Emperors of the Felt: Poker Stars from The 'Side

Hometown boys alert!

Two of the poker profession's greatest young players are Inland Emperors. Phil Ivey (L) and Allen Cunningham (R below) were both born in good ol' Riverside, CA. Each have 5 WSOP (World Series of Poker) bracelets, and Cunningham was named the WSOP Player of the Year in 2005.

Ivey actually grew up in New Jersey, which is, let's face it, an entire state with a Riverside ethos. Cunningham, though, stayed here in So. Cal, and even attended my college alma mater, UCLA, before giving up on his engineering degree for the pleasure and profit of the felt. The dude couldn't afford NOT to quit school to become a poker pro. Cunningham raked in bank at the cash games at the card rooms off the 5 and 110 (The Bike, Commerce, Hustler) before he moved to Vega$ to "work" full time.

As some of you may know, I fantasize about this scenario all the time, and have recently started hitting up the card rooms on a bi-monthly basis to keep the "live game" skills sharp. In fact, I'm going to quit smoking at the end of the month so I have a modest tournament bankroll to play with.

I started playing poker in my first year of grad school ('96-'97) with galpals and manfriends from my Berkeley English Department cohort. We knocked back shots of Jameson and bottles of filling, Bay Area micro-brewed beers (why?!?), while playing mixed, low-stakes cash games like Hold 'Em, Anaconda hi-lo, your 5 and 7 card varieties of stud, Black Mariah, Queen's Baseball, and even our own made-up games like "Cabin Fever" (4 up, 4 down, no one wins). It was a great way to blow off steam. As I learned in my eerily accurate horoscope today, strategic card games like "pinochle and poker" are a perfect way for Virgos to unwind when they aren't using housecleaning as therapy. All of us needed our poker time to get sloppy, maneuver, act-out, be sexy, clever or weak--things we weren't allowed to express in our everyday grad school lives. The cards and the game were a repository for all our displaced competitive energies and fears of failure. We dealt by shuffling up and dealing.

This probably explains why the poker world is filled with former academics, teachers, and lots of Ivy Leaguers, from Yale homegame compatriots like Alex Jacob (2006 US Poker Champ) and Vanessa Selbst (heroic butch final tablist at the 2006 WSOP Hold 'Em Pot Limit Event--pictured L), to Andy Bloch from the infamous MIT Blackjack Team. Nicknamed the "Professor of Poker," Howard Lederer and his bad girl sister, Annie Duke, are the children of a boarding school English instructor. Their Harvard-educated parents, now divorced, jokingly refer to themselves as "The greatest breeders of poker players in the country." Even the infamous "Poker Brat," Phil Hellmuth, ended up marrying a woman from the Stanford University psychiatry department. Ah....a match made in heaven. Or perhaps required by social services.

Poker is also the profession for choice for lots of badass immigrant Asian dudes and their sleek and sexy "dragon lady" counterparts (as ESPN likes to hype them). It all started with the legendary Johnny Chan, whose skills were immortalized in Matt Damon's poker flick, Rounders. Some prefer the mulleted "Prince of Poker," Scotty Nguyen, or the trash-talking Men "the Master." And we all gotta give it up to the "soft and silent" Indonesian national hero, Johnny Juanda, and lady sharps like Dee Luong and the media darling, Asian-Canadian sistah Evelyn Ng (R).

As for me, I've been ramping up my Hold 'Em game this summer. Kangagi and I have been lucky enough to find a cool posse of dykes of color scatttered up and down the 5, 105 and 405 FWYS for regular home games, tourney excursions, and tribal casino trips. I've won big (Pechanga). I've lost big (Planet Hollywood in Las Vegas). I've made it to 5 final tables for 3rd, 4th, 5th, 7th and 9th place finishes (out of 90 players) in the 2K "play money" tourneys on Full Tilt. And I've experienced full tilt after bad beats in cash games against the zumanity at the Riviera, or even just in our homegame at the hands of Maria "bulitlit" Butalid, our resident "Just For You" pocket-rocket demon.

All this is to say that if you combine my cumulative poker experience with all of the nature/nurture/kismet called forth by the demographies I discussed above--Inland Emperors, Asian immigrants, and disgruntled academics--a future with poker is definitely "in my cards." (Kick drum, cymbal crash).

Cue Belle and Sebastian's "It Could've Been a Brilliant Career."

If any of you out there on the "interweb" from the Greater or Lesser Los Angeles area would like to hook up with our modest home tourneys and cash games (with buy-ins at anywhere from $10-$25, and a winner take all or 1st-3rd place payout structure), holler via email.

The more, the merrier and the bigger the prize pool.

Let's shuffle up and deal, yo!

Balikbayan II: The Multimedia Round-Up

Cue the Pinay sing-along...


Mr DJ, can I make a request?
Puwede ba 'yung love song ko?
Mr DJ, para sa 'kin ito
Sana ay okay sa iyo
Hihintayin ko na patugtugin mo
Thank you ulit sa iyo
Kahit luma na ang aming awit
Nais po ring marinig

[PIC: My dreamy mirror-stage view from the balcony of our rental in Makati]

Kahit man lang sa aking alaala
ay makasama ko siya
Nasaan man siya
mayro'n mang iba ito'y para sa kaniya
At sana'y nakikinig siya naaalala kaya niya?
Ang love song namin noon na niluma na ng panahon

Mr DJ, salamat sa iyo sumasabay din ako
sa love song namin noon na niluma na ng panahon...

That voice, ladies and gentiles, belongs to none other than the Philippines' reigning grande dame of cinematic love teams and saccharine song-stylings, Sharon Cuneta. In "Mr. DJ," Sharon's 12-year old croon sounds mature for its age, but still endearingly coltish. "Mr. DJ" was her breakout hit way back in 1978, the same year my mom and I first left the Philippines to move to the States. I was 5. Sharon Cuneta was my first unrequited crush. How could a budding lesbeaux not fall in love with her or this song ?!? She asks Mr. DJ (quite politely, peppering her refrain with lots of "thank you's" and apologies) to play her favorite love song just in case her dear heart will hear it and remember their time together, even though her beloved is with someone else and the song itself is old. [RIGHT: Sharon retro tee at the Mall of Asia, Pasay City. The largest mall in--you guessed it--Asia. Oh were I small enough to fit in the petite Pinay sizes!]

Like the pubescent girl singing sweetly to Mr. DJ instead of directly to her lover (gotta appreciate the Catholic mediation), I felt both sentimental and hopeful when I got to Manila. Hopeful that I'd hear, smell and taste the things I knew, while sounding, smelling and feeling familiar enough to my luma ("old") love.

Ang love song namin noon na niluma na ng panahon
(Roughly: The love song that was ours back then, that now ages with the passing days...)

[ABOVE LEFT: Reunion at the Iloilo airport with Tita Mellie, my 75-year old great aunt (grandma's sis), and Bibing, who is technically my aunt but more like a big sis in our extended-fam "compound" in San Antonio Village, Pasig, Metro Manila. RIGHT: Onas family portrait. The baby on the dashing gent's knee is my grandma, Linda Onas Katindig; the girl in the pink dress is Tita Mellie Onas Morales; the adults are my great grandparents...Lola Salud Penuela Onas in the carefree years before WWII.]

The strange thing about it is that Mr. DJ, or rather the collective DJ's of everyday culture--the cab and Jeepney drivers blasting their radios; the barkers at the beach bars in Bora'; the "Palawan Idol" winner singing "More than Words" & Jobim classics between shifts tending bar at El Nido; the Manila Municipal government who use swanky sound systems to pipe soft rock into Rizal Park (the city's monument to the slain national hero, Jose Rizal)-- all managed to play the old songs that were mine.

Para sa 'kin ito.
This is for me.

Of course I know it wasn't really just for me. But my Balikbayan narcissism and diasporic sentimentality allowed me to experience the everyday soundscapes of Manila, Iloilo, Palawan and Boracay as my own personal audiotopias. (I've been really into reading Josh Kun's book lately).

[MONTAGE: Street scenes from Chinatown and Divisoria; (R) Rizal Park].

Maybe some of that narcissism has to do with the musical legacy, for better or worse, of my mom's side of the family. The Katindig clan are often remembered as the Latin Jazz "innovators" of the Philippines. In the late 1950's my grandpa, Romy Katindig, and his 4 bros lead the Latin charge with their shiny tight suits and wicked mambo king looks. I'll try to scan a picture for a future edition of The I. Emperor.

My mom's bro Boy Katindig is carrying on the family name, I suppose, but in the "smooth jazz" realm. Yes, his name is "Boy," like Boy George--but to all you folks not fluent in Pinoyisms out there, "Boy" is the nickname given to the eldest son in just about every Pinoy fam. Anyway, my mom made a go of it for awhile as a budding popstar in Manila. But regardless of her success, she could never get any respect for being the "girl singer" in the fam and it pisses me off to this day. We've all let some of that baggage go ever since my grandfather died in '89...let's just say the macho music man bullshit is something I have experience with, first hand. Anyway...

The same night I landed in Manila, I had a chance to see my great uncle Eddie (grandpa's older bro) work the vibraphone during his weekly gig at Merk's, one of the last remaining 24/7 jazz clubs in the city. Tito Eddie, otherwise known as Eddie K or "the Filipino Kenny G" for his saxational stylings, has been taking a break from the sax, which as some of you know is my instrument too. He's now revisting the instruments he played back when he was in the band with my grandpa Romy. Here's a glimpse of him vibing it up:


Richard Merk, the owner of the club and an old family friend, is a Dean Martin-inspired playboy and crooner who was once linked to the "icon of Philippine cinema," and "the actress of the people," Nora Aunor. That night at the club, through my San Miguel "Strong Ice" goggles, I was was shocked to see Tito Eddie looking so old. It had been awhile since he stayed with us in the I.E. as part of his ill-fated attempt to immigrate to the states. After a botched marriage of greencard convenience with a "working woman" he hooked up with in L.A., he was deported back to Manila. But I digress....As a gal pal exclaims in the video, "he can still kick it!"

[MONTAGE: (L) Merk and Me after too many Chivases on the rocks; (R) from left to right, Kangagi, Blissie, Merk, Joya, Tito Eddie and yours truly, bloated after platefulls of Bangus belly (Bottom L) Merk giving me and Tito Eddie an Earful. Am I dressed like these dudes, or what?!?]

Most of our time in Manila involved reunions and sentimental surprises scored to pop, jazz and Pinoy indie rock. Seeing the uncles and aunts who I grew up with, and with whom I scampered away from the ghosts supposedly shacked up in the ancient Duhat tree in our carport, made me remember how much I hate the bullshit interactions of the profession and other uptight situations. I mean, my balikbayan journey to Manila had the potential to be as artificial as it gets--all the burdens of family reunion that require manufactured sentiments for the long lost cousin/niece/pet. But as I mentioned in my previous post, it was easier than I could've imagined, and for that, rewardingly complex. It all flowed and me and my original homies--Tito Ogie, Tito Jojo, Tita Bing--picked up where we left off. It was as if nothing had really changed except for our waistlines, hairlines, and in my case, my accent. I've resolved to go back as soon as possible. And not just because of the sexy beaches with polvoron sand. [(R) Puka Beach, Bora] I just want to see them again. Color me emo. I certainly don't plan on waiting another 24 years...

Honestly, I was stumped when the Merk called me out from the crowd during Tito Eddie's show and asked me to tell everyone what I thought had changed in the 24 years since I was last home. I made a crack about "democracy" and everyone, including the senators in the audience catching some "sounds" and gin, laughed. The real answer? Everything and nothing. I know what I'm saying right now sounds eerily similar to the the final scene in the stage production of Dogeaters. But give it up to la Hagedorn for hitting the nail on the head with that one, and for reaping the corniness for all its scrumptious truth. What can I say? I'm a sucker for dramatic symmetry. A child of the corn(y).

[(R) Building a mystery...strolling through the garrisons at Intramuros, the original walled city that was Manila during the Spanish Occupation]

Again, all of these feelings require more than words. (OK, lame song title riff, but it's my blog and as far as I know, no one really reads it). I'll let the pictures paint a thousand words...The reason I know all the lyrics to "Feelings," and Bread's "If"?

Ako'y isang Pinoy!

Action Alert: Save My Neighborhood Dairy Queen!

We interrupt my already interrupted Pilipinas travelogue to call all you Blizzard-loving sistahs to action! I was just informed by J-Sto (after she read another Ramona High School pal, Nova's blog), that MY CHILDHOOD DAIRY QUEEN is on the City of Riverside's redevelopment chopping block.

Yeah sure, the DQ ain't nothin' but a chain, and the "something different" logo calls out the fact that it's trying too hard to be otherwise. But like I say over and over again in the RELOCATIONS project, it's what you make of the chain that transforms it and you. Chains of love, baby!

Even though this DQ (built "mid-century" in the 50's) was part of the whole prefabbing of America, it's still a place with grain and moxie. It's still my place. It was my first hang, a mere S-shaped block and a half away from the 'rents place. [MAP: From Midway down Santee Place to the green arrow on the corner of California and Monroe] I'd ride there on my first banana- yellow 10-speed bike with the brown ram's-head-handlebars and the "I heart My Dog" sticker on the rear reflector. Soundtrack of choice: "Ghost in You" by the Psychedelic Furs on my Walkman. I had to rewind the casette manually to put it on "repeat."

This DQ is where I'd go to cool off after a game of street-baseball using novelty mini-bats and chewed-up tennis balls with the neighborhood fellas, all who adopted me as their immigrant tomboy. This was one of my first tastes of "America" and its dreamy soft-serve.

Plenty has already been leveled at that corner called "California Square." Some of it I don't mind. While I loved the Alpha Beta grocery for its healthy selection of Smash Hits mags, I'm down with the fact that it's evolved into a Maxi Foods, a Mexican chain that services the new demos of West Riverside. My mom buys all her oxtail there for crockpots of Kare-Kare.

But I sure do miss Geno's Pizza (I was the "Centipede" stud). And I owe my wicked Rom-Com knowledge to my very first video store directly across the faux-courtyard from Geno's: Marie's Pick-a-Flick. Marie, the deaf Native American owner, and her Wilford Brimley-eseque former G.I. hubby used to give me free movie posters. I was probably the only 11-year old within the city limits (or anywhere for that matter) who wanted the one for "That's Life!" starring Julie Andrews and Jack Lemon. You gotta give it up to my proto-geriatrica.

I ultimately graduated from DQ slushies to Flaming Hot Cheetos and bottles of Cisco, Bartles & Jaymes and Club "Sex on the Beach" at the liquor store tucked next to the produce entrance of the AB. The owners confused me with my mom and didn't card me all through my senior year at RHS, so I was the BBPOC (big booze pimp on campus) for Thespian cast parties. H-O-TTT. Aside from the DQ and its precarious life, that liquor store is all that's left of the California Square that held me ever so tight through my awkward adolescence. Even though it's just another So. Cal stripmall, these places are special to me and to so many. Each square foot of that transient lease-space has staged countless rites of passage.

If this isn't enough to make you want to run out and chain yourself to the bulldozers, maybe Nova's story will:

Sunday, August 05, 2007
Save the Riverside Dairy Queen!

Many of you in the Inland Empire see all the new development in the IE. Some of the developments are no doubt for the better; the Riverside Plaza is so much better than the old Monkey Wards building. The latest is revamping the shopping center on Monroe/California Avenue and the demolition of the old Dairy Queen building. I believe this should be seriously reconsidered by the City. Those of you who reside in the 'Side know this little building with two walk up windows is nostalgic; it's also part of the charm of Riverside that might be quickly dismissed by those who never truly lived in Riverside. This Dairy Queen has history, memories, long lines, and not to mention some good blizzards! It's unique from most Dairy Queens because it's a tiny building built in the 50s, and walk-up windows that only sell soft serve, no food. There was no air conditioning or cash registers until the 90s! [Photo below features Riverside resident, Melissa Lewandowski, who began the letter-writing campaign to city officials].

The DQ is one of the rare buildings left in Riverside that have a little history and charm. In LA there are tons of cool old buildings that remain [comment from I.Emperor--"It's an epidemic sistah. I suppose the grass is always greener"]. An LA business like Pink's in an old structure that hasn't changed since the 40s, but people still love it after so many decades. The DQ in Riverside is certainly no Pink's in LA [I. Emperor--"It sure isn't...it's BETTER!"], but is nonetheless legendary in its own vein. This hits home for me since this particular Dairy Queen is where I had my first job. Interestingly enough, today I work for a city/redevelopment agency that would generally take the opposing position in this situation. For those of you who still live in the Riv, if the Dairy Queen means anything to you, write the Mayor & appropriate City Council Members. It may not be too late! Please click on this PRESS ENTERPRISE article for details on the story: Thanks!!!
Nova

Balikbayan: The Metanarrative

I'll get us started in true Pinoy fashion with a song. The EraserHeads' hipster cover of a Hotdog classic, "Manila." Given the popularity of canned meats in the 'pinas, especially WWII-era mess like SPAM and Vienna Sausages (mmmmm all that nitrate goodness!), I always found it totally appropriate that one of the Philippines' most definitive and best selling pop bands of all time is actually named "Hotdog."



As the song says, I'm goin' back to Manila. Or rather I just went back for my first balikbayan journey as a grown-up without parental chaperones. Balikbayan translates literally to "return to country" in English, but refers in a more spiritual and colloquial sense to the Pinoys and Pinays living permanently abroad who return to the country, and who implicitly always have a country to return to. The official def, according to the Philippine National Statistical Coordination Board (for immigration purposes) is "those of Filipino Descent who acquired foreign citizenship and permanent status abroad." This was my first time back since I was 10-yrs. old, circa 1983, and since I acquired my US citizenship and passport in 1989, when I was 16.

Needless to say this was all a very big deal for me, my beloved Kangagi who accompanied me, and my fam waiting anxiously in the I.E., concerned that my So. Cal accented Tagalog would somehow lead to cultural alienation in forms both benign and fantastically violent. It's the kind of stuff that inspires memoirs and fictionalizations of fuzzy disaporic feelings and deep psychic drama.

Beyond the flipside (so to speak) I've also imagined that this could be the moment that all the bullshit stuff played out in academe about racial authenticity would finally get to my head, and that my "failure" as a brown subject in the US would be affirmed by the threat and promise of the "cultural alienation" feared by my own kinsfolk (primed as they are by the paranoia-inducing local news).

As if things weren't heavy enough, this was also the kind of sitch more often than not aggravated by white scholars who (consciously and un) like to to see brown folks inhabiting their "real" exotic selves, while waiting with baited breath to bestow ethical judgments upon those who might fail to fit the bill of "a real person of color"--whatever that might mean. In collusion with cultural nationalists in the academy of the most self-serving stripe, these culture vultures (very literally) just can't wait to call you out for a coconut: brown on the outside, white on the inside. And there's nothin' like a balikbayan journey and its potential pitfalls to tickle the imperialist impulse of folks who like to collect color, and purport to know you and "your people" better than you do.

But back to Hotdogs.

Play it again (this time, the original):


Fact of the matter is, despite all the twisted emotional stuff I freehanded for you up above, the experience of going back to Manila after "walking the streets of San Francisco," and trying all the "rides at Disneyland" as a post-diasporic So. Cal suburbanite, proved to be way easier (and for being so easy, way more complicated) than I or anyone else ever expected. Like the song "Manila" in all of its incarnations--the scratchy, beat-laden, remixed cover of a tinny original that itself covers the musical idioms of the jauntier Billy Joel songbook, crossed with Latin horn shouts, and the Americana Dixieland of Disney's Carnation Plaza, which is in turn culled from the French quadrilles, blues and bluegrass of Cajun, Creole, BlaLatino New Orleans--my balikbayan journey was "quesorap," a punny ad I saw at the Budget Mart convenience shop in Iloilo. And we all know how much Pinoys love puns.

Queso (Spanish for cheese) smushed together with sarap (Tagalog for "tasty"), combines for the English equivalent of "cheesetastic," while adding the post-colonial, Spagalog layer of meaning with "Que sarap" ("very sarap," or very tasty).

I'm gonna spare y'all a more complicated explanation for, and explication of, all these sensations and insist for now that we keep it simple. That we keep the cultural affirmation I experienced for my love of soft rock and fried foods in the Pilipinas as simple and profound as it really was and is. As simply profound as the pop architectonics of the song that asks we be brought back again and again to the place I've never stopped knowing in my soul and stomach, despite having been "gone too long..."

****************************************************
Stay tuned for Part II, the not-so metanarrative that promises to be picture heavy. But before then, another take on "Manila" from the pop It-Girl, Ms. Right Now, Sarah Geronimo:

Quickie, Mart - Kawa Market

There's trouble in Rivercity (R: Fig. 1, One man's Orientalism is another's...? The Chinese Pagoda at the Downtown Public Library, Riverside, CA). I should've acted sooner and re-posted this information courtesy of a non-partisan, myspace civic activist group called SAVE-RIVERSIDE. The Save Riversidians recently commented on one of my old posts, "Show Me the Mizithra," about the City of Riverside's dastardly plans to shut down Kawa Market, a 100-year-old mom & pop shop that became an Asian market some 30 years ago. In that post I went on and on about the "resilience of mom & pop" operations in Riverside and reminisced about the alive and kickin' Kawa, the place my mom and I went together to buy Pinoy treats like the pugent and salty breakfast fish, tuyo or smoked, shredded tinapa with some 2-liter kegs of Squirt or Cactus Cooler to wash it all down. The Mayor and his merry band of citycouncilfolks made a chump outta me.

Kawa has no future. Its owners Lin Lin (aka "William") and Wendy Guan have surrendered the property to the City's "eminent domain." In the words of Press Enterprise Columnist, Dan Bernstein (an accomplished whistler who my dad accompanied on the piano for a gig at RCC's Landis Auditorium), "Riverside surrenders something too."

Where is your scrappy soul, my hometown?

Its raggedy afterglow remains, perhaps, on homemade videos such as this one featuring Riverside City Council Candidate, Mike Gardner, bellied up to the Kawa counter for some good old fashioned politicking alongside the Guans. For more curiously poignant "Save Kawa" video (so much to say, so little time), see the "Save Riverside" site linked above or visit Riverside Land Grab:

From the East to Electrelane (with Tenderness)

I'm knee deep in my summer of indulgence. A better jag than my usual summers of indolence. I've had plenty to write about from So. Cal's east, Inland and adjacent, including a "geographies of Long Beach Pride" meditation (technically south...but "the east is so many things" qua Electrelane). The LBC pride chat has been wedged in the back of my foggy noggin ever since my Delta y Kappa posse collectively gorged a Medieval Times-inspired roasted turkey leg before Jennifer Hudson's set on the mainstage. But today, with the slight shiver of an L.A. June gloom in the air, and with a faded base-tan from my own recent overcast off-days spent rolling in the sand in Laguna and Malibu, I'm going to wax tender about my week spent gloriously awash in the sounds of another beach town's finest, Brighton's ELECTRELANE.

I'm a relative latecomer to the band's music, which is to be expected from an I.E. popslut, no doubt. I'd only heard of them about 3 years ago despite their nearly decade-long career, and went to see them for the first time at the Troubadour in 2005 when they opened for Dutch punk grandaddies, The Ex. I was actually lured to the show by a coterie of academic friends, one of whom had (and I presume still has) an intense fanboy lust for guitarist, Mia Clarke. I came away from the show enamored of the all-female band from Brighton and less than enthused by the rage-against-age Nederlander masculinity of The Ex.

Little did I realize that later that same year, Electrelane's music would serve as the soundtrack for the torturous unfurling of my own new love story, my own new sense of desire, friendship and place. The Kangagi brought Electrelane full force into my life with a mournful mix simply dubbed "Late Nights." It was quickly loaded to my pod as I retreated to Europa, Europa to sort things out over winter break, where I listened to "Birds" on endless, interpretive repeat as I wandered through Deutschland forests and sludgy Parisian streets trying to figure out what the sonic narrative meant to us. Would mean for us.

In retrospect some obscurists and completists would call us out for our trite song choice--for scoring a made-for-tv moment of puppy love to the melodic single instead of to one of the band's more sweeping and "cinematic" instrumental explorations. But aren't the predictable conventions of love part of what endows the whole experience with an element of formalist pleasure? And isn't it that same, strange dialectic of urgent improvisation and impeccable formalism that makes Electrelane sound so fucking good?

Two years since and the Kangagi and I are jolly muppets in love who get to hang with the band--and most importantly, we get to hear them play live whenever they roll through So. Cali. You see, little did I know in the midst of all my Shelleyan brooding that Kangagi's good pal (let's call her D.Mac for the purposes of this blog) is lovebirds with the incomparable Emma Gaze, resident heartthrob and co-founder of Electrelane, along with vocalist, keyboardist, virtuoso, Verity Susman (alter-ego Vera November). Emma (E-z) is not only an "ace" of a good time (did I use that Brit idiom properly?), but she drums with the disciplined antsiness of a British schoolboy. At least she does in my imaginary, which is shaped by grad skool Victoriana and Inland Empire New Ro' Anglophilia. I mean it as the highest of compliments.

This week we had several Patrick Fugit in Almost Famous (but much cooler) moments courtesy of D. Mac and E-z, be it peeking from the wings at the sold out crowds at the Greek as Arcade Fire rumbled through their set, or smoking responsibly on the tour bus so as not to set Griffith Park ablaze. It was also on the bus where we got to hear pocket-sized mack daddy bassist, Ros Murray, wax poetic about the facial expressions of Mary Lynn Rasjkub (aka Chloe O'Brian) on 24. Perhaps this obsession with tempo and gesture in its primetime formats is what makes Ros the kind of languidly cool bass player who can keep a rhythm section honest.

But the best moments were reserved for their return to the Troubadour last night. This time, Electrelane were the headliners of a sold-out show. While catching them on tour with Arcade Fire, one of the moment's IT bands from Canadia, is certainly something to behold, especially in an atmosphere of nachos, tumblers of beer and backwards baseball caps at the corporatized Greek, there's nothing like seeing the band in their own moment, amongst their own fans in the admittedly gentrified but still studiously scruffy Troub.

Opening for them was the French queer popster and one-woman tour de force, Tender Forever. TF served up delcious nibbles of chanson in a sonorous rasp that would make Bjork jealous. Melanie Valera (she who is forever tender) provided one of the evening's best moments when she covered Justin Timberlake's "My Love" with just her voice and a ukelele, subsequently making the pop whores amongst us ticklish and grateful, while challenging the hipster-curious to loosen up a bit and quit pretending to hate melodies.

By the time Electrelane took the stage the crowd was squirming with anticipation. They were ready to genuflect before Verity's power chords on the organ and Mia's metal-jam riffs delivered with such elegant control that it was like seeing some wild, pheromonic scent harvested into a precious glassblown bottle of eau de toilette. A few tunes in, Electrelane played their latest single, "To the East," an Ostalgie lovesong saturated with a kind of wistful comfort. Any song with a nod to Gdansk (a place I fetishized as the site of a major women's tennis tournament in my proto frat-dyke days) deserves to be a hit.

From my vantage point at the far end of stage left, I could see the band was begging for more on the monitors. But regardless of what they might've heard from onstage, the sound was perfect. The band was tight and sonically communicative with each other, as well as the audience. The rhythm section was precise, the proggy progressions and jams were disarming rather than intimidating. The crowd shouted. The crowd called. As my desperate grasp at the eau de toilette metaphor above belies, I actually don't feel like I have the capacity to describe what I heard, saw and felt on stage last night with any veracity or eloquence. If there were enough youtubers in the world, I suppose I'd be able to find a lovely bootleg clip of Electrelane performing their signature cover of Springsteen's "I'm On Fire" as their encore. Instead, I'll close with a vid clip of their new single from No Shouts, No Calls.

"It could be home...it could be home...it could be home..."
For now this music is.