The night started off badly for me. I’d never been to the Echoplex, but I’d looked it up on Google Maps before I left and thought that it seemed easy enough find – right off the 101 at Sunset and Glendale Boulevards. Turns out that Sunset doesn’t actually cross Glendale, and the entire Echo Park neighborhood is an intertwining maze of diagonal streets that end and begin again suddenly. As if that didn’t make it difficult enough, the venue isn’t marked, you’re just supposed to instinctively KNOW where the damn thing is. I drove all the way down Sunset until it turned south. Then before I knew it I somehow ended up downtown. I headed back north circling the same old strung-out hooker on the corner of Sunset and Park until I finally spotted a tiny sign at the entrance of an alleyway that read “Echoplex Valet.” By this time it was about 10:30 and I knew that I had missed both opening acts. I parked in a small shopping center parking lot a block up the street, ignored the tow away signs and headed down to the alley.
The Echoplex looks like you would expect a small venue wedged into an alleyway under a bridge to look – only it’s actually much more spacious inside than I’d expected. The bare concrete floors and shabby looking ambient lighting make it look like somebody threw a stage and a bar into the basement of some forgotten apartment building. It’s a grimy East Coast theater transplanted into the West. LA needs more places like this. Most venues in the city are soft – too many rules, too much flash, too much red tape and bullshit to deal with. The Echoplex is about having a good time. Everything goes as long as no one gets hurt. The way it should be.
The pit filled as the minutes ticked by with an empty stage. During the sound check I was surprised at the power of the PA, feeling the force of a single kick drum hit ripple through me from the monitor I was standing by. Trail finally came out and everyone was relieved. No tremendous fanfare though. It was almost like they were greeting old friends that they hadn’t seen for months – warm and familiar. Conrad and Jason began picking up their instruments and immediately goofing off as the house music was cut. “What?” Conrad said. “So we’re not gonna be able to lip sync this time? Oh well, guess we’ll have to do it the old fashioned way.”
Everyone watched in quiet awe as they began playing. Midnight Masses even made a couple guest appearances to assist with back up vocals. The energy that Conrad exudes onstage is fascinating to watch. His face contorts and his eyes pop as if the energy he’s trying to expend can’t all possibly escape through the music, as if it’s too much for his body to take and he’s about to explode into a ball of fire at any moment. There were some people milling around the bar, but 90 percent of the crowd had crammed into the pit to watch, with only a few stragglers lounging on the vinyl furniture in back. For the final night of their tour, Trail was determined to give a memorable performance. Everyone watched intently, not wanting to miss a minute. They left the stage and the crowd went wild, chanting “TRAIL-OF-DEAD, TRAIL-OF-DEAD!” When they felt like they had received enough love, Trail came back for “just one more song.” They played and played, teasing the audience with lingering guitars, long rests, and sudden drum crashes to hold them on the edge for just that much longer. Then they were done. Their tour was finished.
Outside, a group of nice old Mexican ladies were selling freshly cooked hot dogs. I was hungry from the whiskey I’d been drinking and I forked over my 3 dollars for a nice plump one with fried onions and peppers piled on top. I devoured it and headed back to my car. It was much easier finding my way home.
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