the PALMS WEEKEND'S GREATEST BOOTINGS

a montage of pics from what turned out to be our last Saturday at Stinkers.

by trevortraynor.com

WHEN YOU'RE A DJ, PERSONAL EMAILS FROM MANAGEMENT normally only mean one thing. So when I got one the other day including the words "Stinkers" and "revamp", my first thought was "well, at least I won't be skipping work when I go to Vegas next Saturday."

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, we are no longer the Saturday night DJs at Stinkers. We had several crappy nights recently, an unseemly trend which the twin forces of recession and expansion both fuel, yet leave precious little room for. I'll miss my Saturday nights in Hipsterlake: Geoffrey (pronounce it Jofri) and his drunken Angels, the farting skunks, waking up in the back seat of my Civic at 6:30am on Sunset, the bacon-wrapped hot-dog lady. Well, she sells hot dogs wrapped in bacon. If only women were made of hot dog meat and wrapped in bacon! Anyway, best of luck to the house iPod, who I'm told will be succeeding us. I heard it's a little nervous, so buy it a shot or two. Then drink 'em yourself.

Our most recent deposing got me to reminiscing on all the old gigs we've had and lost during our three years or so as the busiest non-DJs on the Los Angeles DJ circuit. Thus, I give you the Palms Weekend's Greatest Bootings: The Anthology.


THE GOOD HURT
Spirits were high as plans were drawn for a weekly Thursday night event under the supervision of the Good Hurt's manager, a man we called Darth Shmoe, whose curious blend of bland and blunt made me think of plastic forks every time I saw him. We were to share the evening with a local DJ/promoter who shall remain nameless. We had flyers galore, a three-man team, and a roomy local venue. Problems:

a) the flyers were cheesier than a triple cheeseburger with no meat, extra cheese, and slices of cheese in place of bread
b) the other DJ was a total wanker who spent ten minutes laughing at our laptops and telling us we were the most amazing DJs he had ever seen with a big sneer on his face one night at Saints, as if Sum is as blind as I am. I notice nothing. He notices everything.
c) Entry was $10. For a club in the middle of nowhere. On its first night. That only serves beer, wine and that imitation Korean wine-vodka they feed to schoolkids.

The turnout was 'sparse', and Darth Shmoe was immediately on the brink of canning the whole thing that same night. I feel he could have been talked off the cliff, but Sum pulled an executive move and withdrew our participation on the grounds of irreconciliable differences, a.k.a. you guys are wankers. Last I heard, Shmoe is no longer manager, and that local DJ/promoter is still nameless.


THE ARSENAL
See the post Arsenal, Fin (link)


THE GARTER
This gig landed in our lap thanks to Truck, who was bartending there, and used her signature grizzled charm to persuade the higher-ups to give us Thursdays for a trial month. On arrival, there were a few sullen types occupying chairs at the bar, and a handful of weak-kneed college kids on the dancefloor. And that's pretty much the way it stayed until closing time. Nevertheless, I was surprised when I got The Call from management the following weekend. It takes time to cultivate a crowd, especially on the Westside, something so many bars seem unable or unwilling to understand.


CARBON
Carbon's managers gave us Wednesdays like they were giving us a stick of Doublemint. And they let us ride it out for almost a year before pulling the plug, to their credit and our dismay. Despite our best efforts at promotion - i.e. a mass email a week, a bunch of text messages and me handing out flyers to pretty women at Ralphs - turnout was almost bipolar, going from near-packed one night to the fourth floor of the library the next. The total number of times I spent my whole night's profit on a burger and fries at In-N-Out across the street is a figure I never want to know. I was an overpriced Jack and Coke away from calling management myself when a mysterious number finally appeared on my cellphone, and a mysterious man on the other end of the line introduced himself as the new manager, and proceeded to fire us like he was giving us a stick of Doublemint. We didn't belong there anyway; the default Carbon crowd likes the musical selection a bit more mainstream than we can stomach. It's the only bar where I felt like I might get assaulted for having no Beyonce songs.

But on my way out, I did recommend DJs Panamami and Dizam to management (as if I was in any position to recommend DJs), who have been rocking Sunday nights there ever since, and are celebrating their final Sunday there this weekend before they move to Saturday nights, where I will be the resident host. Cee Brown (see the post CEE BROWN, the most slept-on DJ in LA) will also be on the tables weekly, as will P.U.D.G.E., who we are throwing a benefit concert for this Wednesday at the Little Temple after he was stabbed for playing the wrong beat at Project Blowed last month (not making this up). I joke about getting assaulted for having no Beyonce songs, but this man is living it. Sum and I are performing along with many other of our talented friends, and $5 entry fee goes to Pudge's bills, which are considerable, since a DJ with one healthy arm has the cards stacked against him somewhat. So do the right thing and come on out this Wednesday. What, you thought you were getting out of this post without a shameless plug? Dream on, dreamer.