Tricks aren’t for kids
Maybe I should’ve stayed sober for the magic show
Hey friends, there will be no newsletter next week in honor of Thanksgiving, but I want you to know that I’m sure thankful for all of you. Don’t forget to look at the AWKSD Guest List shows—there are some great ones coming up in the next two weeks (also, hi Brick By Brick! Glad to have you!)
Have a good Thanksgiving!
Pretend that you’ve just arrived at your good friend’s bachelor party in LA after three hours of creeping through white-knuckle traffic, with that final half hour defined by a need to piss so acute that you wonder if it would honestly be so bad if you showed up with dark-stained jeans. After such a harrowing journey, you’re ready to decompress with some cannabis.
But let’s also pretend you’re also a lightweight when it comes to weed, a fact that you should have considered when you stopped at a dispensary and splurged on the prerolls with “oil in them” because “they’re more powerful” according to the budtender. Given your tolerance, it might be a good idea to stick to moderation…but, um, YOLO? (Also while you’re at it, pretend that it’s 2014 and people still say YOLO).
So you take a shot of mezcal and one of those oily babies, and you say goodbye to your brain for the weekend.
Then, after you’ve smoked yourself instantly dumb, your friend tells you to change your shirt because you’re all going to a magic show.
A magic show.
My head is already fucked—how am I going to handle tricks and illusions in this state?
In my defense, this isn’t a complete surprise. I knew that we had plans to go to a fancy magic show at the Black Rabbit Rose Theater at some point over the weekend, but I thought it was scheduled for Saturday night, not Friday. I should really be better at reading emails.
I want to freak out. I want to retreat in the warm, embracing covers of my Airbnb bed, but I miraculously push the fear and anxiety aside. Some altruistic voice enters my head—or maybe it’s a devil on my shoulder—tells me to lean in. YOLLLLOO it whispers, like some menacing Ghost of Parties Yet to Come.
I relent. YOLO if I must! Plus, opportunities to bache it up have gotten rare—most of my friends are already married—but I’ve found that bachelor parties a lot more fun when as an adult nearing middle age. We’ve grown out of the obligatory shithead phase that often includes strippers, lap dances, or other of masculinity-affirming nonsense. Now we’re in a lesser shithead phase (there’s never a zero amount of shitheadedness when it comes to a group of men) where we play board games, do drugs, and go to magic shows. In fact, 14-yea-olds and middle aged bachelor partiers pretty much share the same criteria for a good time.
But one thing never changes: bachelor parties are where vulnerabilities go to die. I’m not saying that we’re not emotionally-intelligent men, or that any of us adhere to gender stereotypes, but there is a joy in giving anxieties, fears, and deep feelings a night or two off. Don’t worry, they aren’t going anywhere. Might as well bury them under vice for a tick.
After a few moments of me staring into the middle distance with my mouth agape, a magic show actually like not just a good idea, but a great idea. I somehow fall into a black button-up shirt. Black Rabbit Rose’s dress code prohibits shirts with logos, shorts, and flip-flops, meaning that the majority of San Diego would have trouble getting in. There’s also a strange stipulation that prohibits “shiny shirts.” We come to the conclusion that this is just coded language to keep Neil Diamond out of the magic show, but can’t outright say it for legal reasons.
We rideshare to a burger place in Hollywood, and drink cans of Danny Trejo beers while we wait outside. I never realized that Danny Trejo had his own beer, but in that moment, nothing could make more sense. His tough-but-compassionate face stares down on us, god-like, from the building’s signage as we chug citric lager beneath tungsten lights.
We’re suddenly in the burger restaurant and the server is asking me what I want. I pick the first thing on the menu. I’m also a little self-conscious that our lot—six stoned bros in pseudo-dress attire—is our server’s (and really anyone’s) absolute nightmare, so I don’t want to make it any harder on her.
“Just bring me whatever beer you want,” I mumble. She brings me a lager.
The burger comes and it might be the best thing I’ve eaten. There are blue cheese crumbles on it. I never realized how much I loved blue cheese. It feels life-affirming. Wow. Los Angeles. City of Angels.
We finish at the restaurant and walk toward the Black Rabbit Rose. On the way, one of the guys hands each of us half of a little blue pill. They’re chalky little things that look like Flintstones vitamins with images of electric outlets embossed on them. He takes his and I take mine. No hesitation. Just pop.
We walk along Hollywood Boulevard, stepping on stars of actors I’ve never heard of. When I finally find one I recognize—Jason Bateman—I want to stop and take a photo. The photo looks awful and I delete it immediately.
The Black Rabbit Rose feels like Halloween. It’s all dim, red, and velvety. I want to touch it all. There’s a speakeasy style bar with a crowd waiting around it for drinks. Right then, I can’t even think of the name of drinks, let alone summon the will to wait for one. Everything sort of shimmers, and it’s not unpleasant, but it’s just too wild.
We bypass the bar and head toward the theater. We sure are a smiley group! Navigating through the dark halls, again, feels like a haunted house. I realize I would not be opposed if a man wearing a mask jumped out, swinging a chainsaw. We wait for what seems like hours to be admitted into the theater. I can hear everyone’s conversations, their voices drunk and disembodied. LA is so strange, I think, certain that I’m the first person in history to ever think that.
They finally let us in. I look around at the audience and everyone has the same haunted look that makes me wonder if they’re all actors. Plants, no doubt. Which one of these people is the magician going to call on? Who has a secret number that the magician is going to “guess”?
The lights dim. A magician takes the stage. He looks uncanny—simultaneously old and young at the same time. His agelessness seems like the result of living in the outskirts of showbusiness for years. Actually, he reminds me of a makeshift Jarvis Cocker. The magician jiggles ping-pong balls into existence—a seemingly endless supply appears from his swift hands. I’m captivated, water-mouthed. Ten seconds in and I’m already slobbering for magic. I knew it would be great, but I didn’t know it would be this great. I want to travel back in time to an hour prior and tell my skeptical self to STFU.
A rotation of magicians take turns one-upping each other. A woman comes out and eats fire. The flames her sticks dance to the rhythm of my heartbeat. A Scottish magician snorts up a mint and pulls it out from his eyelid. Magic and body horror? It’s our lucky day, boys.
The Jarvis Cocker magician brings my buddy Chris on stage and makes quarters tumble out of his clothes. Chris wears the smile of a person who, like me, has a head full of bachelor party, but more importantly, has fully succumbed to the all-encompassing power of magic.
I realize that this might be the closest I’ve felt to being religious.
Two drunk women in the audience begin to laugh loudly for some reason. Their attempt to steal my revelation is futile. Get behind thee, Satans, I think, fortified by the holy trinity of magic, friends, and Danny Trejo.
The Scottish magician pulls Jake, our bachelor, up on stage. He then procures a voodoo doll. A deep, menacing bass rumbles out of the speakers.
The night’s about to get real, I just know it.
The magician tells Jake to sit. “I’m going to count to 10 and we’re going to light this guy on fire to see if we get some sort of voodoo effect.”
Dear god. I look to my left Chris and then right to Justin. They’re smiling. Good. We’re still having fun.
The magician counts to two and Jake bolts out of his chair. I gasp.
“Seems you might have had a lot to drink,” the magician says. “Let’s try this again.”
On two, Jake jumps out of his chair again. To my right, I hear Justin say “Oh, Jake,” and I’m thinking the same thing. Jake, in his altered state, is confused! The night has broken his brain! What will his wife say when we tell her, heyyy, Jake ended up in a psych ward because, you know, magic.
The magician tries the trick again. Same result: Jake’s up off the chair. Justin and Chris are still smiling, but their grins look plastic. The magician seems genuinely flustered. He switches out Jake’s chair to appease any suspicion that it’s electrified. Next to me, Justin whispers, “Stay seated.”
“I think I just did the voodoo trance incorrectly,” the magician says. “Take the doll. I just want you to look into his dead, clothy eyes once again.” Jake holds the doll and deep rumbling music fills the room. “Breathe in, breathe out. This is the power... of voodoo.”
The magician holds the flame to the doll and counts. When he hits ten, Jake slumps over. Passed out. Dead, maybe.
“Oh no,” Justin says, and runs on stage. He grabs hold of Jake and drags him like a man guiding a drunk to bed. Jay stands up to help carry Jake out of the theater.
Chris, Jeff and I look at each other, unsure of what we just witnessed.
Do we leave, too? On one hand, our friend could be be having a serious medical issue.
On the other hand...we might miss the rest of the magic show.
Does a congregation all stop worshipping when the Holy Spirit moves through a member of His flock? No.
And it’s a good thing, too, because the next trick the Scottish magician does—something to do numbers on a whiteboard—is, like, really cool.
After some time, Jake returns. The audience stares at him with a little bit of awe and fear. It’s probably similar to how people reacted to Jesus after He was resurrected. Jake says he doesn’t remember anything.
On the ride home, while Jake is riding in the other car, Justin tells me that when he dragged Jake out of the room and into the bathroom, Jake had said, “Are we still in the act?” I had briefly thought that Justin was in on it, but now I don’t know what to think.
Back at our Airbnb, Jake tells us how some of the trick was done, but swears he still doesn’t remember what happened after the magician counted to 10 that final time. Again, I think of religion—illusory, deceitful, unexplainable. Heavy stuff. Perhaps too heavy for a group of dudes who just wanted to inflict temporary lobotomies on themselves for a weekend. There’s undoubtedly been a change during the night, a rift caused by the vulnerabilities broke through when magic—MAGIC!—threatened the life of our dear friend. We were shaken into belief, something that no altered state or bro-ish posturing could wipe away.
So when it’s time to take another half of the blue pills, nobody hesitates.
AWKSD GUEST LIST SHOWS
The Guest List gives paying AWKSD subscribers the opportunity to see live music for free, because there’s no better phrase than “I’m on the list.” Just respond to this email
Thursday, Nov. 18
Angel Du$t @ Soda Bar: I’ve been way behind on new music this year, but after just a few listens, I already know Angel Du$t’s YAK: A Collection of Truck Songs will be on my Best Of list. The supergroup—featuring members of Turnstile (who also put out an excellent album this year) and Trapped Under Ice—plays a potent mix of power-pop, surf, post punk and ‘00s indie. Maybe think Wavves meets Spoon.
Friday, Nov. 19
The Bridge City Sinners, The Lower Class Brats @ Brick By Brick: I was recently wondering what happened to the band Squirrel Nut Zippers. Turns out they’re still touring (and recently played in San Diego), but I like to think there’s an alternate reality where they all died, went to hell, and came back as The Bridge City Sinners. The band of devil-worshipping crust punks hails from the Northwest (obvs), and describes their sound with phrases like “prohibition era jazz” and “Appalachian death folk,” but really, if you have any interest in sea shanties (and who doesn’t??) you’re not going to miss this one.
Saturday, Nov. 20
Wavves @ Soda Bar (10 p.m. late show): You can’t be a real San Diegan and not know Wavves. The local slacker punks hit big in the late 2000s/early 2010s with the killer back-to-back albums, Wavvves and King of the Beach. Although their popularity has waned slightly, their output has been solid, and they still excel sy writing grungy pop gems. It’ll be rad to see what chaos they bring to an intimate venue like Soda Bar.
Saturday, Nov. 27
Intervals @ Brick By Brick: No doubt, progressive metal is definitely the most nerdy subgenre, but I don’t care—sometimes I just want to get my face shredded by technical wizardry (not to mention that it always reminds me of the best NES soundtracks). Intervals plays the kind of metal that feels like it belongs in an ‘80s film montage where a ragtag bunch of kids are suiting up to destroy some monsters, and combines it with early 2000s emo melodies. Each song truly is a journey.
Sunday, Nov. 28
Unto Others @ Brick By Brick. Unto Others used to be called Idle Hands, but they’re the same band that put out one of my favorite extreme albums of 2019, Mana. This Portland group leans heavily into their operatic goth metal, and, well, it fucking works for them. I mean, how can you not a band when they have song titles like “No Children Laughing Now”?
THE WEEKLY GOODS
Watch this
I apologize, I recently had to write two big papers for school, so I haven’t really had time to read/watch/listen to much this week—at least not anything worth recommending (unless you want to read my 7,000-word writing instructional unit?) However, I saw this cool animation about the COVID virus and vaccines, and I think you should watch it too. Vaccines are dope.
Check this out
Remember when I wrote about teen sensation band The Fluorescents? Well, first off, they changed their name to The Inflorescence, but also they just signed to Kill Rock Stars. Hell yes! Way to go, punks! They’re playing December 9 at The Casbah, so make sure to catch them now so you can have bragging rights later.
Got a tip or wanna say hi? Email me at ryancraigbradford@gmail.com, or follow me on Twitter @theryanbradford. And if you like what you’ve just read, please hit that little heart icon at the end of the post.
And we thought Hunter S. Thompson was dead. Loved it.