Concertgoing
Open air, open mind, open season
I have wanted to go to the Hollywood Bowl for some time now—I’ve always imagined myself with a baguette and a bottle of wine, swaying gently to, let’s say, the LA Phil covering Sondheim, but so far have failed on the planning and execution of said vision. On Sunday, my friend Megan had last minute tickets and asked if I wanted to go. I didn’t even look up who was playing, because when someone asks you to go to the Hollywood Bowl you are legally required to say yes.
The Hollywood Bowl is an amphitheater (i.e. a bowl-like in structure) that sits right above downtown Hollywood and right below the 101 Freeway. Obviously, parking is horrendous. Luckily, Megan sprung for a spot in a lot. Once safely her car was safely ensconced amongst other cars, we walked a couple of blocks up toward the pedestrian tunnel that takes you under Highland Boulevard and to the gates of the bowl itself.
I hadn’t heard of the opener or the headliner, which is no knock on either, just a reflection of my current Season of Life (mother). So I tried to deduce what I could from the demographics of the crowd streaming towards the entrance.
I detected something vaguely country in the atmosphere—a lot of cowboy boots and long dresses and hats. But maybe that’s just fashion now and I’m unaware due to my current Season of Life (mother). Everyone had made an effort, which was nice. Most of the outfits I see in this city seem to be borne out of the wearer rolling around in a pile of laundry (clean or dirty) and then leaving the house in whatever happened to cling to them.
As we approached the tunnel, a man walked past in faded jeans and a leather jacket, a gingham-lined picnic basket dangling from his forearm. It was shaping up to be a gorgeous evening.
We trudged out of the tunnel and up a spectacularly steep hill, into which various concession stands and merch booths and bathrooms are carved, giving you the feeling of being in a dystopian futuristic imagining of a medieval walled city. We found our gate, and walked into the enormous amphitheater: rows of stone benches stretching back into the hill, overlooking a nicer area towards the stage with tables and (related) table service. We found our assigned plot of stone bench and settled in just as the opener left the stage.
My apologies to Unknown Mortal Orchestra, whose orchestra remains unknown to this particular mortal.
It was time for the headliner, Khruangbin. Their name is the Thai world for “airplane.” No one in the band is Thai, and I think that may give you a good idea of what the band is like.
The music was, we soon discovered, the type of psychedelic instrumental hazy music that is fun to listen to (so I’ve heard) when you are on drugs. We were not on drugs, but luckily many of our fellow concertgoers were, and so we got to experience them experiencing the music. This meant for much of the concert our view was blocked by a woman with short blonde hair making out with a man in a tie-died shirt, but in many ways not having them block our view would have been more disappointing.
The showmanship was also impressive, especially considering it all rested squarely on the shoulders of the bassist, who happened to be the only female member of the group. She did slow motion lunges for two hours straight all while wearing an tiny white hat. I read that she never repeats an outfit on stage, which is the type of artist mentality I think we need more of in this world.
We left during the encore, high on the music and second-hand marijuana smoke. Since Megan’s car was parked in one of those lots where you can’t leave until all the other cars around you leave, we sat on a nearby picnic table in the cool night and enjoyed the last strains of the concert from a distance, a particular pleasure of this current Season of Life.