We were driving to a club, the 50 buck club. I don’t know why they named it that, it’s free. It was summer and the sun was shining brightly even though it was 8pm. Got off the 101 at Alameda past the L.A. County Jail, the streets seemed still.
There was usually a small commotion of other cars or people milling around, but today it was dead. My friends JG and YK instantly rolled up the windows and the car became still and stale. The conversation stopped and there was only a desire to find the 50 Buck Club. I felt their uneasiness as if there were all gripping onto my shoulders, tensing with each bump or odd corner we passed. I decided to ignore them and take in the sites of the streets I rarely venture to go to. The warehouse district is odd because a lot of the old brick buildings are vacant or they glow with odd lights.
To me, their beautiful. Speaking of the history of LA’s growth and decline. Signs, layering each other, not caring what’s behind them. While the other signs shouts, “ I once was a brewery” or “I supplied flowers to all of LA.” The molding and trim of the old places are intricate and well-crafted stone. Not like the shiny smooth surfaces of mass reproduced new burrows that tower over them only three blocks away. These old grandparents stay strong; fight the inspectors, not to be condemned. My passengers blew a sigh of relief once we reached our destination.
We were first greeted by a rockabilly Latino with the biggest lamb chops and pompadour I have ever seen. 6’2”, lanky big hands and strong forearms like Popeye. He turned out to be the stand-up bass player for the last band. There was a long bar on the left sparsely seated, with a variety of locals of all ages and backgrounds. To me that is a good sign.