By LA Weekly
By Henry Rollins
By Weekly Photographers
By Shea Serrano
By Nate "Igor" Smith
By Dan Weiss
By Erica E. Phillips
By Kai Flanders
At the top of Mount Washington, where the two-lane road is about one and a half cars wide and the gullies alongside surely glitter with shattered brake-light plastic and skeletal remains, there is a beautiful house with a beautiful view of just about everything in the city — even a few stars. And right now between this beautiful house and its beautiful view is the DJ-turntablist–Low End Theory producer called the Gaslamp Killer, hauling a mattress to the curb a few hours before midnight and cursing because of pain and rage and probably the sheer experience of simply being alive.
"FUCK SHIT GODDAMN SHIT PISS!" (and more), says Gaslamp Killer into the night, hopping angrily on one foot because he had earlier dropped his beard-trimmer on his toe midtrim. That's a sign from above that says, "Don't ever change." And although it'd be so neat to report that a flock of panicked night birds came suddenly flapping out of the weeds, that would never happen. FUCK-SHIT-GODDAMN-SHIT-PISS-and-more is the default Gaslamp Killer condition. Any nearby living thing learns to love it or dies.
"I have no fucking off switch," says GLK, once famously called "the George Carlin of the slam mix" by Low End Theory founder Daddy Kev. ("Such an honor!" responded GLK, "to be compared to such a genius!") In fact, GLK has no switch at all. He is the one thing and the one thing only. He was born Willie Bensussen, a "crazy neurotic Jew Scorpio stoned motherfucker," he says now and often — sometimes adding more adjectives — and so he has remained. He is the youngest son of old-school New York Jews and Mexico City musicians, communists and comedians.
8430 Sunset Blvd.
Los Angeles, CA 90069
Category: Bars and Clubs
Region: Out of Town
Lucky for him Los Angeles can still make space for people who won't fit into less than half a dozen adjectives, and as the L.A. beat scene grew from that one tiny room at Low End Theory in Lincoln Heights to become the definitive sound of the city in the late 2000s, you could always tell — a killer had been there.
"I'm always Gaslamp Killer, I'm always just Willie," he says. "No matter what. An eccentric loudmouth crazy stoner. That's my character in life, as well as onstage. As soon as you hear me grab the mic, you know — this kid's a total freak! He just happened to practice a lot!"
The first word I ever heard from Gaslamp Killer was SHIT. Then we laughed. Then he did some complex mathematical calculations. This would prove to be the key to his work: id, humor and technique each ready for simultaneous deployment.
"What you will experience at a Gaslamp Killer show is a disc jockey who works strictly in CAPS LOCK mode," wrote The Stranger's Dave Segal — also what you will experience at twitter.com/GASLAMPKILLER — and Segal is correct: Gaslamp Killer the DJ is a maniac unchained, smashing together otherwise discordant selections from Black Sabbath, Aphex Twin, Can, This Heat and just-barely-reissued '70s hellrock no man knew before 2009 with snippets of Chevy Chase ("What a cheap, lying, no-good, rotten, four-flushing, lowlife, snake-licking, dirt-eating, inbred, overstuffed, ignorant, blood-sucking, dog-kissing, brainless, dickless, hopeless, heartless, fat-ass, bug-eyed, stiff-legged, spotty-lipped, worm-headed sack of monkey shit he is! Hallelujah! Holy shit! Where's the Tylenol?") and David Lee Roth and pausing not to breathe but to shout into the crowd and then to breathe only when the crowd shouts back. Raw, to use a favorite GLK adjective? OK — raw.
But then there is the music he makes. That's not raw; it's bones and guts from the back of some accidentally cracked-open cave. When GLK is really killing, nobody gets out. "Beelzebub's beat" was the term used in a nice little piece of GLK fan fiction; "Greetings From Hell!" says the GLK T-shirt, and that's why we don't have to talk about influences. You can tell where he's coming from.
With the desert-dwelling singer Gonjasufi, GLK put out one of the three best L.A. records of the year so far in March: A Sufi and a Killer. The Gonjasufi part is the singing; it comes through a top-secret 16-track tape machine and sounds like Lee "Scratch" Perry or Exuma — ancient, ferocious, magical in a powerfully practical and kind of frightening way. The GLK part is the rest: a synthesis and mutation of never-known worldwide psych and subprimitive machine beats. GLK says it took him four years to make.
Only now are songs he referenced finding issue on very expensive collector compilations. Often, the GLK versions are better. A Sufi and a Killer is the beat-scene record that sounds like the band that time forgot: Blue Cheer, Silver Apples, Wicked Witch, Les Rallizes Denudes ... if it made its creator go crazy between 1966 and 1974, GLK dared to drag it back to life. It's beautiful, too. Flying Lotus called it "timeless, incredible filth." Little else can be said. You think — what the hell else is out there I've never been told about?
Now his new EP is out: DEATH GATE, the second of his two happily hostile 10-inches, released just last month on Flying Lotus' Brainfeeder. "When I'm in Awe" is a cheerful reunion between Gonjasufi's nethervocals and GLK's otherbeats.