The Duds, the Clubs, the Jazz
What I Saw at the Parisian Room
But jazz has changed. One day about 10 years ago, former L.A. Weekly music editor Robert Lloyd said he was going to hear Nels Cline at an Irish pub, and I came along. Cline was not there to play jigs. He had a guitar and an amp, and some effects boxes that he had placed on top of the amp so he could bash them with the palms of his right hand while his left was doing basically nothing except holding the guitar. The resulting flashpots of barely controlled noise, exploding in waves of passion, told me something: It wasn’t always gonna be about notes and rhythms anymore. It would be about something else, something we’re still only beginning to understand. It was the start of a new beyond.
I have no idea what Cline was wearing. None at all.
The Parisian Room was torn down in the ’80s and replaced with a post office.
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