WPL.A. graphic by Vivian Martinez

“Waxing Philosophical, L.A.” is DUM DUM’s monthly column written by Christina Gubala, co-founder of L.A.’s premier cassette-tape label, Complicated Dance Steps. A die-hard vinyl collector, you can find her spinning records at local bars near you.

Our city has a continuing history thick with vinyl love, now more than ever with record shops opening their doors instead of shuttering. Each week, Gubala breaks down a fresh new wax purchase, and writes about the record store as well, mapping it as part of L.A.’s history in the making.

Atwater Village, the charming town just east of Silver Lake, is home to a bevy of delightful retail spaces, and after three visits to Jacknife Records and Tapes this month, I can say one of them is particularly special. After opening last year, the shop made a name as a reliable spot to find mint-condition collectable records at appropriate prices. Being a DJ, I run the risk of damaging records regularly, so I’m not often shopping for stock of that nature. I perused the store once shortly after it opened and marveled at the breathtaking array of flawless Krautrock albums and Arthur Lee projects. It was a “one of these days” kind of place, where you call silent dibs on everything you’ve always wanted, awaiting an unexpectedly hefty paycheck to come in and collect. While a space like this is precious, its narrow client base makes  it difficult to sustain–so when news broke that it had changed ownership, I was unsurprised. What did surprise me, however, was the metamorphosis of the space under the new owner, Trevor Baade.

Trevor’s energy and eagerness to engage the customer in musical discussion is infectious, and the store has become a smorgasbord of genres, formats, stereo equipment and vintage clothing. Rows of cassettes line the walls, eras intermingled, creating a sense of timelessness and continuity amongst Erasure, Tim Harden, Secret Circuit, and whatever else someone committed to tape and brought Trevor’s way. The vinyl collection was sorted and sub-sorted with thorough genre coverage. One of the few stores in town to boast a healthy classical section and a proud offering of vintage radio show boxsets, Jacknife seems to harbor an appreciation for it merits everything, especially the community of the store’s patrons.

I made my way to Jacknife at the beginning of April, in the wake of my cassette label’s two most recent releases, Keepbullfighting’s It Never Ends and Ryan McGregor’s Orange Confusion’s Leaping Off & On. We’d received the tapes from our manufacturer just before our trip to SXSW, so I had admittedly been a little slow with local distribution. Ryan McGregor himself had visited the store and spoken with Trevor about, among other things, the Grateful Dead and his cassette. He encouraged Ryan to bring in a few tapes, and Ryan encouraged me to do the same. I was thrilled at the prospect of another record store ready to stock new cassettes, so I packed my cassette briefcase and visited the shop on business.

Upon entering the store, I was promptly reminded why the business of music is fun–the bright green shop was packed to the gills with stacks, rows, bins and shelves of music and its accoutrements. I spotted wall records I recognized from the original incarnation of Jacknife, and the new ownership provided the store with a solid selection of affordable used records, hand-selected new and reissued wax, and CD versions of essential albums and cassettes you never knew you always wanted. It was exciting to see the amalgamation of an industry’s production, decades of constant change confined to one playful, inviting room. I introduced myself to the owner himself, behind the counter he mans Tuesday through Sunday, and we started talking music. The room filled with discussion and a sense of involvement was fostered amongst the present customers. Opinions were exchanged over Eric Satie and Ornette Coleman, records and tapes were bought and sold, and I walked out with a stunning 90′s reissue of Diga Rhythm Band’s Diga and a limited edition of Ojo’s Gymnopedie No.1 7”, recorded live on KXLU in 2006. Both had been Trevor’s recommendations.

The following evening, local label Sonoptik was hosting their monthly night at Mahasukha Meditation Center in Culver City. They’d graciously asked me to play records and I was looking forward to unleashing my new finds in the serene space. Sonoptik’s monthly night typically consists of four ambient or drone musicians playing to a blissfully comfortable audience of peace-seekers and fellow musicians, always an open-minded crowd. I was, needless to say, grateful for the opportunity to stretch the capabilities of my record collection and set the scene at Mahasukha. I dropped the needle on the Diga Rhythm Band record, and as the peels of Hawaiian guitar, scoops of tablas and talking drums saturated the room, my gratitude extended to Jacknife Records as well. It was as if the track was recorded for the express purpose of being played between Spheres and Derek Rogers that night (though its express purpose had been to ignite the crowd with tantalizing percussion tracks before the Grateful Dead took the stage circa 1976). I also played Ojo’s elegant electric guitar working of Satie’s patient masterpiece, and a few audience members came up to the DJ booth, fascinated. Both of my Jacknife acquisitions sparkled that evening before an appreciative group of listeners, and really, what more can a DJ ask for? Trevor’s recommendations had been spot on, and I was thankful to have broadened the scope of my collection.

Jacknife Records and Tapes in Atwater Village provides a lively selection of music spanning generations and formats, genres and geography. Enjoy the conversation and appreciate that we live in this city right now, where places like this are open just down the street all over the city. We’re living in the midst of a renaissance.

Tuesday, May 8, 2012

This workshop, which is the first of many in DUM DUM’s “Tour of L.A.” monthly workshop series, will take care of all those writerly ailments by bringing artists together, juicing them up with ideas, and collaborating. Free/Write/Shop will also provide the opportunity for people to draw and craft as well, so long as it’s related to or responding to the act of writing.

The only requirement: bring a piece of your old work that you’d like to cut up and throw into the communal inspiration jar, and/or bring any object that inspires you.

To keep up to date on secret meeting locations and workshop prompts, follow the Free/Write/Shop Tumblr!

RSVP on the Facebook invite here!

 Wednesday, April 25 8pm-11pm @ Home Room 101
$5 donation suggested

www.dumdumzine.com
www.homeroom101.org

 DUM DUM would like to introduce Jessica Garrison as the first writer we’ve invited to participate in our spankin’ new online serials. Each month, we’ll introduce a new short story by Garrison, serializing short works from her $1 Books series.

DOWN

I’ve got three fives in my bag. I sit at a cafe, sipping ice water, bouncing my knee up and down. I look at the reflection of my forearm in a mirrored tabletop. A man moves towards me, his hand is out. His hat rounds his head like a cereal bowl.

“No,” I say.

He touches my elbow.

“Bonsai,” he says.

I hand him a five. I place the bonsai in the center of the mirror. I smile, because it’s pretty.

“Wisdom,” he whispers, pocketing the five.

I walk the next block, carrying the bonsai through Chinatown. A bouquet of white daisies, wrapped in silk.

I see a man that I know, dressed in black in the sun.

“Hello,” he says. His voice is soft, like uncut pubes. He holds his arms out. He wraps my neck in his scarf. I smell soap.

“My apartment is there.” He points, his finger hangs in the air, the dried up river behind him.

“Want to come?” he asks.

I nod, gripping my bonsai, making jokes, silently in my head.

“You look hungry,” he says.

I don’t listen.

“You can eat after,” he says, “Let’s be quick.”

“Okay,” I say.

I undress by the window. I know where to stand. He hands me a pickle. I suck on it.

“Look down,” he says, he’s on his knees.

I look at the pickle. I drag my eyes from left to right. White shag carpet, mahogany chair with claw feet, red tape in a cross on the floor.

“Here,” he says. He takes my bonsai.

I hold it against my chest. The ceramic pot is cold, it makes my stomach pull in.

“Down,” he says.

I lower it to my center.

He gestures with his hand. “Lower,” he says.

I hold the bonsai, placing it over the clementine patch between my legs.

“Good,” he says, pulling the polaroid.

“We got two today,” he says, his breath hits me densely on the chin.

Two polaroids dry on his desk. I give him my hand.

He gives me two fives. The bonsai is left on the floor.

As I close the metal latch I hear him. The sound of his belt buckle hitting the hardwood, a needle in the record, heavy breathing.

Issue No. 1 was released in Los Angeles in the Fall of 2011, printed on a 17×22 broadside on newsprint (back and front). DUM DUM’s very first issue features postcard interviews, new media literature, hybrid fiction, and more! Issues are available in record stores and independent bookstores throughout Los Angeles, and here in our store.

STORIES

“How to Leave Cities” by Taleen Kalenderian

“A Conversation between a Man and a Woman at Peet’s Coffee and Tea” by Liska Jacobs

POETRY

“Heimat” and “The Grey Fox” by Diana Arterian

“The Sleaze and Found Material” by David Scheier

INTERVIEWS

Text Message Interview with Caged Animals and L.A.’s Spider Problem, by Bryxan Amsterdam

Postcard Interview with Dayve Hawk of Memory Tapes, by Taleen Kalenderian

EXPERIMENTS

“Notes” by Suzanne Oshinsky

“Punks at Dawn, or an Ode to Vivienne” by Gabrielle Scott

CRITICISM

The Horrors’ Skying in words and drawings, by Pedro Juarez and Taleen Kalenderian

COMICS

“Shhh…” by Zach Plague

Issue No. 2 is a literature and music album release called Lightness & Darkness, released in audio form on CD.

Last  fall, Taleen Kalenderian (DUM DUM) and Nicki Yowell (‘Za The Pizza Zine) teamed up to write prose poetry, which culminated in the first incarnation of the project. The two collaborated with Olympia’s vocal-electronic duo Thee Source ov Fawnation, who played improvised music while recording Taleen & Nicki’s words being read aloud for the first time.

The result is a sonic-literary experiment fusing both written and musical art forms, reshaping the way both mediums are experienced. L&D invites the reader-listener to experience the work via album recording, activating the text with voice and musical elements. Preview the final track of the sonic-literary album, “Swimmers.”

Illustrated graphic hand-glued on black linen envelope. Binding available in thick tan rubber band, thin yellow rubber band, white or black braided leather, tan suede leather, hemp, or yarn. Each CD has hand-drawn marks in gold pen and contains 7 sonic-literary tracks. Available here.

WPL.A. graphic by Vivian Martinez

“Waxing Philosophical, L.A.” is DUM DUM’s monthly column written by Christina Gubala, co-founder of L.A.’s premier cassette-tape label, Complicated Dance Steps. A die-hard vinyl collector, you can find her spinning records at local bars near you.

Our city has a continuing history thick with vinyl love, now more than ever with record shops opening their doors instead of shuttering. Each week, Gubala breaks down a fresh new wax purchase, and writes about the record store as well, mapping it as part of L.A.’s history in the making.

 

April’s special installment brings you our SXSW edition, featuring End of An Ear Records in Austin.

After a 5am flight into Dallas and a traffic-addled ride through West Texas down to Austin, we’d finally arrived at South by Southwest. It was my third trip to Austin and first to the infamous festival. I was already feeling a little overwhelmed. With the windows rolled down in our car, we could hear the sound of amplified live music pouring forth from every establishment we passed, most of it guitar-centric. Vocal harmonies whipped by on the breeze and as far as the eye could see people swirled about, many of them with drunken swagger. It was mid-afternoon and we didn’t have anywhere we had to be until the next morning, so with the musical city as our oyster, my traveling companions and I decided that our first SXSW destination would be the place we all wanted most to visit: End of An Ear Records.

The first time I visited the shop was last summer, at which time they made such an impression on me that I later found myself measuring the quality of L.A. record stores against the high standard they set. Since that initial visit, I had been anxious to return to their vast, compelling reggae section where I’d once found a Gregory Isaacs record I was convinced didn’t even exist anymore. The degree to which my Jamaican record collection was improved by shopping there was so significant that End of An Ear purchases showed up on all my reggae mixes for months. The counter clerks assured me that they “worshiped at the altar of Jah,” and based on their meticulous, decade-spanning collection, I believed them.

We made the slow crawl through Austin, past a camp of food trucks and countless guitar-laden wanderers bouncing from gig to gig. We pulled into the gravel parking lot and I sprung the car door open and spilled out into the humid Texas spring afternoon, stretching and fidgeting, excited for whatever End of an Ear had in store for us. An alt-country band was arranging their gear and sound checking on the stage to the right of the entry, and without a second thought, I squeezed into the gaggle of patrons and maneuvered toward what I believed was the reggae section. To my chagrin, the order of the store had been rearranged since my last visit, and I found myself face to face with a series of specific metal subgenres. I swirled through the aisles feverishly–past the psychedelic prog and the lush-looking folk bins, elegantly organized displays of Waxpoetics zines, CD bins and VHS stacks, and myriad other tantilizing sights.

My companions and I instantly parted ways, staking out our listening stations early and eavesdropping to gauge the potential of the pending live act. The boyfriend’s birthday was rapidly approaching so I instructed him to find the record he wanted most for under $20 and I would make it his. Then, finally stumbling upon the relocated reggae section, I blissfully dug my fingers into the stacks and started flipping. Don Carlos, Junior Walker, Dennis Brown, and U-Roy siren-sang to me with their vibrant cover art and distinctly Jamaican wear. Within minutes I had plowed through the section, harvesting a stack of potential purchases and completely disregarding anything around me, including the burgeoning in-store crowd.

The store’s maze-like layout provided enclaves throughout the space for customers to tuck themselves away, encouraging browsers to linger longer by providing them an opportunity to stay out of the flow of traffic. One could get sucked into the dollar record rabbit hole and remain completely unnoticed, free to pore over the ridiculous covers of ’80s boy bands and boogie compilations liberally (as one member of my party did). End of An Ear is special in that it creates the illusion of community between art and shopper–there is life and personality behind each display, each bin, and engaging it in makes one feel as though they are tapping into a vibrant energy source alive and throbbing through the city. I suppose its a little clumsy to articulate it this way, but to me, End of An Ear seems like a place where it would be impossible to feel lonely. It exists as a consequence of the community it showcases, and pulses with life and energy in ways that typical retail spaces can only hope to cultivate.

One by one, each of my friends and I slunk past the front counter, grabbed a sticker and a handful of buttons, eye-balled the tempting totebag array and found our way back to one another to assess our respective selections, each one from a different corner of the recorded universe. Someone had found Kate Bush’s Never Forever and had fallen in love upon first aural contact with “Babooshka.” Another friend had a stack of eye-catching, kitschily covered discount wax, and I proudly presented a handful of reggae comps I’d found. However, when the aforementioned boyfriend in question rejoined the group with his chosen birthday request, we had amongst us a selection victor. He handed me a copy of Steven Halpern and Dallas Smith’s 1984: Newsound, and the cover’s crystal stalagmite arrangement and retro-futuristic typeface hinted at the brilliance within. Upon investigating the sleeve further, I learned that Steve and Dallas had composed the two sides of the record as a cultural counter-scenario to Orwell’s dystopian vision of 1984.

The A-side was an exploration of ’80s genres routed through the prism of Halpern’s imagination, including (but not limited to) futuristic world music, disco and soul. We were floored at how contemporary each of the tracks sounded, as though they could have been recorded last week in Highland Park. His spectrum suite provided foundation for the fabulous and joyful pop tracks, a warm reminder of Halpern’s roots and central focus, which took center stage on the B-side of the record. Of all the Steven Halpern records I’ve heard (which, in the interest of full disclosure, is at minimum 20), this one came across as one of the best executed concepts and most enjoyable, diverse listens in his catalog. It was a true pleasure to make this purchase, knowing that it would surely become a fixture in our collection and understanding that End of An Ear was a perfect place to find something so rich with personality.

End of An Ear in Austin is an essential destination for record heads of all demographics. In a city known for its love of music, I’ve yet to find a retail space that articulates it more wholeheartedly than them, and it is with my whole heart that I recommend checking them out the second you set foot in the city.

Tuesday, April 3 2012

DUM DUM will be roving the grounds with zines to trade, free sentences to give out, and ol’ faithful Dum Dum Pops–otherwise, you know, we’d eat them all ourselves.

Stop by and say hi to our friends Champoy Hate, Simon Sotelo and No Kings Record Co. who will be tabling, as well as L.A.’s independent media giants Slake and Beautiful/Decay. Not to mention: CHIP KIDD. Yeah, that guy.

STANDING IN LINE is an unpleasant reality of going out anywhere in L.A. We don’t dwell on it, but we’ll spend hours standing around on the street in our hoochie-best waiting for some chump to give us permission to enter. They are the static moments we try to skip, that purgatorial buffer between going out and getting in. In these serials, we present the unorganized fragments of strangers’ conversations– it may seem like a pastiche portrait of strangers in a liminal nether-space, or maybe just a bunch of noise. Hopefully it’s better than standing in line.

Outside the Edison

–Another one!? Jesus! If I see another mustache in this crowd I’m gonna…

–Is there a dress code here? I heard there was a dress code.

–I read this article in Mother Jones about that!

–Trust me, you’re gonna love this place. It’s super badass because the owners totally value a comfortable and cool experience inside. You’re not pressed up against every other smelly…

–At least everybody here smells nice. And as far as ‘staches go…

–Thank God that Art Walk crowd isn’t out tonight. It gets so congested with all those artsy-DJ-Downtown-types.

–Bourbon?

–It’s, like, retro.

–…those sweaty kids outside the Smell.

­­–Don’t tell me you would order a whiskey sour at a place like this.

–…worn dress shoes tonight? I’m never quite sure how dress codes work in L.A.

–No self-respecting whiskey drinker would put sours in a good…

–No, no. It was in Vanity Fair, I think.

–Isn’t Occupy L.A. over?

–This isn’t some college bar where you look for the drunkest sorority girl…

–…retro-fitted. The inside is an old power plant.

–I usually just read Vice.

–It’s discriminating.

–This still seems like a kinda long line.

–Is that Michael Fassbender?

–I’ve been on a wicked bender.

–What have I been reading?

–Whiskey?

–This is totally, like, the epicenter of the whole Downtown renaissance.

–…the new Murikami novel. QB84, right? My friend has been racing through it to write a review for…

–I’d recommend a filtered bourbon first, like Black Label.

–I’m totally for their cause– I just don’t want to sleep in a park. If I could just, like, phone it in a few times a week I would be more than happy to occupy some cyberspace.

–Woof! Check out that dog.

–1Q84? You mean 1Q84. Yeah, it’s like a play off of 1984 in Japanese or something.

–It’s a pretty short line tonight. You should see it when James Franco comes. Obnoxious.

­–This isn’t some dive bar were you dance with frustrated drunk cougars…

–Right. I can’t remember the name of the book of his that I did read.

–…guys going to the Shepard Fairey after party?

–I’m surprised that stray bitch hasn’t been put down by order of the state yet.

–… the one with all the time and space travel. The main guy’s always ironing and making pasta…

–It’s an old power plant, isn’t it?

–The difference between whiskey and bourbon…

–We’re almost in. Looks like a good crowd tonight.

–Expect ten to twelve dollars for a good bourbon here, but it’s better than getting some watered down well drink for fifteen…

–The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle. I love that book.

–You know, you’re not nearly as funny as you think you are.

–That wasn’t him? Are you sure?

–Dress code? What do you mean I can’t come in with these shoes?!

DUM DUM Issue No. 1 is going for $5, and No. 2 for $10 (a hella deal)! For more details, visit their site.

Friday, March 16 2012

WPL.A. graphic by Vivian Martinez

 ”Waxing Philosophical, L.A.” is DUM DUM’s biweekly Tuesday column written by Christina Gubala, co-founder of L.A.’s premier cassette-tape label, Complicated Dance Steps. A die-hard vinyl collector, you can find her spinning records at local bars near you.

Our city has a continuing history thick with vinyl love, now more than ever with record shops opening their doors instead of shuttering. Each week, Gubala breaks down a fresh new wax purchase, and writes about the record store as well, mapping it as part of L.A.’s history in the making.

With its ’70s yellow signage and hand-painted building mural, Silver Lake’s Rockaway Records is by no means hard to miss. It seems ever present–both outside and in–and at a time when music retail is morphing at such a rapid pace, their 25 years on the block creates the illusion of a relative eon spent in one place.

Perhaps this steadfastness is why it took a few years on the east side before I ever set foot in the store. I felt like it would exist no matter what gentrification and deconstruction rolled through town, so I never took advantage of its distinctly strange collection. Their vinyl is both foreign and domestic and often of the original pressing run, their memorabilia ranges from David Bowie 1970′s tour t-shirts to signed programs for Def Leppard shows of yore, and their archival supply of technological formats such as 8 tracks and reel-to-reels is invaluable to the chronologically curious listener. The first time I set foot in Rockaway, it turned out to be exactly as I’d expected: a place to last the ages, providing our community a historical insight into music culture in person, rather than via the Internet or any other tools of description.

It’s shopping center is deceptively up and coming, with Still Yoga and Silverlake Wine beckoning foot traffic 7 days a week. The parking lot seems eventful, as though people are constantly gunning for space near their favorite food truck. Rockaway is, however, the proud focal piece of the small strip. The front window provides insight into the well-lit avalanche of musical history neatly separated by format. Vinyl resides to the right, CDs and DVDs on the left, memorabilia in display cases positioned proudly throughout. Wall records are the fare of KLOS on a “Greatest Hits Ever” weekend–rare and original Beatles, Stones, Bowie, Springsteen and so forth. They are priced according to their collector’s item status, as is the entire selection of vinyl. I must say as a shopper, I appreciate this to a degree. I know that any record I purchase from Rockaway is going to be in the condition promised by its price, and have not yet been proven wrong in years of investing in their products. And what interesting products they are.

Rockaway is internationally savvy with their record stock. As I perused the rock section one particularly chilly Friday evening, Italian prog records were intermingled with Belgian and Japanese pressings of American 1970s rock. Butthole Surfers records are just as welcome as The Band, and its not seldom you find major indie fare from the early aughts like The Secret Machines and Block Party. 2010′s reissue of Ted Lucas’ sad-eyed soul folk stared back at me from the wall as I hunted through the bins for striking covers and bands I’d never encountered before, like Australia’s Spectrum. I pulled a stack of $20-$35 records from all over the globe, but album art alone was not enough to entice me to commit. At the front counter, I asked if there was a listening station I might use.

The store does not keep a listening station around anywhere simply due to the lack of space, but upon asking, I was treated to the use of their portable turntable complete with built-in speaker. Along the back case, where their used exchanges took place and shelves full of 45′s and 78′s adorned the wall, I performed a few needle drops and speedily appraised the records myself. To my dismay, I found that many of the most interesting looking records relied heavily on the virtue of their album art, as their actual music was derivative of Moody Blues prog and American rock from the ’70s.

In trying to expand my horizons a bit and find something I was not looking for, I had missed the beauty of shopping at Rockaway: it’s a place you go to find something you have always been looking for, something for the collection that is worth the investment. I retreated to return my international stack, and with a last quick glance through the rock bin, a record filed under “C” reached out and forcefully took hold of 100% of my attention and affection: Vic Chesnutt’s Little.

Vic Chesnutt is far too important and robust of a character for me to do justice in simple review form, but it should be understood that he is a man worthy of Wikipedia consultation. On Christmas Eve 2009, Vic took his own life in the face of an of unpayable medical bills and armed with a history of depression. I cried at my parent’s kitchen table that night, knowing that his impossibly unique voice was forever silenced, but spotting Little, he was alive again and in my hands. It was his first record, released by Texas Hotel records in 1990. He scrawls in his deliberate penmanship on the back cover, underneath one of his childhood drawings, “They might think I am a callous unappreciative creep, but actually, deep under the crust, I am truly and squishily grateful to…” before going on to thank his loved ones and Mr. Michael Stipe, who, Vic writes, “single-handedly drove me to this cozy hotel.”

Stipe appears in both vocal and organ form on the record, along with assorted friends of Vic’s. On the record’s insert, he leaves diary excerpts noting what each track is about, who was involved, and occasionally, what was being eaten for lunch in the studio that day. It was a time capsule for me, a token of a spirit I had admired vehemently as a fellow Georgian and a composer of dark yet quotidian lyrics over emotional music. When I finally clapped it onto a record player, tears ran freshly as I let “Isadora Duncan” take over me. At Rockaway Records that evening, I found exactly what I should have been looking for all along: something I loved enough to take care of.

Rockaway is a place worth supporting well. They are documenting things we only observe hypothetically, online and via other traded information. If ever you crave holding history in your hands, they should be your go-to spot.

Tuesday, February 21, 2012