They don't know what the name means, but they know they'reproud: Mary and Mark Karas(above) watch their son's band,Pushing Syrai.
NIGHT 5: PUT YOUR HANDS TOGETHER FOR . . . UZUMAKI? I take a nap. I am fried. The real world — work, the husband, the kid, the house, the pets — is merely what occupies my time while I gear up for going out at night. Even though I’ve been getting five hours of sleep each night, I feel I’ve been up for five straight days. I’ve stopped reading the newspaper. During each morning’s shower, I notice THAT SMELL. An effervescent
Red Hot Chili Peppers appreciation band called Exaths kick off the night. They have the energy, and they’re cute and funky, but it’s obvious they haven’t played much. Their power ballad makes me long for the Scorpions; I must dig out
AnimalMagnetism.Afterward, lead singer Lon’s adrenaline level is still at 11. He’s jazzed to have played the Whisky. “We sounded great, but I’m pretty disappointed at the turnout. We had to get together more than $700 worth of sales to play here.” I’m reminded of what Jet Lag said about bands spending more time on promoting than rehearsing. The downstairs bartender is
Barbara Witte, who’s poured drinks here for 16 years. “I also do real estate now,” she says, and hands me her
Coldwell Banker card. She keeps working here because of the contacts. I wonder how many people have bought their home from the bartender at the Whisky. “It’s like a family,” she says, “but working here does take a toll on your body.” When I ask her age, she declines, saying, “I’ve worked here for 16 years, that should give you a hint.” Tonight she’s looking forward to the Phunk Junkeez — “You can dance to them” — a band that’s been playing around town for years. For the most part, Barbara wears earplugs, and “I just tune the bands out,” she says. There’s a decent-size crowd for Uzumaki, who are from
Japan and have a sumo-size guy dancing onstage. They don’t sing in English, but they know enough to start off their set with the lead singer saying, “Do you like ganja? We like ganja.” Uzumaki, I’m guessing, means “hard funk,” or maybe something to do with raging against something. Fans Leilani Villamor and her cousin Brian came from
Palm Springs to see the Phunk Junkeez. Leilana, who’s decked out for the evening in a top hat and bright-red satin jacket, is in a band called the Dodo Heads. “I came because I respect the Phunk Junkeez, because I heard they refused to sign to a major label,” she says. “I’ve played the Whisky twice, and the sound guys here are the best. It’s every artist’s dream.” When I ask her if she’d like to play Spaceland or the Echo, she says, “Sure, I like underground stuff. Do they stream your video?” It’s clear the Phunk J’s have been together forever; they are tighter than a rolled-up ball of rubber bands, and definitely the best band I’ve seen all week, though the guys look a tad too old for this. The band, for once, are too good to leave. They do a line from the Doors’ “The End.” Who can blame them? At the downstairs bar, Whisky manager Tisa eats a sandwich.
Tisa Mylar is the granddaughter of iconoclast Whisky/Rainbow owner
Mario Maglieri. She’s been manager of the Whisky since being promoted to Rainbow bookkeeper in 1980. Being manager of a famous nightclub is like being a den mother/cop. “Overseeing everything is what’s hard,” she says, “making sure everyone is safe and has a good time. It’s important that everyone knows their job.” When I ask her what are the rewards of overseeing everything, she responds, “A thank-you every now and then.” She doesn’t mean from customers or staff but from Mario, with whom she checks in every night at the Rainbow after closing. “No one will ever work as hard as him,” she says. “It’s very hard for him to say ‘Job well done.’ But the other night I heard him say to someone, ‘There aren’t a lot of Tisas out there.’ That meant a lot.” The mother of an 18-year-old daughter, Tisa works in family time at lunches and dinners, since she often doesn’t get home to
Granada Hills until well after 2 a.m. What does she listen to in the car? “Love songs,” she hesitantly responds. “I turn it down very low.” As far as being mother hen to the staff, she’s glad her employees pal around after work but steers clear herself. “I’m more of an outsider. My grandfather taught me you have to do that.” Though her demeanor is a businesslike, Tisa enjoys seeing people have a good time at the club. “Those of us who work here tend to forget what a famous place this is. I talk to tourists all the time who think it’s the greatest.”
NIGHT 6: APETIT FOR DESTRUCTION Buffy greets me with “All right! Is this night six?” I give her the devil’s-horns sign: “Two more nights!” Buffy tells me I’ll like the music tomorrow night; it’s one of her favorite bands, the Dreaming. Jet Lag will later quip, “She’s probably hot for the lead singer.” There’s almost no drink order Buffy finds annoying, but she cringes when someone orders a Three Wisemen:
Johnnie Walker,
Jim Beam and
Jack Daniel’s. “Cuz I know it tastes terrible.” She’s also not much for fancy drinks in plastic cups. “And we don’t do lemon twists.” Apetit are sludgier than other Cookie Monster bands; their lead singer growls like an angry bear. Once again, the guitar solos are appallingly bad, but the drummer is pretty great. (Why is that so often the case? Must interview faculty at Musicians Institute for next story.) I can only make out the words
destroyand maybe
we.The 25 fans/friends here applaud heartily. Most Cookie Monster bands compensate for the lack of one skill by overcompensating with another. Not Apetit. I’ve seen bands with zero songwriting skills, awful singers and unremarkable musicianship who can still get the crowd worked up. If you have a guy literally shredding his throat and moving like an ape in heat onstage, people will respond. Someone should explain this to Apetit. There are six people on the floor for Pushing Syrai. Two of them are Mark and
Mary Karas from
Hemet, whose 18-year-old son, Rick, is the drummer. “We’re happy he’s not in a partying-type band,” says proud Mary, a high school teacher who won’t get home till 3 a.m. tonight. “They do songs about lost love. I know the words because they practice at my house four times a week. All my neighbors know the songs, too. It was culture shock to me to see him onstage; he’s a smart kid but quiet.” Does she know what the band’s name means? “I have no idea,” she laughs. To my pleasant surprise, Pushing Syrai have good songs. It’s industro-rock for sure, but with a straight-outta-Hemet theatricality. They break into their thunderous power ballad as if they’re at the Forum while the staff starts to close down and Tisa and Barbara chat about needing glasses.
NIGHT 7: HEY, KIDS, ROCK ON! On my final stroll down the Strip, I spot a celebrity: It’s
Keanu Reeves, standing outside a nightclub (not the Whisky). Tonight’s bill is a huge draw, and the line down the block reminds me of seeing
PJ Harvey, Eleven,
Throwing Muses, X and umpteen other faves I’ve gladly braved the throngs for. Tonight, though, I get the wave from Tisa, who’s checking IDs, and glide past the riffraff. The bands come from the
Marilyn Manson school of hammering goth rock — Godhead is a Manson-label signee, and Loser features Manson guitarist John 5, so the crowd is the best dressed of the week. These fans look smashing, and, oddly, I feel proud to have them here, as if they’re the visiting team from a cooler school come to show my school how it’s done, and it’s so refreshing to see not one Silver Lake senso-boy in his
Conor Oberst uniform. There are even some homo-goths. The mosh pit has much improved, and includes a guy with glasses, which I admire. I get a hug and beer spilled on me from bartender Barbara, who is here on her night off with a cute guy to see the Dreaming, a
Pearl Jam–ish act with a heavy dirge thing and a powerful singer. I wonder if they took their name from the
Kate Bush album. Godhead steals the show — living proof that metalheads, goths, headbangers, hot rocker chicks, burnouts and stoners can all get along. Walking east on Sunset before catching my final cab, I have
Viper Room envy. The sidewalk scene in front of the Viper always has cuter guys and hipper chicks, and makes it feel like there’s a real scene inside. The Whisky’s sidewalk scene is younger, usually a gaggle of family and friends high-fiving the buddy they drove several area codes to see. My dream this week was to see just one little band that might rocket to White Stripes town. That didn’t happen. Besides gaining a renewed appreciation of the power ballads of the Scorpions, what did I learn after 12 cab rides, 14 Tylenol PMs, two lost pairs of earplugs, 27 bands and a case of
Miller Lite? Mainly, that I have a soft spot for bands like Manntis and Stemm and Bleed the Sky. Do I think they have talent? Nope, but who cares? They played the same stage as the Doors. Oh, and, as Jet Lag says, everybody looks and sounds their best at the Whisky.
