into actor Busy Philipps near the bar. Busy Philipps from FREAKS AND GEEKS! The one I'd written that silly ballad "Dumb as a Crayon" about! (And first met at the Silverlake Lounge, as described in hideously fannish detail in the PREVIOUS NEWS.) The band hadn't planned on doing the song because our intention was to pull off a nonstop set of all-fast songs, as we were playing with the Humpers. However, plans change, and I no longer cared what the rest of the punks there would think. I stuck "Crayon" early in the set list to make sure Busy got to hear it before the club was hit by a meteor or something.

I was so nervous with her being there, I couldn't look at her side of the room for several songs, including "Dumb," but the rest of the band told me later that she came up and watched near the front of the stage. Awwww!

That was such a thrill, and such a rare collision of the real world with my fantasy life of watching TV (and then writing songs about it). Seeing her there made me question the difference between reality and dreaming, and also made me wish I were 20 years younger! Oh, well. She was so cool, and it made me think in some demented way that this somehow now made me and the rest of the band actual characters on FREAKS AND GEEKS, which was canceled a long time ago. Oh, reality. Oh, high school forever.

It turns out that Busy Philipps, in real life, is friends with the Orphans!! Wow! How often does a television celebrity actually have good taste in obscure, suicidal underground punk bands? I mean, there was George Wendt (Norm from CHEERS) going to Raji's in the mid-'90s to see the Muffs, but other than him, that's been it.

I was kinda in a daze when the Humpers closed the show, but they sounded really full and heavy and fast and powerful, doing old songs like "Anarchy Juice" and new stuff like "Season of the Sneak" and that one about how they, contrary to the Replacements, do NOT want to go to the hospital. What a wonderful evening it was. I probably did dream it all up.

The band's most recent appearance, at Mr. T's Bowl on Saturday, January 26, was a much sadder occasion, a benefit to raise money for Maddog Karla, who's played drums in the Controllers, Legal Weapon, Skull Control and the Leaving Trains. Maddog's recently been diagnosed with a serious case of multiple sclerosis and has gotten worse unfairly quickly.

It was overwhelming to see one of my closest confidantes and most energetic and talkative and lively friends so weakened. The night was bittersweet yet celebratory; it was wonderful spying so many musicians like Alice Bag and Brendan Mullen from the real punk days, as well as key underground scenesters from over the years. I was happiest once they finally carried in Maddog (there had been talk that she might be too sick to come). Her many friends got to tell her how much they love her, and some of her favorite bands played before her, at a benefit that raised almost three thousand dollars for her expenses. The show did so well, in fact, that the fire department arrived, threatening to shut down the club until enough people left to clear the aisles. This all came to a climax as we were just about to go on -- a fireman standing onstage, talking into Melanie's microphone like a nervous poet, warning people to leave or else . . .

Eventually, some people departed the club, and the F.D. allowed us to begin our set. Most of the audience who heroically volunteered to leave simply walked back in through the other entrance a few moments later. We a had spontaneous, bazerk, off-the-walls live-life-while-you-can attitude, and it was probably the best of our recent sets. At one point, founding guitarist Manfred Hofer even came onstage and played an old Trains song we wrote together, "Virginia City." There was a jumble of chords and words as the song went all over the place . . . Somebody screamed. It turned out to be me. . . . During the confusion, Melanie decided to hand over her guitar midsong to a guy in the audience -- some stranger who came up and played the solo while Manfred attacked the rhythm. Wow! Special guests! We tried harder, with Maddog right down there in front. I think all the bands were up for the occasion.

Here's an excerpt from the e-mail that was sent 'round by Phester Swollen (of the Rotters), who helped organize the benefit, and a list of the original lineup of cool and diverse performers (with a few identifying notes from Falling James), who each put on especially motivated sets (despite two cancellations):

All the bands will use Maddog's drums, which are for sale. We might even auction them off, but there will at least be a "for sale" sign on them. It's your chance to own a piece of real punk rock history and worth a hell of a lot more than a jar of Lee Ving's loogies.

The first band plays at 7:00 p.m. sharp, and we do mean 7:00, not 7:05 or later. It will be $5 to get in before 9:00 and $10 after that. Here is the order of bands and times.

7:00 - Ronnie & the Bastards (with Angry Samoan Billy V.)
7:30 - Bangers & Mash (with Edwin Letcher)
8:00 - Maddog Karla (who wasn't well enough to perform)
8:30 - Joe Baiza (of Saccharine Trust)
9:00 - The Controllers (with Stingray and Kid Spike)
9:30 - The Skulls
10:00 - Mike Watt (doing Last and Urinals cover songs!)
10:30 - The Humpers
11:00 - The Rotters
11:30 - The Dogs (they ended up canceling)
12:00 - The Urinals
12:30 - The Leaving Trains
1:00 - The Jack Brewer Band (Saccharine Trust singer)

Thanks,
Phester Swollen - the Rotters

If you'd like to further help Maddog, contact Phester Swollen at PHESSWOLL@aol.com or Maddog herself at skeert@hotmail.com.

The band were also hit hard when Bianca Butthole Halstead was killed in that car crash in New Orleans. Despite her wild-'n'-crazy image in Betty Blowtorch and Butt Trumpet, I always found her to be so sweet and kind-hearted, and now that we're hearing so many testimonials, you realize how many other people she affected, and not just in L.A. I know I'll selfishly miss her. She and I had a special rapport, bonding about being borderline agoraphobics.

Miss Koko talked on the phone with Bianca a day or two before the crash, as half of Betty Blowtorch had quit suddenly and stranded Bianca midway through the tour. She was already trying to move on, and was sounding out Koko about the possibility of playing together. Betty Blowtorch, with Jennifer Finch (ex-L7) filling in, were scheduled to play the Whisky a Gogo in West Hollywood on New Year's Eve with Nashville Pussy and Texas Terri. The show went on with the other bands as a tribute to Bianca, but I was too glum to weather it.

Her death was also a hard blow for Ames Evil, the longtime roadie for Betty Blowtorch and the Leaving Trains (and Texas Terri, Penis Flytrap and the Muffs, at different times). It's still hard to let it sink in. I keep thinking possessively that we -- Los Angeles collectively -- should never have allowed her to leave here, that we should have somehow kept Bianca all to ourselves . . . .

There was a lot to mourn last year. When Joey Ramone died, it was like a door slammed shut on my childhood. "It's not hard not far too reach/we can hitch a ride to Rockaway Beach." My life had been so dull and passive and like a bookworm before I finally saw my first rock & roll concert, while in high school, in January 1978. The lineup was the Ramones, the Runaways and the Quick, and it was the first night in my life where I felt like I really belonged somewhere, that I wasn't the only one who had all these weird sexual frustrations and identity issues . . . and loved loud guitars and fast songs . . . that I wasn't alone! The Ramones were like walking into a forest of distortion, Dee Dee counting out "1,2,3,4" like it was the end of the world in the brief pauses between songs, the wall of real sound from just one guitarist, Johnny Ramone, and Tommy calmly slapping his kit, shades drawn.

Joey was the voice and I think the conscience of the band, balancing the Germanic imagery of "Commando" or whatever with later songs like "My Brain Is Hanging Upside Down" ("Bonzo Goes to Bitburg"). Either way, I'm not happy that death and entropy are ripping away my favorite people and places.

Al's Bar is gone, whisked away by the American Hotel's new landlord, a corporation without much vision or sentimentality. The club closed with no notice, even employees found out during their shifts the last night. I was lucky/sad to be there, and you can read more about it and other things whenever you see a highlighted link like this: Al's Bar.

A lot of these links are to various short reviews I've written and longer interviews I've done with various bands for the L.A. WEEKLY and HIT LIST and CARBON 14. Think of these links as colorful exits or passage ways or digressions or time tunnels . . .

You can also find some of my writing on the L.A. WEEKLY Web site, at www.laweekly.com. Some of the longer pieces can tracked down in the archives, whereas my frequent short reviews about favorite or interesting bands that appear in the Scoring the Clubs section are only up for a week at a time. Click here for my list of the Top 10 albums of 2001, a version that's more detailed than the one published in the WEEKLY and submitted to the VILLAGE VOICE's Pazz & Jop poll.

So, say goodbye to Al's Bar, the only dive in L.A. that felt like home, a magic place . . . and the Pittsburgh Pirates' Willie Stargell, who twice hit home runs out of Dodger Stadium, and had that unique shrug and flip of the bat before settling in at the plate . . . Lance Loud of the Mumps . . . John Lee Hooker, my favorite blues man . . . Bianca Butthole . . . Joey, Joey, Joey . . .

As consolation prizes, there were a lot of great concerts recently in L.A. Here's a wide-ranging roundup of some of the cool bands we've seen over the past few months. Wish you were here! When we tour North America this spring, we'll bring "here" to the lot of you!

A week or so before Al's shut down, I saw an all-too-rare appearance by Project K, with my salty sea ballad faves, the Dagons on Tuesday, July 31 (2001), and a few days later on August 3, the return of the Beautys (who also played Mr. T's and the Garage). And of course that last night at Al's, Saturday, August 11, with the Sights, the Warlocks and a surprise last-minute set from stocking-masked surf-instro combo the Black Widows, who rushed over from an earlier show at Mr. T's when they heard news of the impending closure. Since they play only instrumentals and didn't need a P.A., the Black Widows were able to set up in the backstage area while the Warlocks rambled on in the main room with their extended Velvety jams. I'm glad I got to buy one more soft drink from the best bartender in the world, Stay-C, and smoke out with some of my friends one last time on the patio among the rusty brown brass hearts nailed to the looming brick walls of the century-old hotel.

Did I say fuck progress?

Last year, in August, we also saw the Humpers again at Spaceland . . . an acoustic solo performance by DOA's Joey Shithead also at Spaceland, doing stuff like "The WTO Really Sucks" and trying to exhort passive Angelenos to political and social action, rocking us like a punk Woody Guthrie. He even jumped in the air during a DOA song, which you never see other folkies do . . .

Every year in the neighborhood between Los Feliz and Silver Lake, along Sunset Boulevard, they block off the streets and hold a weekend carnival with lotsa rides and booths and several stages of musicians and dancers. This year I remember seeing W.A.C.O., Radio Vago, the Urinals (only the end of their set, fuck!), the Hangmen, Pigmy Love Circus, the BellRays, and (from a distance, echoing in the hills) Texas Terri & the Stiff Ones, in various shades of bright afternoon glare and evening shadows.

I was severely thrilled to see Nikki Corvette, playing for the first time anywhere in many years, backed up by the Pinkz, at a roller-skating rink called World on Wheels. She was part of a bill put together I think by Kim Cooper, editrix of SCRAM magazine, and it was a genuine thrill for me to hear her big 1977 hit "Young & Crazy" (later well covered by the Bobbyteens) in person, as well as "He's a Mover" and other catchy songs from the recent Nikki & the Corvettes collection on Bomp. The only problem was that after waiting for so many years, her set was too short! Luckily, it turned out that Nikki Corvette would play again.

A few days later, Dennis, our friend Eric and I crawled down the hill near the Griffith Observatory to perch on the hillside near the back fence of the Greek Theater and listen to surprisingly good sound quality of the Go-Go's, who were sometimes glimpsed through the trees and fence as little dolls amid the bright box of the stage. The Go-Go's were g-g-g-great. They encored with a really rocking but harmoniously sweet Joey Ramone tribute, a lovely version of "I Wanna Be Sedated." That alone was a thrill, and hearing rarities like Jane's S&M ode "Fun With Ropes." Even the new songs from GOD SAVE THE GO-GO'S sounded good.

I saw Godard's BAND APART at the Nuart and then a week later at the Aero theater in Santa Monica. I love that movie, the way they race through the Louvre in 9 minutes flat, setting a museum-visitor speed record, the way their shoes clatter in the echoey hallways, as Anna Karina and friends run past the paintings. I love the playful and poetic language of Godard's films, the surprise twists and messing about with form and perspective, the subversion, the frequent usage of Karina . . . that's not a real band, a band apart, it's a movie, but it was more rocking than most bands.

In late August I also saw a rocking set from the Vice Principals at Spaceland, and two nights of Ex-Girl, first at the Spaceland with the Excessories and Third Grade Teacher, and then at the Knitting Factory. That week I also suffered through a horrible mainstream rock band from San Francisco that insist on calling themselves "Falling James," against the real Falling James' wishes (that would be me). At first they claimed the name had nothing to do with me, that they'd never heard of me, that they were named after a suicidal friend . . . then the guitarist admitted she'd heard about me, since she was a fan of Hole. Duh! No kidding! It's weird when people you don't know name their band after you. (And in my case, strange as it sounds, I've already had a band in Italy named after me. Enough's enough!!) It's even weirder when a band with your name sucks, and people might think you have something to do with it! Buyer be-fucking-ware!! There is only one Falling James, and she's too much as it is!

September's delights included a rare local show (at the Knitting Factory Hollywood) by the Clean, all the way from New Zealand. They were more Velvet Underground-ish live than I'd expected, although they splintered in other rock formations, beautiful and strange and simple and sometimes transportive . . . A lovely interlude, a thicket of swooning violin/viola bow-scrapes and violet piano diggings from W.A.C.O. at Spaceland . . . Radio Vago at Spaceland . . . The always powerful and rocking and funny and dramatically soulful Cheap Trick, even without Bun E. Carlos (out with back surgery) at this appearance at House of Blues (West Hollywood franchise) . . .

October commenced with a bang when the Detroit Cobras made their L.A. debut on Friday, Oct. 5, at Spaceland (on a bill with The Lisa Marr Experiment and The Rapture). I always play their two albums constantly, and so it was exciting to see Rachael Nagy, who was so foul-mouthed and yet funny, and gang in person for the first time. Her voice was more ragged than on record, but it was nonetheless a total joy to be immersed in those fiery vocals. The Cobras are just playing a lot of old R&B obscurities and girl-pop covers, but they are amazing in their own totally unique way. I tried to compliment guitarist Maribel Restrepo afterward when I saw her in the 7-11 across the street, but she seemed in another world and the idea of fan worship was probably inconsequential and incomprehensible at the time.

I saw Sparks for the first time (!?) at the Key Club the next night. They were everything I'd dreamed and more; Ronald so deadpan in his pantomimes and incongruous dancing and skits between songs, Russell hopping around, turning away in semicircles at times, only a drummer accompanying them, hitting real drums and triggered drum sounds. It was cool, the songs really pulsed, old and new. I remember "Bullet Train" and "Aeroflot" and, shit, I'm spacing right now. They really impressed me, both doing something unusual and mutant and also having such intelligent, sarcastic lyrics and unforgettable melodies.

The Sparks show ended so early (much against the band's and audience's wishes) that we had time to zoom across town to catch Tammy Faye Starlite & the Angels of Mercy at Zen Sushi in Silver Lake. They always make me laugh so hard it's like exercise. Plus, the songs really rock. They're a great band.

'Round October 15 at Spaceland, I witnessed the rock and roll elemental punk fury of the Jet Boys, from Japan, who played along with an interesting swampy garage-rocking band, the Porch Ghouls. The Jet Boys were all punk minimalism, short chaotic tumbles of songs and rants. They did a frantic Stooges cover, "I Got a Right," and the singer got naked and started going nuts.

A few days later I saw the Dagons at CIA, an interesting club in the Valley, designed like a carnival with various rooms of elaborate furnishings and amazements. It seemed like a perfect setting -- and ultimately was -- for the Dagons' magic-inducing, fairy-tale pleadings, although the club apparently had some strict rules that contradict carny ethos and make the experience a little too strict perhaps. We were all dazzled by the club's furnishings, though.

Dennis helped us get in to Universal Amphitheater (the first place since Sept. 11 where I've personally noticed the whole holding-mirrors-under-cars-to-look-for-bombs routine). Despite all the questions and examinations, we still got in to see George Carlin, the subversive and language-inspired comedian, who rocks, so this also counts as a rock band I've seen. He was very funny . . . and more bitter than ever, I thought. Of course those two qualities work well together, so the whole room was exulting and laughing over all the recent anti-terrorist and corresponding anti-freedom pressures around us . . . I wish I'd seen Bjork and also Bob Dylan when they were in town. Can I borrow someone's memories?

November revealed more rarities, like SCRAM magazine's two-day Scramarama festival, set in the architecturally marvelous and detailed grand old Palace Theater downtown, Friday-Saturday, November 2-3. There was no real meaning except getting to see a bunch of the kind of obscure but legendary and in many cases personally resonating and favorite musicians, the kind of bands that you'd never think would ever play here, but here they are:

Like the Cynics. You've heard me rant in the past about the equally fine Honeyburst, a spinoff of the Cynics themselves, a genuinely legendary garage-rock band from Pittsburgh. Not only have they done some cool covers of '60s nuggests, they've also written a ton of original songs like "Baby, What's Wrong?" that are hall-of-fame-level rock & roll classics. And the Cynics hadn't played L.A. since 1994. We'd heard at one point they'd broken up, but they were obviously back together, and sounded great, both in the echoing, imposingly elegant theater on Saturday, and a few days earlier, Thursday, Nov. 1, at the Garage, where they played a mostly different set list. The Cynics have always had a lot of great songs to choose from.

But Scramarama was great for so many other reasons, like my first experience with Stephen Friedland, who performs solo under the name Brute Force. He was once on Apple Records, and had his Apple single, "King of Fuh" (reverse the words), banned. He played in and to the vacant spaces of the giant theater. I sat in the first balcony, by myself, spying on him. He played a small electric piano, these really lovely melodies with absurd lyrics, like "To Sit on a Sandwich," which has this timeless, intense urgency and yet it really is literally about sitting on sandwiches. And the one about the world being full of so much bullshit, a song about cows, had this really appealing tumbling piano riff.

Brute Force did comedy too, like inventing a new pep-rally cheer for downcast Hollywood . . . acting out sounds of various letters of the alphabet and props he played with . . . and then finally the simply beautiful, dainty ballad about the fuh king, such a pretty and emotional (and yes, silly) song no matter which level you take it on. Mr. Force was a wondrous revelation to me, and I was inspired and charmed by his multi-leveled, intelligent and loving approach to his performance. Plus he was hilarious. Plus his songs were glorious.

Almost all the acts I caught (I arrived too late for Edwin Letcher's Liverpudlian parody, Bangers & Mash, for instance.) were great in their own reclusive ways. It was another chance to see Ms. Nikki Corvette, and in this setting she and the Pinkz were able to play a few more songs. I love her sexy sense of fun and let's-party attitude, and the eternally teenage spirit of her rocking songs . . . The Loons were better than expected, an apparently '60s-revival band that nonethless invoked these kinda trance-inducing, psychedelic jams that combined with the heights of the theater tripped me out and took me other places.

Some people encountered ghosts in the various hallways and basements of the big theater. It was a strange and magical old place, falling into some disrepair, which is why it was apparently now cheaper and easier for fringe performances to occur there. There was a reunion on Friday night by two of the original members of the Music Machine, and their set revealed that they had a lot of good songs. When they played their big hit, "Talk Talk," I got genuine literal shivers rattling up my spine. That's excitement, that's a great song . . .

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