| JUNE 3, 2014

Why are Tijuana Panthers playing at the Roxy? Is John Dwyer’s new drummer still sleeping with my friend? There’s surf rock, how come no bodyboard rock?

Isn’t the Sunset Strip reserved for douche-tastic parody?

Things must be changing. At 8:30 p.m., Sunset Blvd. looked like the better half of teenage identity crisis. Kids lined up far beyond the horizon, or at least past the Whiskey A Go Go (which is two blocks away from the Roxy).

Supra Footwear was hosting a free, two-act bill that their Head of Marketing (Mo Grease of The Grabbers, Manic Hispanic) admitted to be inspired by brands in the past.

The only marketing I found was one Supra logo projected onto a wall near the entrance (your move, Red Bull Sound Select).

Thankfully, Innovative Leisure (and Burger Records and Lolipop Records and
Gnar Tapes and every jean-jacketed, nostalgia-obsessed disciple of rock ‘n’ roll’s various incarnations) has deterred kids from donning thrift-store-recycled Hot Topic in acts of deluded rebellion.

IL is a Catcher in the Rye saving future statistics from shitty consumerism.

Wait—if I learned anything from my personal identity crises—bodyboarding and Blink 182 among many—then we’re inevitable lemmings jumping off proverbial rocky shores.

Tijuana Panthers at The Roxy

Foto courtesy of Tyler Curtis


Opening act Northern Tigers—from San Diego, they announced before their first song—tread water inches above the great white sharks of surf punk imitation. But what else can you expect from a young band hailing from a cultural vacuum like San Diego? It’s a city living in a perpetual suckout awaiting its tsunami.

But there aren’t cultural tsunamis in San Diego. Bands just relocate to L.A.

I personally distrust San Diego. It’s the Navy’s fault. That’s what drives the economy down there. Look at Mystic Braves. They were a North County San Diego band who stripped off that identity like a piss-soaked wetsuit. Now they live in Echo Park.

In terms of tightness, NT was a two-foot day, occasional four footers. Energy/enthusiasm, about head high. As for originality, I’m not sure surfline.com even has a camera on them—their catchiest vocal hook drove me crazy till I realized it stole a wave from No Doubt’s “Sunday Morning” (see “So What”, specifically the lyrics I don’t need it.)

Riders, come on. Didn’t the lifeguards tell you to stay away from the boring swimmers?

Hopefully NT push past the cultural closeout that is SD and ride the artist wave to L.A.’s shores.


Things I realized from watching a young band play bodyboard rock at the Roxy:

– Crowd surfing is the body boarding of show activities. Embarrassing but kind of fun.

– The Boston Stomp aka Head Walk is that asshole on a short board who cuts you off. He’s either going to kick your face or you’re going over the falls. Either way your sinuses will burn.

– The Floor Punch is like a good snap. You feel like a boss but no one fucking cares.

– Boppers (i.e. people who jump up and down the whole show) are like longboarders who ride allll the way into shore.

– People boogie-woogie-‘n are people boogie-woogie-‘n and metaphors are lame.



Meanwhile, the hype machine doesn’t mind a little sex wax. Kids were howling before Tijuana Panthers even wet the room with an amp’s backwash reverb. TP is the Wedge in the throes of a ruthlessly vindictive El Niño swell. John Dwyer better talk to Mark McGuire’s guy about getting some ‘roids. These guys want to see your 67 homeruns and raise you 10 bat-shattering singles. Bassist and drummer trading lead vocals. Me, sweating just standing in the VIP section. Kids went into full-blown limb-ripped Jaws frenzy. You know how they say don’t drink the saltwater growing up? And you know how George Harrison, or one of those Beatles twats, is all like, Unplug, man.

No, sometimes you gotta swallow the slosh after riding a good wave. Sometimes you need to go online and immerse yourself in culture.

Thank consciousness for the Internet! Bands are packing houses, turning self-
perceived rebels (who are actually pretty fucking normal) into sweaty meat puppets.

TP preaches Johnny O’ Keefe “Wild Child” ecstasy. I usually think Debord when I see bands nowadays–Spectacle and Commodity *makes jerk off motion with hand*. Normally, I’d make irrational allusions insinuating a relation between Chet Guitar’s creepy moustache and Tijuana’s harboring of White-Lolita sex offenders…But TP blurred my dystopia-myopia. For a moment I forgot how fucked everything is. That’s the point of rock ‘n’ roll, right?

@_DanielWarren can’t stand up or get it up

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published.