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It’s a Friday and the sun is shining. We are currently in Long Beach and by all good reasoning I should be joining Jian on the sands, scrambling for the skeletal shade thrown from all these palm trees… But instead I found myself on a train, Blue Line- all the way back to L.A.
My solo trip is a personal one, more or less. Not just a day of indulgence, a little deeper this time. An adventure of inspiration, of sourcing a spark, so to speak. This will make sense eventually, I hope.
It was a comfortable 86 degrees day, warm but still worthy of a pair of Jeans- and I’m cruising into Hollywood Highlands. Familiar territory after our stay here last week. Arriving there I see nothing has changed as I expect it never will. There is the kid busking for money by pounding away at overturned paint tins with an adults drumming skill. The same super hero mascots parading for loose change (f.y.i it is one if not the only- place on Earth where you can legally busk without a permit, as many of those who do are out of work actors), only today another has joined
the ranks, Michael Myers from the Halloween franchise. I go to the visitors centre and the wonderful staff there inscribe my map with bus routes and walking instructions to get me to the two places I definitely want to get to.
This is how I found myself on the 180 to Wilshire Blvd, via Fairfax Ave. We pass thrift shops and tattoo parlours, people sweating in the streets. Out of New Hollywood in this direction things get a little more real without the utter desolation of downtown, which rattles with tumbleweeds. As a tour guide explained to me earlier in the week, in this part of town you can play the guessing game as to peoples occupation in the Fairfax area. If they are short and beautiful- they are an out of work actor. If they are short and shirtless and jogging with an ipod, they are an actor with work. The key to this is being short, as Hollywood does not like the tall types. Why? Because it involves extra work for camera grips that typically have lenses angled to a degree perfectly suited for those five foot five off the ground. If you are in ‘Old Hollywood’
(not far from Fairfax/Sunset) and you see someone ‘artistically dressed’ but a combination of one of the following: beautiful/ugly/Tim-Burton-esque/with the option of being either tall or short … then you are looking at a musician, most of whom have few permanent residencies in town. Interesting. I guess the other face too look out for are: pale skinned, red headed, ipod wearing, map carrying, camera toting tourists like me. And you got to watch out for them, they will lie and maim to get where they want to be. Mark my words.
On Fairfax the bus passes the old Largo venue. In a prior entry I wrote of my experience at the ‘new’ Largo, the music/comedy/cabaret club that has its own sub-culture here in LA and from which 90 percent of the music that has changed my life originated from. The owner and staff moved to the new location (not far from Melrose Place) late last year. Prior to then, from the mid nineties the club was on Fairfax Avenue. Here Elliot Smith performed until his death, Jon Brion got his start and built a reputation for being L.A’s hottest musical producer, Aimee Mann was given her post ‘Til Tuesday
open door when nobody else would give it to her. Michael Penn strummed his guitar here. Fiona Apple finds it the only place on earth she can perform without wanting to break down. Jack Black started here when nobody else gave him a chance. Rufus Wainwright, Ben Folds, Neil Finn, The String Quartet, Keane, Flight of the Concords… among others started here; with the comfort, support and respect of the only musical venue in town that worked purely on talent, content and diversity. It utterly expels the superficiality that plagues the rest of LA and is proud of it. And now that original building is an empty husk; dusty windows and boarded up door. The building slipped past the window- so easily missed. I decided on my way back from where I was going to stop and get a photo.
Changing at the end of Wilshire to the number 2 bus to Westwood; my destination. Again passing thrift stores, fish taco joints and a plethora of lost cat signs all of which seem to answer to ‘Louis’… I hopped off at the corner of Glendon and Wilshire Blvd. The day was getting warmer. Also, random note: there are hundreds
of lost cat/dog/bird ‘Lost’ signs all over new, old and exterior Hollywood. This is because trained animals are a rarity and are very expensive to re-train. If one goes missing the owner will pay extraordinarily high sums of money for its return. Many of the animals make more money than actors on soaps and independent features.
Within a five minute walking distance I came to my destination: The Westwood Memorial Park, hidden behind tall buildings at 1218 Glendon Ave. I slipped inside and watched people clambering over Farah Fawcetts grave like vultures. Eager to get their photo with her recently laid wreath. I wandered around and passed Marilyn Monroe’s gravesite, covered in dried up flowers and pennies. Heather O’Rourke, the child actress from Poltergeist who oddly died of a heart attack in her early teens. Walter Mattau. Truman Capote. It was an incredibly small cemetery but there was a lot of talent left to the worms here. But the person I wanted to pay respects to was far more obscure and little did I know- far harder to gain access too.
Robert Bloch is one of my favourite authors. I scour the universe for his material, the majority
of which is currently out of print. This is so unfortunate because his stuff is a font of gold. He started out pure pulp but elevated himself to cult status during the sixties with the publication of his little wee novel … “Psycho”, which became a notorious film by Alfred Hitchcock. And so his fame began. I’ve read nearly everything and love his stuff. Stephen King has often said without Bloch he would never have had the inspiration to write. Big words. Bloch, who mainly wrote horror, suspense, detective and science fiction stories was the master of wicked, naughty boy puns and word play, often quoted as saying: “people think I’m so bad, but I’m lovely! I have the heart of a child! I keep it in a jar on my shelf.” He died in 1994 and was interred here, in a locked crypt barred access to the public called ‘The Prayer Room’.
So how did I get in? No, liquefaction was out of the question and I wasn’t about to dislocate my joints like that guy from the old X-Files episode we all remember- and sliiiippp through the bars… No, I did the next best thing. I went
to the staff (very well dressed and used to dealing with celebrities) and told them that I was distantly related to Bloch from before the war. My last name is Dries, the origins of which are German- as are Bloch’s (though he was actually Jewish). Aaron, too- is a Jewish name. My cock and bull story involved split immigration to Australia and America prior to Hitler, with the ancestry blurred and in all honesty, unclear to even me. I explained to them that if access is limited, that is fine. I was by no means a close relative and might as well be a stranger. They said no, that’s fine. And with key in hand, I went in.
Well as soon as I was in the crypt, everyone in the cemetery wanted in. I was fending off tourists with their cameras out left right and centre. I deplored to them to please leave and to talk to the staff before trying to gain access to the room. Some listened, some did not. I ended up asking one man to leave before he ‘fucked this up for me. Don’t make me call security.’ That got the message through. My minor
(….) manipulation of truth and honesty had me feeling a little guilty (and to be honest I’m sure access could be gained upon request of the key, I just didn’t want to run the risk of being told ‘no’ because paying my respects to ‘THE MAN’ is something I’ve wanted to do all my life), but once alone, I allowed my eyes to adjust to the dark and continued.
The location of his ashes was listed as stack M-20, a glass cabinet that was very easy to find and centred in the room on a large diamond shaped dais. And there he was, his ashes inside an urn in the shape of a hardback novel, next to his wife who sadly outlived him by a decade and a half.
So small… It really was the size of a book. Nothing more and nothing less. Could all of the man’s words really be reduced down to this? He exists so large in the minds and memories of so many people- and this is all that’s left, all it comes down to? A bit of dust drying away inside a vault inaccessible to the majority of people who are inspired
and changed by him? It’s a sad little thought and miniscule against larger topics of higher regard in this world but on this particular Friday, in that stuffy little room… it meant all the world to me. I touched the glass very lightly and took my photos. There was an old Xeroxed picture of him and his wife in a cheap frame within the glass. He looked just like anyone’s grandfather. Friendly and alive, though dying a little more with every passing minute. His smile a mockery when put in the same vault as his remains. There was a vase built into the framework about the glass for flowers, it was empty and looked as though none had been there for some time. I contemplated tearing a small page from my map resource, scribbling down a small message with my pen and slipping it in. But what would I write? Who was I writing it for? For what purpose? What could I put down in words that I couldn’t just think to myself, or say out loud inside that room? ‘Thanks for everything, Bob?’ How pathetic does that sound? The entire thing is pathetic. My small deception in getting here:
pathetic. Me taking photos of a dead mans urn: pathetic. A great writer, a huge influence, dead and gone with only grey particles and a faded photograph to remember him by: utterly pathetic. Feeling uneven and a little sad, but happy at the same time for accomplishing something I’ve always wanted to do, I left, handed in the key and the woman at the front desk spoke to me about meeting Robert’s wife prior to her death a year and a half ago. ‘She moved back to Canada after he died and missed him every day. She died of cancer like him. Sad that, dying of the same thing your husband died from. You’d know what was coming every day.’
Back on the bus. And stopping off at Fairfax Avenue to see the remains of the old Largo venue. I scrapped away at the centimetre thick grime on the front windows and looked in. It looked like everyone’s empty school hall, only covered in newly found celebratory mould and grit. Light from the rear windows throwing broken shards of light into the room. Just enough illuminance to see the remains of what once may have been a bar, a
stage, an overturned chair. With my ipod in and listening to live recordings made within the room, I convinced myself and somehow became the conduit for ghosts and memories I have no association too. On the outer frame of the locked front door there was a small, hand written inscription.
“So long Fairfax
no time to grieve,
if we don’t fly now
we’ll probably never leave”
And a tiny little heart lies underneath, a miniscule and otherwise meaningless punctuation without me instilling meaning in it. My guess is it was either written by Mark Flannigan, Jon Brion or a fan. The words themselves and the sadness they convey says more Flannigan/Brion over a fan, you can taste the regret and memories instilled in the words. This implies Flannigan though the deceptively simple rhythm and rhyme is pure Brion. So I’m unsure, but I do have my suspicions.
I went around the back of the building and took some more photographs. There was the ‘Largo Parking only’ sign that I had seen in countless videos and photographs, hand written by the staff years ago. Here is where Elliot Smith and Sean Watkins and Aimee Mann would have
gained entry to the building, perhaps shared a quiet drink and maybe even a few loud words. I sat there and listened but heard nothing. I imagine that on this spot there may have been some of the infamous behind the scenes fights between Brion and Elliot Smith, who had been very close but had a friendship ending fall out over Elliot’s heavy substance abuse and his adamant refusal for help.
What I planned as an average outing was soon turning into a major introspective … event, I guess. I personally think that you go through your life accumulating knowledge and likes/dislikes. This is something you do- like a sponge- the way children ask so many questions in early development. We do this through school and university- and like the absorptive nature of kids, we do the same with tastes. And part of the selection of what we do or don’t like helps form a part of our personality. It’s both the choosing and the end choice that helps you define who you are and even what you want to do with your life. Like, as a child I knew I wanted to make films because I saw and
absorbed up films to the extent that I knew this is what I wanted. That stuck. Even today. With music and literature I was exposed to something and with that soon followed inquisitive sourcing, then the love and admiration of certain artists. It’s only natural. We all have those singers or writers who just DO IT for you. Some people adore Radiohead, to the extent that it becomes a part of their personality. Hence why seeing them live is such an event- its like a circle opening and closing at the same time. Quite a feeling. Some people love the Beatles, others Brittany Spears. It doesn’t matter who. It just matters that you like, maybe even love something someone has created. For themselves, for you. Inspiration comes from this and that is a great thing. When things get bad, inspiration can get you through. Or relativity. Ever felt down and listened to a song that either a) somehow expressed exactly how you were feeling and you suddenly felt not so alone, or b) said something that made you forget all your troubles? That’s relativity, the string we tie between something inanimate and ourselves. We instil meaning in what we hear
and see. Like horoscopes.
So to track down the source of inspiration, to see where one of the writers who inspired you to write remains- or to see the building from which your entire musical repertoire sprung… is a little like looking inwards and outwards at the same time. You feel haunted and sad, but also happy and enlightened. It’s like looking in an abandoned, closed down club space and seeing yourself dancing in the empty room.
I left Fairfax on a bus travelling up Sunset Blvd in the Direction of West LA. I stopped off at Amoeba records (man I love that place) and traded in a couple CD’s and a book that have been weighing down my bag for a while for a few other CD’s. It defeats the purpose of loosing the weight, but my ears are lighter for it.
From here I hopped back on the bus down Sunset, sat next to an aging Vietnam Vet with no teeth who was hilarious and sweet, he commented on my sunglasses saying that he had a pair of them back in the sixties. ‘They’re very hard to find these days.’ I stepped off at4334 Sunset
Boulevard, at a music shop called “Solutions Audio”. This was my final stop for the day.
It was at this point in late 1999 that singer-songwriter Elliot Smith and photographer Autumn De Wilde came to the swirling blue, white and red façade of the building and shot the cover and linear photos for his 2000 album ‘Figure 8’. Smith suffered from severe depression, alcoholism and drug addiction for many years and at 34 was found in LA with two self inflicted stab wounds to the heart. There was a small suicide note… The site of his burial was never released to the public and whatever funeral he had, was private. And so this distinctive façade became the un-official monument to his memory, a decision subconsciously made by local friends and fans. The wall is now covered from top to bottom in hundreds upon hundreds of handwritten messages. Naturally I had his songs flowing into me through my headphones and my eyes welled up a little. Just another tear on a nearly abandoned street where nobody acted as though this place was any significance to anyone, ever.
”Elliott, man, you played a fine guitar
And some dirty basketball
The
songs you wrote
Got me through a lot
Just wanna tell you that”
It's too late
Don't you know
It's been too late
For a long time”
Lyrics too Late - Ben Folds
“I said, ''Don't leave me, don't break the tie''
Then I left you and the time went rolling by
And here's what I can't stand
I know that every landmark
Triggers memories
Of stupid places and silly things
That were meaningless before
We'd seen them together”
Jon Brion- Meaningless
“What I used to be will pass away and then you'll see
That all I want now is happiness for you and me”
Elliot Smith - Happiness
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Michelle
non-member comment
Naawwww, Azza, Newcastle is poorer for not having you here! Sounds like an amazing day. Have you been tricked into ordering anything in Cali with 'chips' only to be presented with CC's?