Tag Archives: punk

Goodbye Blue Monday (Brooklyn, New York)

By Steve Trimboli

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Thought and Memory on our sidewalk, MAKE MUSIC NEW YORK 2010

this past monday afternoon had a three-hour open window in my day and if you know me, you know exactly what i did with that time.

i’ve been engulfed in the gulf. i can’t stop watching ongoing developments just as i couldn’t stop watching those jets fly into those buildings back then.
i call it “trainwreck mystification.”

the week it happened, sixty-five-plus days ago, i told a friend that this was going to be bigger than the twin towers because it will play out to be mass murder on a decades-long scale by white guys with a smart logo and thousand-dollar suits who speak our language – sorry scared white guys, it’s a bunch of your own this time and i’m wondering how you’ll justify this horror, but i know you’ll have no problem – and if anyone thinks human loss is more precious than the things around us, think again.
murder (or manslaughter) is a crime, whether driven by political ideology, greed or contempt.
humanity’s sense of entitlement knows no bounds.
that’s at the core of religion, but that’s just an opinion.
i have plenty.
three thousand people died on september 11th and thousands more will have gotten their lives shortened by their selflessness for pitching in and caring about what happened.
there’s a lot of wheezing going on around NYC as a result of that day.
in the gulf, miraculously, only eleven people died on the Deepwater Horizon on april 20th, which was horrible because of the arrogance of that corporation – but the overwhelming promise of long-term tragedy will, over time, eclipse the trade center numbers.
if i owned a farm, i’d bet it.
which brings to mind…. april 20th…. isn’t that hitler’s birthday? you mean there’s no white-trash supremacists out there toasting or trying to secure a link between the black president’s agenda, the führer’s dreams for the schwarzcommanders as spoken of in pynchon’s “gravity’s rainbow“….. (or was that “V”)?
if you let them sit side by side on a shelf in your own mind for thirty-odd years, it becomes one big book.
everything becomes one-big-book.
maybe it’s time to revisit those titles again so i could drop pynchon’s name with focused certainty.
….or would hitler’s birthday cause tea party conservative confusion – whether to bury the president or praise him……

but i digress.
i was somewhere about crime and punishment (or the lack thereof).
i was somewhere, skirting the oily shores of corporate crime, moral hazard and the first meeting i had with that grifting lizard who looks like omar sharif and sounds like eduardo ciannelli, in months and months, who, this day, had in tow the suit of ayn rand, the author of the biggest, longest-running comedy on mars, “atlas shrugged,” the book written by the lizard who made a meal and suit out of ayn rand when she signed the hollywood deal for “the fountainhead,” got a big check and was gobbled up – literally – in 1955.
the lizard who wore ayn rand wrote “atlas shrugged,” in addition to being hilarious on their planet, was taken as gospel by many faithful on earth, spurring a movement that would be co-opted, corrupted, conned, fattened and devoured by the lizards who live life no differently from ginger rogers, who once told me this;
“a girl’s gotta eat.”
that lizard guy (the one who sounds like eduardo ciannelli and looks like omar sharif) told me last year that they’re still getting tremendous mileage (or tonnage….i think it was tonnage) out of “atlas shrugged” and the humans who buy into it.
he then made a point of telling me, “wait till that angelina jolie plays dagny taggart – it’s gonna be a feeding-frenzy in lizard-land, you betcha,”
…..but i’ve drifted way off base.

the point being, humanity means as much to that lizard guy (you know the one i’m talking about) as a can of starkist tuna means to you. speaking of tuna, you might notice a spike in tuna futures soon, what with the big Oops down there.
i wonder if there are tuna futures. i wonder if tuna HAS a future.
probably as much of a future as we have.
p.s. – i don’t think we have a future, or at least, i don’t think humanity deserves one.

if this is your first visit here, it’s all about the food chain.
if you still don’t know what i’m talking about, google “the grifting lizards from mars,” or hit these two links;
hi-dee hi-dee ho addresses more of what i’m talking about, but ken lay; martian lizard is the genesis of this balderdash.
there are mountains of hubbub between then and now.

i’m writing this to be offered in a friend’s blog about “the underground” (whatever that means these days) and by virtue of the fact that goodbye blue monday is remote enough to maintain such underground-ness for five-plus years (more or less).
for us, mainstream could signal failure.
why travel way out here for the same shit you can get at your local pub?
i’d prefer to fail doing something….”other than.”
goodbye blue monday is “other than.”

Vodpod videos no longer available.

i won’t write much about this place because i am genetically disposed to automatically having it become a pitch for money, performance gear, kitchen equipment and just as recent as today, a free or really cheap car.
there, i did it.
i also can’t help grinning at the term “underground” because as i write this i am preparing to post it onto an open source information clusterfuck of word and imagery, not that “underground” isn’t valid.
i just tend to think that the whereabouts of osama bin-laden is “underground.”
and subway systems are “underground.”
besides, how “underground” are you once you’ve made it into Vogue Italia? (we made it last october)

i was interviewed by an documentarian a couple of weeks back.
at one point she asked me if i was an original-equipment new yorker;
if i was born and raised here – and when i replied “yes,” my plumage sprouted wondrous colors and rays of light sparkled and glimmered on and around me in the afternoon sun.
“there’s plenty of us,” i said.
i explained that i didn’t ride up the empire state building’s elevator until 1984 when i was thirty (laughing uproariously with a headful of acid) – but i DID have lunch on the 82nd floor of the unfinished, un-windowed twin towers when i worked at 90 west street in 1974 when i was twenty.
do you know what i’m saying?
that was being a new yorker, i guess, back then.
….and as our interview went on, she asked me about my experience with the music and art scene in NYC.
so as not to offer spoiler alerts, i’ll say that i’ve been part of the bar and club scene that stretches from the late 60’s, through disco, punk and whatever else that is or was up to now and because i believed i had/have an artistic bent, i did “art” and continue to do so, though i have no documentation other than the things i’ve done and continue to do.

i never read “on the road”, but i imagine it had to do with being young, indestructible (seemingly, until otherwise proven), eternal (ditto), rebellious (double-ditto), passionate (ditto squared) and maybe self-centered (“pi” times ditto to the third power).
my “road” book was “fear and loathing in las vegas” and more accurately for me, “screaming bloodily down the highway of oblivion,” the title (that i just made up) of my own book that no one wants but is available in fits and starts on my blog and at myspace.com/scrapbar.

……so the conversation with the documentarians went on, centering on why i did what i did in bushwick and my answer was “i just did,” and quickly added that there’s no place where anyone can “begin” anymore.
i took them to the backyard and showed them “the other stage” where we do acoustic, electronic and experimental music and films.

i told them that here at goodbye blue monday there is no 22-year-old numbnut passing judgement on anyone’s musical statement or artistic direction when they ask to perform.
that we simply say “yes.”
….that my only hope is performers show they care by inviting a few friends to support the house.
i understand the limitations of nyc venues. i’m not knocking them.
they can’t do what we do anymore and haven’t been able to in decades. that they have to shuffle bands in and out, get door-counts and charges, and even steal a percentage of people’s merch and more.
new york city can’t afford to be creative unless you’re connected with a group of swells or have dad’s black american express card tattooed to your bank account, and even then the deck is generally stacked by PR and shmoozer’s professionale.
this isn’t an indictment, it’s just the way it is.
the village voice voted us the best place for new music and performance in 2007. six months later i was in their offices, arguing.
i asked them why they didn’t ever list the shows we did here on their calendar – ever – and was told that “editorial” didn’t believe anyone who played here “mattered.”
i explained that i even ADVERTISED with them.
it didn’t matter.
there was a new issue of the voice laying open on a table in front of us and my eyes were drawn to an ad for a show sponsored by “the fillmore at irving plaza (whatever the fuck THAT means) and the village voice.”
there was a list of six musical acts slated for this show. i pointed at the ad and said, “what? i have to have names like these to get a rise out of those douchebags in editorial?”
and the person i was arguing with looked down and said, “well… yes.”
and i pointed at three of these names and stated with strong certainty that these bands all played on my stage over a year ago.
“so what we’re saying here is once it matters to you, it matters. it doesn’t matter that they may have cut their teeth in my stage, you shit!”
i stopped advertising with them.
and that’s what the music scene is in new york city.
last week, three years later, i was informed that village voice editorial has decided to list us in their calendar.
this was followed by a pitch to start advertising with them.
don’t eat the brown acid – it’s really little pebbles of ka-ka.

in 1985, allen ginsberg walked down into a bar i was building at 116 macdougal street and asked me “do you know where you are?” and before i could offer my wiseass reply, he excitedly told me the history of the place, it being the original “village gaslight.”
he told me about dave van ronk and careers started from bob dylan to bill cosby and loads of other stuff.
it excited him to pour his past out and lay it on the same floor i was currently using to spray six-foot flourescent light tubes with day-glo blue krylon paint.
i would later learn that “cafe wha” – across the street – ran an open stage every day with booked acts at night and everyone worked “the hat.”
was this in my mind when i began out here in bushwick?
i don’t think so.
i’m not very good on “plans” and maybe that’s not a good thing, but no one i knew was running their businesses with slide rules and graph paper when i was a kid, though i admit i wasn’t looking.
me and math never got along, anyway.
i told the documentarians that now is more punk than ever, that the gradual dissolution of the recording industry as i knew it was a good thing and that i never lived in a time of such startling creativity.
i also qualified this by saying that it’s just an opinion by “a musically-challenged writer with a short attention-span who did way too much of whatever he could get his hands on for far too long a time.”
that would be me.

i prefer to talk about near and dead-death experiences, my extraordinary friend’s rendezvous with my late, sainted-irish mother whom she never knew till they chatted briefly on the corner of Eternity boulevard and Hallelujah avenue;
….the “gulf-coast oil window” and when it will despoil the beach where me, maxx (my dog), the giant tire i befriended some years ago and those lizard people i keep mentioning meet on an almost weekly basis and where i can get a clean shot at “the eighth-electro-plasma-ocean of the ninth dimension” where i mingle with the comings and goings of everyone who ever came or went, who matter and anti-matter and who i hold, will hold or ever held in my electronic sputterings near, dear and otherwise to me.

instead of this, i can tell you about our booking policies, backline list and cheese you with goodbye blue monday’s history, but if that’s what you’re looking for, it’s on the website/blog.

see this thing just below here?

nuclear missiles used to be mounted on these things as they waiting and waited for something to happen.
i live my life waiting for something to happen.
it always does.

Location In Brooklyn

Goodbye Blue Monday
1087 Broadway
Brooklyn, NY 11221-3013

(718) 453-6343

Bands Featured

Thought and Memory

Los Angeles, California

La La

By Marshall Presnick

The first time I noticed was a Saturday night in spring. I was cruising down Sunset from Chinatown, heading to Vine in Hollywood. The windows were down, the music was right, and I was afloat on the electric buzz of life and the city. I had just left a group of friends at the Grand Star in Chinatown. Upstairs at The Grand Star was a dance club, and a pretty cool one on hip hop night, when DJs spun underground – which at that time was rising up to counter the growingly commercial cliché of gangster rap. But we had been downstairs, in the restaurant, listening to the jazz combo that featured an old Chinese guy on drums. Rumor had it that he had played with all the greats, including Charlie Parker, when they would come through L.A. And one night a week, the night the Grand Star hosted live jazz karaoke, he played with anyone who had balls enough to get up in front of the crowd of hipsters and belt out their favorite Sinatra tune. I was on my way into Hollywood to meet another group of friends at Daddy’s – a cocktail bar that had sprung up in the wake of the Swingers era, and whose vibe and décor met all the prerequisites that entailed: deep leather booths, mood lighting that turned all the girls into babies, and bartenders who knew that to get a good tip you needed a good pour. I was in the middle of a perfect Saturday night, and that’s when I knew. The next time I took a plane back to L.A. from New York it felt like coming home. I had lived in L.A. for three years.

Frolic Room, Los Angeles                                                       Photo by Noelle Thurin

Three years is about what it took me to figure out the riddle of Los Angeles, and I think that probably is a decent average. When I first moved there I hated it. I had been there as a tourist a few times, but seeing L.A. from that perspective it seems exactly like what all the critics say it is: a strip mall with palm trees and good weather. The paradox of Los Angeles is that a city which has withstood so much criticism for being superficial, and for fostering superficiality, lives so vibrantly beneath the surface. The city of Los Angeles is obvious only to those who don’t dig. Walking down a street in New York, you can linger at the window of a restaurant, checking out the patrons or the menu. You can hear the music blaring from an underground club on the Lower East Side, pop in and check it out. But L.A. is a driving city, and drivers don’t linger. You have to work at knowing Los Angeles. And knowledge we gain from work just feels more valuable. Everyone loves New York – foreigners, southerners, Midwesterners, even Texans – because it is so easy to figure out the cool shit to do there. But once things click for you in Los Angeles – once you figure out which hamburger stand has the best fries, which Hollywood dive has the best jukebox, which after-hours club spins the best house, which night is free at Spaceland – the city is yours.

Things don’t stand still in Los Angeles. Daddy’s is closed now, or has been turned into something else. The drummer from the Grand Star died, and there is no more live jazz karaoke in Chinatown. People say that Los Angeles has no respect for its own history. Maybe. But Los Angeles is very much alive and life is change and the city keeps moving forward. For every Daddy’s that closes, another spot opens up.  And it’s because Los Angeles has no old-world romanticism about the past, because Los Angeles is on the edge of the continent that points away from New York – from Europe, because the sun sets in the Pacific Ocean and the coming of night means the coming of a brand new day, that there will always be a new Los Angeles to discover.

Sluts For Hire

The first time I saw them was at Mogul’s, just off Hollywood Boulevard next to a family style Italian Restaurant.  When Mogul’s closed they turned it into one of those velvet rope places, Les Deux Café or something, outside of which Lindsay Lohan “accidentally” gives crotch shots to the paparazzi.  That’s what passes for gentrification in Los Angeles.  But back then it was a big box of a room with a wrestling ring pushed up against the stage.  My guess is that in between punk shows they had foxy boxing.  Bob and I were there to see Texas Terri, who had just gotten new tits and was showing them off nightly.  We had taken some cheap trucker speed from the 7-11 on Hollywood and Van Ness and gotten there early to check out the opening bands.  There were less than a dozen people milling around between the bar and the ring, and our expectations were low, when Bimbo Toolshed took the stage.  The super hot strawberry blonde in a Catholic schoolgirl mini-skirt and motorcycle boots strapped on a guitar.  The wiry black dude sat himself behind the drum kit and spun his sticks.  And the goateed guy in a straw cowboy hat lit a cigarette and pulled on his bass.  Then the lead singer staggered onto the stage, with her short bleachy blonde hair looking for all the world like some California chick who had just ridden down the coast with the Jokers Motorcycle Club – cigarette in one hand, and a plastic cup of whiskey in the other.  She teetered on platform sandals, and Bob and I looked at each other as she nearly knocked over the mic stand with her head.  Then the drummer banged out the time in the air, the guitar player spread her feet and ripped into a riff somewhere between punk and good old fashion rock n’ roll, the bass player leaned into the beat, and Swoopo sang.  She was like Janis Joplin with attitude – so much so that I suspected what was actually in her cup was Southern Comfort.  It was real, it was raw, it was ROCK.  But that was just the start of the night.  Then THEY came on.  I had never seen anything like them before.  They looked punk, sure.  They had tattoos, they had dyed hair in various colors.  But they were different somehow.  Maybe it was Miss Koko’s silver corset and giant pink sunhat.  Maybe it was Sam’s tight rubber shirt, or Dennis’s silver pants.  They were punk, but more importantly, they were fun.  As my head began to tingle from the pills, and I could feel every individual strand of hair on my head, Miss Koko took a deep breath.  Then she screamed into the mic: “I’m not a BITCH!”  The guitars answered her first, and then the band: “Yes, you ARE!”  Bob and I looked at each other again.  This was for real.  What followed was a single minute of pure punk attitude, tongue-in-cheek but never sarcastic, playful but never jokey.  And the songs!  Average length a minute thirty.  Fast riffs, loud guitars, the underlying tunefulness only obvious when they reference the opening of Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds at the beginning of their paean to Disneyland, Happiest Song on Earth (and their 48 second version of Please Please Me.)  And they all sang, even the drummer!  At one point during the set, Miss Koko and Sam both got into the ring, mashed their guitars together, chords all tangled, and ended up rolling around in the middle of a song, without missing a note. These motherfuckers were TIGHT.  And they were called Sluts For Hire.

Bob and I didn’t hang around for Texas Terri.  We followed Sluts For Hire out to the parking lot where, still roiling from the set and the pills, I riffed an impromptu poem in their honor.  For some reason, they asked Bob and me if we would like to be their managers.  Obviously, despite knowing nothing about managing a band, we said yes.  What I got out of it was the opportunity to follow these guys around the L.A. club circuit – making sure they got their drink tickets, or got paid, but most importantly watching them play, at places like the legendary Al’s Bar downtown; The Garage in Los Feliz, across the street from the also departed best burger stand in L.A. (Jay’s which, like a zombie, has been risen from the dead in a much less attractive state); and Bar Deluxe, the red box at the top of the stairs off Hollywood Boulevard that used to share its parking lot with Musso & Frank.  After trips up to the Bay to play with Bimbo Toolshed, and a crazy tour back and forth to SXSW in Austin (just remember kids, the UFO museum in Roswell closes early), we also became friends, and would end up bowling all night at the departed Hollywood Star Lanes (they filmed The Big Lebowski here, and then they tore it down to make way for a school), where the band would draw more stares than Fred Durst rolling with two Playboy models the next lane over.  I will never forget those days, when I was getting to know Sluts For Hire and my new city at the same time.  It leaves me nostalgic for the departed places of Los Angeles.  The music scene is just not the same.  It was a community back then, and the bands knew each other, and played together, sometimes to crowds that consisted only of each other.  But there’s still Spaceland.  And luckily, in my life, there’s still Miss Koko, and Sam, and Dennis.  My friends, Sluts For Hire.

The Los Angeles Ageless


Musso & Frank’s
The oldest restaurant in Hollywood and the menu is evidence enough.  The menu here is the single most archaic document I have ever read.  If you can wend your way through its old-fashioned organizational system (cheese has its own section!) and ask your grandma what’s actually in some of the ancient dishes, you can have a good meal here.  But more importantly, soak up the atmosphere.  Everyone from Bogie to Chandler to Faulkner to Jim Thompson drank here.  The waiters are pros, not wannabe actors, and the bartenders make great martinis served in properly sized, small, glasses (don’t worry – the little carafe that comes with it holds even more!)  The interior is old-school beautiful, and Al Pacino, Lawrence Fishburn, and Fisher Stevens (having dinner together at the next table) once sang me happy birthday here.

The Burgundy Room
LA Weekly’s Best Dive Bar, 2008
I hear Torrance Jackson is still working the door here.  If so, tell him Marshall says hi, and ask him to sing for you.  The man is a Hollywood institution, knows everybody on the street, and has a great baritone.  Inside, you’ll find good music, dark lighting, and Red Hook on tap.  It’s a rock n’ roll kind of bar, and back in the day they used to set the bar on fire whenever anyone played Ring of Fire on the jukebox.  Unfortunately, some assholes (me and my friends) put an end to that the night they fed five quarters into the machine and played it 10 times in a row.

The Room
Across the street from the Burgundy Room, you used to enter through the alley around back, and you could give the homeless guy parked on a beach chair a buck to watch your car in the lot of the BBQ joint next door.  It’s kind of a lounge type place now – but I think you can still dance here.

The Frolic Room
Possibly the original dive bar.  Still has the best neon sign in L.A.  Small, and not as dirty as it should be.


Korea Town:

You ask me, this is THE place for steak.  Inspired me to learn all the different cuts, and the various attributes of the culotte.  Red leather booths; the Molly salad is their version of the wedge; and ask for the skirt steak special, even if it’s not on the menu.

Soot Bull Jeep
Just a block or so from Taylor’s, this is Korean BBQ at its down and dirty finest.  If you don’t like smoke, and you don’t like meat, don’t come here – the ventilators above each table have seen better days, and meat is what’s for dinner.

The Prince
If you drink Crown Royal so quickly the bartender usually leaves you the bottle, you’re really into Korean Techno, or lawn jockeys and mediocre British landscape paintings are your décor of choice, this is the place for you.  Only L.A. could create a restaurant/bar Frankenstein monster like this.  In a former Art Deco hotel, the Prince is a Korean restaurant where the hotel bar used to be.  I have never tried the food here, because I come for the Asahi and Soju. And so should you.

Karaoke is for attention grabbing solipsists.  Song houses are for people who love to sing.  Rosen’s will rent you a private karaoke room of any size, for 2 people up to 30.  The song selection is large, and you just have to ring the bell and a waiter comes to your room to serve you.  The best part?  The one way mirrors allowing you to watch your neighbors belt out Sister Christian.

El Cholo
Classic.  L.A.  Mexican.

The H.M.S. Bounty
Another bar in a former Art Deco hotel, the Bounty used to be across the street from the Ambassador, the famous L.A. hotel whose famous nightclub was the Coconut Grove, and whose famous kitchen hosted RFK’s famous assassination.  But they tore down the Ambassador to build a school.  To mourn its passing, why not spend the cocktail hour hunched over a stiff one surrounded by neighborhood regulars who might have actually cut a rug in the hopping nightspot across the street?


Los Feliz/Silver Lake/Echo Park:

This place is a legend.  It’s what music should be about.  It’s small and they only book good bands – touring and local.  There have been times in my life when I just went to Spaceland – not even checking to see who was on that night.  One night I went to a benefit for Possum Dixon, whose gear had just been stolen.  Beck was the headliner, solo acoustic accompanied by a small beat box machine.  He sucked.  I noticed Pat Smear in the corner.  My buddy Jason noticed Dave Grohl.  Then they both strolled to the stage and put on guitars.  Dave Grohl leaned into the mic three feet from me, and announced, “We’re the Foo Fighters,” then proceeded to play their first concert ever.  I think Monday nights are free.

I’m not ashamed to admit that there was a time in my life when I was at this local strip joint at least twice a week.  “Cheetah’s is different,” I’d tell myself.  And you know what?  It fucking was.  Jezebel was this super tatted Asian chick who only danced to Sabbath.  Athena was eventually arrested for stalking Brad Pitt.  This one chick danced to flapper music and didn’t even take off her clothes.  And then there was Raven.  I don’t think they make places like Cheetah’s anymore.  Where you can hang with your friends and the girls aren’t constantly hustling you for a dance.  But they did once, and it was miraculous.

The Tiki Ti
Warning: this place is SMALL.  I have tried to go here several times but never actually made it inside.  But the place is classic, from what I hear.  Let me know what you think.

The Dresden Room
If you saw Swingers, then you may remember this place.  Another old-school classic.  Wonder if Marty & Elaine, the entertaining if mildly competent jazzy duo, still play?  Me and a departed friend spent a season here once, whiling away bright hot L.A. summer afternoons hunkered over martinis, in the dim cool comfort of the bar.

The Smog Cutter
Speaking of karaoke.  The Asian women who run this tiny dive are crazy.  The crowd is suspect.  The karaoke is awesome.

The Drawing Room
God, I can’t fucking remember the name of the bartender with beautiful blue eyes whose glittery makeup just could NOT keep your attention from wandering to her enormous tits.  It would have been easier if literally 80% of them hadn’t been exposed to the open air.  A classic dive, this place opens at 6 A.M.  There’s a spot across the street called Ye Rustic which supposedly serves a good brunch.  But who needs brunch if you start drinking at 6?

Good Luck
In old Hollywood everything used to be themed: Egyptian movie theaters, Under the Sea car washes, Post-Apocalyptic smog testers – everything.  This bar is themed.  Chinese this time.  I have enjoyed this place on and off since it opened.  Comfy.  Good jukebox.  I once picked up a chick here who looked like Jennifer Connelly and was moping about being dumped by Jacob Dylan.  When I got her home she drank a bottle of gin in one go, took off her clothes, and hid in my closet for several hours.  Sometimes the west-side invasion makes this place suck, though.  Check it out.

My favorite gay/straight bar.  Only on the east side.

La Frere Taix
This is a French Country Cuisine restaurant.  I ate here once, I think.  All I remember is that it was expensive.  But you will go for the lounge.  They have open mics once a week or something.  But again, it’s when the hipsters meet the old regulars that sparks really fly.  And this is one of those places.

The Brite Spot
After the Taix (or before) you could eat here.  It’s just across the street.  A cool guy took over a failing diner and this is what happens.  Good food.  Cool people.  Open late.  Nough said.

The Echo
Prime rock and dance club.  East side.



Mr. T’s Bowl
Yes, this used to be a bowling alley.  For a while, you could get behind the curtain and go backstage with the bands and see the actual alleys – pins and balls strewn in the rubble.  I have seen some awesome rock shows here.  And the tiny bar area still fills with local alcoholics on some nights.  Cheap Miller High Life, and attitude from the bartender – who was almost hot, in that indeterminately Eastern European, super-tight blond pony-tail, and braces kind of way.  The braces are probably off by now.

All Star Lanes
Since they closed Hollywood Star Lanes this is really the only spot to roll.  They recently redid the lanes, and the bar is big – and has karaoke!  I once rolled a 260 here, unconscious.

Locations in Los Angeles

Grand Star Jazz Club
943 N.Broadway (Sun Mun Way)
Los Angeles, CA 90012


Musso & Frank’s
6667 Hollywood Boulevard
Los Angeles, CA

(323) 467-7788

Burgundy Room
1621 1/2 N Cahuenga Blvd
Los Angeles, CA 90028

(323) 465-7530
More Info

The Room
1626 North Cahuenga Boulevard
Los Angeles, CA 90028-6202

(323) 462-7196‎
Google Maps

Frolic Room
6245 Hollywood Boulevard
Los Angeles, CA 90028-5310

(323) 462-5890
Google Maps

Taylor’s Steakhouse
3361 West 8th Street
Los Angeles, CA 90005-2438

(213) 382-8449

Soot Bull Jeep
‎3136 West 8th Street
Los Angeles, CA 90005-1903

(213) 387-3865
Google Maps

The Prince‎
3198 West 7th Street
Los Angeles, CA 90005

(213) 389-2007
Google Maps

Rosen Music Studio‎
3488 West 8th Street
Los Angeles, CA 90005-2518

(213) 387-0469‎
Google Maps

El Cholo
1121 S Western Ave
Los Angeles, CA 90006

(323) 734-2773

The H.M.S. Bounty
3357 Wilshire Boulevard
Los Angeles, CA 90010

(213) 385-7275

1717 Silver Lake Boulevard
Los Angeles, CA 90026-1221

(323) 661-4380‎

4600 Hollywood Blvd
Los Angeles, CA 90027

(323) 660-6733
More Info

The Tiki-Ti
4427 Sunset Blvd.
Hollywood (LA), California 90027

(323) 669-9381

The Dresden Room
1760 No. Vermont Ave.
Hollywood, CA 90027

(323) 665-4294

Smog Cutter
864 North Virgil Avenue,
Los Angeles, CA 90029-2941

(323) 660-4626
Google Maps

Drawing Room‎
1800 Hillhurst Avenue
Los Angeles, CA 90027-4408

(323) 665-0135‎
Google Maps

Good Luck Bar‎
1514 Hillhurst Avenue
Los Angeles, CA 90027-5516

(323) 666-3524‎
Google Maps

4356 Sunset Blvd.
Los Angeles, CA 90029

(323) 665-6810

Le Frere Taix
1911 Sunset Boulevard
Los Angeles, CA 90026


Brite Spot
1918 West Sunset Boulevard
Los Angeles, CA 90026-3229

(213) 484-9800
Google Maps

The Echo
1822 Sunset Blvd.
Los Angeles, CA 90026

213) 413-8200

Mr T’s Bowl
5621 1/2 Figueroa
Highland Park, CA 90042


All Star Lanes
4459 Eagle Rock Blvd.
Los Angeles CA 90041

(323) 254-2579