Last night, I ask my good friend Franko what we're getting into and he says, "We're going to see a band tonight in Hermosa Beach called FartBarf". I immediately cringed and started thinking of reasons I don't like going to Hermosa any longer - long lines, lame bars, newb central, and some (not all) wearisome women. Especially to see some local band that will mostly likely comprise of Dickies wearing 30 to 40-somethings trying to relive their youth by playing songs that sound far too much like Pennywise or sacrilegiously, The Descendants. So I started weighing my options which were to go to a bar in Santa Monica or some faux-hippie party in Venice where I'd for sure run into the ex, the likes of which are not warm nor civil. Then I heard a voice...a voice I haven't heard in sometime. It whispered in my ear like Edward James Olmos and said, "Go to Hermosa. See FartBarf. Get laid".
I chose...wisely.
Saint Rocke is noticeably a big step up from it's predecessor, The Pitcher House. By replacing the dive bar formula of pool tables, flourescent lighting, douchebags and barflies with an aesthetically appealing array of dark wood, ambient lighting, library-like nooks, live streaming flat screens, and an eclectic crowd of tattoo bearing music lovers, it's no wander why they attract some of the best acts of the South Bay and beyond. That is, if you can get over the $10+ dollar cover charge and flat black bobber truck parked out front sporting a Confederate flag. But let's be honest, it is the South Bay after all.
Not knowing what I was getting into, I kept an open mind and ended up meeting several very cool and interesting people beforehand, including a 6-6 dreadlock sporting guitar tech name Kadaver and some of the band members of FartBarf themselves. The band humbly describe themselves as a "Post neanderthal analogue synthesizer band from Los Angeles". I'll later describe them as a "Chub-inducing, robotic rhythm-producing, 80's-seducing, synthesized caveman genius of a band from outer space". Here's why...These fucking guys came out wearing post-war caveman masks, orange cosmonaut jumpsuits (I want one), slamming on 1980's analogue synthesizers and live drums, hence producing an electronic, yet organic, Devo-like pounding beat with a touch of outer space insanity. Don't believe me? Here are some pictures:
The crowd started bouncing. Saint Rocke started shaking. And FartBarf went on to melt our faces off with their cold-war synthesizers which no doubt were putting off some level of radiation. The more they played, the more wonderfully intense the crowd became. Next thing I knew we were jumping as high as we could in unison while trying to remain vertical when the crowd swayed. There was also something pleasing about seeing a caveman-cosmonaut take a bottle of Jameson to the head and pour it down the willing faces of outstretched fans. Three or four times, and through their robotic sounding microphones, FartBarf told us that this was the last song of the night. You heard no complaints from me or anyone else sweating up a storm up against the stage. I wanted more. And FartBarf delivered.
And no, I'm not going to tell you whether or not I got laid. Let's just say who the fuck am I to disobey orders from Edward James Olmos.
