You know damn well that Hollywood Kill is the sexiest band in LA in a gritty, Tarantino-films-Barstow, too-cool-for-any-school-you’d-know kinda way. And they know it, you don’t need to tell them. You can hear it in the low-voiced whispers in “A Real Nobody”, giving balance to the unsettling high-pitched keyboard sparks in the background, the beat driving on like a ‘65 Chevy filled with rifles and sweat through some forgotten part of the desert.

“Leave Your Troubles Behind” takes you plunging into the heart of Hollywood, with its sparkles of light and glamour against a pitch-black night. This song takes you into the club, with its anonymous bodies moving to their own rhythms  under a slow-flashing strobe light. 

“Walk On Fire” takes you into the world of the lurid…I always picture some kind of pimp who sends his lady out to become a big star. Hollywood Kill always manages to make their world sound so much cooler than yours. And they wear their sound well - their look is exactly what you’d expect. They’ve both got a kind of subdued sexiness that’s never in-you-face and that makes them even sexier as a band.

Speaking of sexy, they’re playing a pool party at the Standard Hotel next Saturday, July 12th at 5pm. You’d be pretty lame if you’ve got some cutie you want to impress and you don’t take them to the HK show.

Will Koffman is a surprisingly normal guy. I mean, given that he bleaches stretched black fabric into a carny-esque ladies in curious yet intriguing poses, with maps of tiny, etched drawings not unlike those found an a high school detention room’s desks scrawled around their female forms. It’s almost as if pop culture threw up a monotone cud of itself, but it becomes strangely beautiful when crafted by Koffman.

I was able to chat with Koffman for a minute by his display at this weekend’s Create:Fixate event, where he was one of the most visually and conceptually interesting artists of the show. I was mainly curious about his inspiration, as the overall effect of his works was so serene, never once hinting at the chaotic parts that create the whole. Essentially Koffman does vomit his latest meal of pop culture, art history, beauty ideals, and consumer culture onto his canvases. His wheels always seem to be turning, smushing everything he’s mentally absorbed into one big old chewing gum ball of the world we live in. All the elements retain their own small voice, and Koffman piles together hundreds of those small voices on top of one another, and the piece gets louder and louder until the soothing sound of white noise washes over. The end result is as pleasing to look at as it is impossible to dissect. 

Koffman’s work does have its quiet moments, and these pieces - often single females with their backs turned to the viewer, emerging ever so softly from a sea of black - are no less engrossing as his louder works. These works are decidedly unprecious. Something in the way Koffman handles the bleach belies a drive to depict the realness of the woman over the beauty. And it’s this realness that makes his subjects more beautiful than even the most skilled airbrush artist couldn’t attain. 

Koffman has produced enough work in his young career to choke a horse. He’s produce cover art for bands like Make Moon and NASA Space Universe, he’s created graphic t-shirts based on his work, he’s illustrated for Weird Tales magazine and Kill Me Comics, and he’s even had multiple people get his work tattooed on them.  Koffman is easily the must-see artist, so catch him at the Laguna Arts Festival and the OC Super Fair, where his work is up until August.

Create:Fixate’s Build party was this past weekend, and they have, once again, managed to find the best of the best in young and emerging artists from wide and far in Los Angeles. I’d never been to a Create:Fixate party, but I’d sure as heck heard of them, something like they were these ubercool undergroundish all night art parties with loungey techno music just low enough for people to hear their conversations about neo-minimalist Dadaism and the effect it had on working class France.  At least that’s what I pictured in my head.

I still have that picture in my head, as I could only stay for the art opening in the early evening - which worked well, I had plenty of time to enjoy the art at my own pace without a bunch of party noise in the background. 

Among the art highlights were Francesco D’Isa with his beautifully rendered pastel ladies (…of the night?), looking out seductively, held in inviting poses, making the viewer almost uncomfortable in looking so long, but the Easter-candy colors and the flawless art-deco wallpaper prints juxtaposed everywhere are just so dang pretty! 

Another favorite was Kate Daly. Daly takes a different approach from the bulk of popular art these days and seems to paint purely from a fantastical place that only she’s seen in some weird, unsettling dream. Pretty girls morph into skeletal rib cages floating above a wind-blown dress made of red blood cells, holding a heart in a cage above an icy river. Sound awesome? You should see her work in person.

Also on hand was Max Neutra, doing live, propaganda-ish paintings of Gehry and other old men that an average viewer wouldn’t know if he didn’t put the guy’s name at the bottom in big, follow-your-government-or-else lettering. He brought a certain street graffiti aesthetic in the vein of Sheppard Fairey to the whole shindig, and it was much appreciated. 

Overall, the art of Create:Fixate was enough to get me hooked, as I swept up all their brochures and pamphlets and signed up for their volunteer list. If you haven’t gone to a Create:Fixate show, you’re seriously missing out on the best local and emerging artists of Los Angeles.

It’s a balmy eve in LA. Perfect for the Bowl. KCRW presents World Festival. Tonite it’s Diva Night: Adele, Chaka Khan & Janelle Monae.

Patina delivered to the box. For a buck twenty-five I should have higher expectations but hey, I’m happy for the pork shank. It’s ‘aight. Better than last year. But the desserts are terrible. Is it really possible to make a crappy chocolate cake? Apparently. Advice: BYO picnic basket or takeout from somewhere decent. But the show begins and we’re pretty happy about it all.

Janelle Monae is black and white and read all over. Smart intergalactic cosmic sensory aural experience worked so hard that you just can’t ignore her. Janelle Monae is a smart one: infusing her sound with a distinctive vibe that’s quirky and engaging. This we like.

Just chatted with Tom Schnabel. We watched Jason Bentley announce Chaka Khan together. Bentley’s a pro. Surveying his market the way a cheetah looks over the savannah. Admirable. I love Tom though. He’s done so much for the LA music scene. Schnabel’s a treasure, really.

Chaka Khan’s covering for Etta James, who’s out ill. She’s gotta helluva band. A big woman with dark red curls. Owning it as she takes the stage for a medley of best hits. I’m mixed. She sounds great. Smooth. But it’s also Bar Mitzvah music at its finest. Duality. Makes for a good night out. For sure.

Back to the show. Chaka Khan looks strapped into her wardrobe. Must have taken a team to wrap her up like that. She’s got the crowd workin’ and I guess I forgot all the great groovy tunes she’s responsible for. And although I jest, I’m in awe of her thing. It’s real.

Adele is full of apologies. Sort of an awkward big thing, she takes the stages with an uneasy presence. As if she knows that she’s a bit of a misfit. Adele apologies that she’s going to forget her lyrics. Adele says sorry for her shoes, and goes barefoot. There’s a human quality that makes her part of the audience, and in control of it at the same time.

But, then she opens up and blasts that god gifted voice and it all over. No apologies required for that. Dead on pitch and key, a surprise with her heavy welsh accent. Superb timing. And she does forget the words tonite. This is a big show for her dnd she knows it. The audience is loving her nonetheless. So am I.

Thanks KCRW for this summer Sunday night out at the bowl.

By now, most people have heard the news that hit around 3pm this afternoon - Michael Jackson is dead. Like a shot heard round the world, it was a matter of minutes when Deutsche Welle (the German BBC) radio proclaimed, “Michael Jackson ist tot.” Regardless what you thought of him, his career, his court dates, his skin, his manner of dress, or his extracurricular activities, one thing is clear. That man made some damn good music.

You’re not called the King of Pop for nothing. He may well have been the first solo artist to get that big. And he was for sure a kind of sexy (in the 1980s) that the Beatles never achieved. You can sell all the records, Beatles, but you’re just not sexy. That’s why MJ is the King of Pop. At least your canon of songs finally got willed back to you, McCartney.

MJ music, new and old, from Ben to Man in the Mirror, from ABC 123 to Thriller, was blared from car radios, down Santee Alley, and in bars and clubs all over Los Angeles. Every radio station in Los Angeles was playing MJ’s music. Every current pop star owes their career’s success to MJ. Where as rock music has a myriad of influences and subgenres, pop music is just pop music, pure and simple, and can you think of anyone who had a farther-reaching influence on today’s pop music? That’ll be a resounding no. Not even Prince. 

Mike’s death brings up a few interesting points of thought. The man was raised in a tiny, abusive house with a ton of brothers and sisters, as anyone who’s seen the MJ Story knows. Then he gets catapulted to fame and fortune at a young age. An insecure case from the get-go, compounded by a mentality of a pre-pubescent boy, he gets forced into having the life the public wants him to live. Prince wrote “Slave” on his face (for different reasons, but just follow my point here). MJ did dutifully as he was told. 

His awkward relationships were always in the public eye, and even as he was falling from grace, massive amounts of fans still turned out to show support. He was put under huge amounts of stress from a very young age, even born into a stressful situation, and the pressure kept piling as he grew older. Prince might have exploded. MJ imploded. Cardiac arrest is what the news stories started saying.

Details are still hazy, and I’m sure the world was waiting for a 70-year-old MJ to gaze upon the pop world that he played a major part in creating. But realistically, how much longer could he have gone on? You made your mark, MJ. Rest in peace.