‘no beatles’ at gold diggers

Is Gen Z over real instruments?

As a bonafide EDM girly, there’s nothing I love more than a thick juicy bassline drowning out the rhythm of my own heartbeat. Point me toward any stylish urban beatnik smoking a cigarette behind two Pioneer decks, and I’ll be there until 4am. However, I’ve been reading a book recently about the modern history of various music genres, from the birth of rock and roll to how today’s blurry genre fusions came to be, and I realized that most of the shows I go to lack live instruments. Since catching the EDM bug, I haven't paid proper tribute to the music from my parents’ era, so when I saw the flyer for the event, No Beatles, I was drawn towards its nostalgic promise. 

No Beatles was hosted at Gold Diggers, a historic LA dive bar which doubles as a music venue, hotel and recording studio. Back in the day, the space was used for rehearsal by numerous bands including The Doors, Jimi Hendrix, and even an early version of Guns N' Roses. I wanted to do the responsible thing for my music education and pay tribute to a venue still simmering in LA’s rich history of rock n’ roll.

No Beatles featured over 10 local artists, some with their bands, some with only their guitar, all playing songs written by solo Beatles artists– no Beatles songs allowed. The lineup included talented local artists Shay Hayashi, Olivia Morreale, Spencer Grammer, RJ Bloke, Allegra Ondine, HAALLOW, Lisa Crawley, Merrcedes Kilmer, Paige Stark, Novaselic, Jackson Singleton + Brasko, Jacob Landry, Ray Williams, and Harrison Flynn

Here’s how it went.

It’s Sunday evening, I roll out of bed around 8pm as the meditation music on my Alexa intensifies, waking up from a 3-hour recovery nap after a boozy weekend. It would be very easy for me to just stay home. No I’ll go. The idea of losing myself swaying to the ballads of George, John, Paul, and Ringo sounds like a perfect button to the weekend. Plus, I told myself I would go and there’s nothing I despise more than flakiness.

I show up an hour after the event begins, and nobody is onstage. Has it not started yet? The lights are low. A disco ball spins overhead, reflecting a swarm of dotted lights onto each person’s clothes in the packed, chatty crowd. The bar at Gold Digger’s is intimate, centered around a small, elevated stage. I make my way to the bathroom. When I go anywhere alone, I find that heading straight for the bathroom first thing gets me through the initial, anxious adjustment period. Same thing on blind dates if I get there first. I run my hands under cold water and press my fingers to my cheeks. Wake up, girl. My brain tries to dip back into the REM-state it was yanked away from. I look in the mirror and promise myself I can leave after the first few songs if this feeling gets worse. Just stay for five minutes so you can say you did. A more determined voice in my head kicks in. No, I’m going to stay for an hour at least. Just listen to the music, that’s why you’re here.

A band sets up onstage as I find a shelf against the wall to casually lean on. You know those old Western movies where every cowboy leans over the saloon counter sipping straight whiskey and trying their luck with the pretty young blondes? That’s the energy I’m trying to emulate—a cowboy in a saloon. I don’t know why leaning over like this comforts me, but it does. 

I glance around the room and my mind starts to buzz with anxious chatter. I’m so tired. Why am I here? Should I be trying to talk to people? When will the music start? I mentally swat each new thought away like malaria-ridden mosquitos. As groups of people around me laugh, talk, and drink, I can feel myself invert. I stare ahead at the stage, waiting patiently for the music to start.

Lisa Crawley and her band start to play John Lennon’s Saltwater, and as the sweet nostalgia kicks in, I stop thinking about being alone. 

My mind pivots. What would any of us have done without The Beatles? 

Intimate shows like this pump joy into my veins. The stage is so close that the performers could probably make eye contact with every person in the audience in the span of one song if they tried. I close my eyes, sway, and sing along. But after two songs, the band stops. Lisa Crawley thanks the audience and steps off stage. Wait, what? Is that it? Is it over? I don’t understand. Gold Digger’s default playlist resumes and everyone starts chatting in groups again. A few stage hands come onstage and begin to reset the stage. Confused, I go outside and ask the bouncer if the show’s over. “Nah, honey. Show goes till 11.” He points to the setlist on the door and winks. There were over 20 people on the set list, and they were each slated to play 2-3 songs. 

I didn’t realize the music would be so touch and go. When there is 15 minutes in between each set to mingle and chat before the next artist, it makes for an awkward rhythm. I’m definitely out of my comfort zone. As I lean on my counter–my crutch– in between each set, I look around and feel like a fish in a glass bowl looking out into the real world. It’s interesting, feeling invisible like that. Everyone is in their own little world, and I’ve never paid this close attention. It's freeing, people watching– loitering, some might say. Whenever my thoughts trek toward insecurity, I remind myself that the only human judging me so harshly for being alone is myself. Nobody is coming up to who I’m there with. Nobody is giving me dirty looks. Nobody so much as bats an eye my way until a scruffy man wearing a black fedora and wide-brim glasses with thick purple frames trips over my shoe. He apologizes profusely, looking stunned like I was the one who appeared out of thin air. He introduces himself. “Hey, I’m Brian by the way. Great to meet you. So who are you here to see?” My brain glitches as I try to respond, “Wha—um, who am I—oh, I’m not… I live down the street and I’m just here to enjoy, you know?” 

I wasn’t prepared for a human conversation. 

“I saw the event on @showlist.la’s Instagram.”  

“No way! That’s me! @Showlist.la is my Instagram! I put on this show! I also just played bass in Lisa Crawley’s set. I don’t know if you saw me.” 

“Oh awesome! Right, yeah, good job.” I felt so out of it.

“Are you a musician?” He sipped his drink.

“I wouldn’t say so, I mean I used to play drums but not anymore. But I’m teaching myself how to DJ.” 

“What kind of music?” He asked with slight hesitancy. 

“Mostly house music,” I say.

That’s when his eyes plummet to the floor and all his interest in the conversation drained. He mumbles something about nice to meet me but he has to go talk to someone. He turns on his heels and bids me good night.

If scruffy was looking to network, he was chatting up the wrong girly-pop. 

With that thought, I decided it was time to go back to sleep. I walked back to my car, satisfied with the minute improvement in my solo comfortability. I wouldn’t necessarily recommend going out of your way to attend a show like this one alone unless an artist you really love is playing or you’re really looking to socialize. I’ve met some great people there in the past with friends, but when it comes to seeking out music, there is no doubt, however, that the next artist I see will be standing in a DJ booth. 

Parking and safety:

There’s nearby neighborhood parking on Ridgewood Place and Van Ness Ave.

The bar is in a sort of in-between neighborhood on the edge of Hollywood proper, above Melrose Hill and below Thai Town. Being on Hollywood Blvd, it’s a busy area but there’s not much going on immediately around Gold Diggers if you want to walk around. I didn’t feel particularly unsafe walking to my car alone, but I wouldn’t advise aimlessly strolling around this area at night. It’s Hollywood– nicknamed Hollyweird for a reason–and it’s easy to start feeling weird walking around alone. I always carry mace with me when I go out at night, which I highly recommend to all women looking to feel powerful and safe navigating the city alone. I’ve never used it, but it gives an extra boost of ‘don’t fuck-with-me’ energy that can never hurt living in a place like LA. 

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