Scene LA: Long Live The House Show
words and photography on this weird little digicam by Sierra skinner.
I hop into the car fresh from a day at the beach, melting into the kind of sun-soaked sleepiness that leaves you feeling almost high.
My friends are singing along to ‘Time to Pretend’ by MGMT with the windows down and I’m feeling sentimental as I slump down into my seat, happy watching them enjoy themselves even if I’m feeling too lethargic to keep up. I’ve been getting better at this: leaning into the softer, slower sensations instead of always chasing some adrenaline-fueled involvement. Tonight is the perfect night for that sort of leaning as we wander into a stranger’s backyard somewhere near The Reservoir in Los Angeles.
I love a house show. Not just because I’ve always enjoyed making myself too comfortable in somebody else’s home. But largely because of what they represent. An open door, figuratively and literally. Cozy, intimate, validating, rid of the usual barriers to entry. The audience is not paying customers, but welcome guests. The city is a treasure for the very fact that its DIY scene isn’t all rock shows in a bar or a rave in a warehouse - it can be gentle and sweet and sincere.
So we get straight to making ourselves at home, exchanging hugs and hellos with friends, making introductions along the way. I’m less socially apt than usual in my groggy state but that feels okay here. I don’t have to say much with the music starting shortly after we arrive.
We take to the grass, sitting with our legs crossed just in front of the rugged area marking the makeshift stage. It’s situated perfectly under a lemon tree, which charms me instantly. It feels like everyone in the crowd has microbangs, myself and my friends included. I write it off as a sign of the times, much like the uptick in flip-flops marks the changing of the seasons. Maybe everything feels charming when soundtracked by the laughter of friends nearby.
Gillian of Girljockey is first to take the rug-stage for a rare solo set. She’s a powerhouse, both with and without a band present. Her voice carries this mesmerizing grit and her lyrics hold the same tone. Gillian’s songs feel like prayers said in ghost towns, like some sort of salvation message delivered when all hope should be otherwise lost. She strums her guitar slowly, pensively, and keeps you hanging on to every drawl. Even the sample she cues during tuning breaks between songs has me holding my breath, every element deeply thoughtful and curated just so. I could watch her forever and die happy.
In between sets, I watched a mosquito land on the skin of a stranger and felt the urge to swat it off of her. We were all sitting on the grass together after all. Shouldn’t we be looking out for each other too?
My attention is drawn back to below the lemon tree as 18 Wheeler sets up. They had been unfamiliar to me by name but immediately recognizable upon first sight. Frontman Matteo is backed by several members of Rocket, another local favorite and friends of ours. Somebody in the crowd urges us all to stand and I’m reluctant at first, but they were right to do so. Anybody who can make a tender-hearted ballad with lines like “patron saint of blowjobs” and “riding ‘round town in my shitmobile” is somebody I will gladly stand at attention for. I realize I’m smiling as I sway along, somewhere between stoked and comforted by what I’m hearing.
The sun is setting and the music is perfect and I feel truly, wholly good. This kind of experience shouldn’t be so rare, but I’m glad I’m still able to recognize it when it does come along.
Some earnest folk music is a soft spot of my otherwise noise-riddled brain, so I’m particularly pleased with 18 Wheeler and my elation carries over for Trinity Ace. Her sound is classic, rich, and twangy in all the right ways. I break off from my mingling friends just to get closer. The violin draws me in and melts my eyes shut. This is the soft, slow feeling I’ve been after. Gentle, but deeply felt. A lullaby specifically catered to the overthinking mind with moments of build as satisfying as a dream worth remembering.
The friends I came with head off to a party but for once I hang back. I want my night to end like this: content, enriched and intoxicated only by shared cigarettes and a slight sunburn. I’ll get back to the debauchery another day.
