THE BEST OF LA: INDY 400 IN FONTANA, LIGHT CYCLE OVER CENTRAL PARK, THE FALL @ THE ECHO, KRAFTWERK TOUR DE FRANCE SOUNDTRACKS
by Cole Coonce
TOYOTA INDY 400 IN FONTANA -- THE QUICKEST AND FASTEST ROUNDY ROUND RACE IN HISTORY
On September 21st, race fans didn’t even have time to take a piss. Or
get another beer. The Indy Racing League, a professional race series
that is perhaps motor sports’ best kept secret, invaded the 2 mile
oval-shaped super speedway of Fontana with a vengeance and with less
than 30,000 SoCal bleacher bums in attendance and national television
ratings below even those for a Thighmaster infomercial, mimicked the
world’s fastest tree falling in a forest with nobody there to hear it...
But it made a sound, alright. ZZZZZRRRRHHHOOOOMMMM. And the assembled
in the grandstands and those watching on television made a sound also:
“Fuck-ing hell.” For a race distance of 400 miles, round and round the
race cars went, averaging a speed of 207 mph, a watershed moment. Never
in the annals of man, woman and machine traveling in circles on terra
firma (or any geometric shape you can imagine, besides a straight
line), has the average speed eclipsed 200 mph. It was an utter sensory
blitzkrieg.
American hot shoe Sam Hornish took the checkered flag in front of
Brazilian ace Helio Castroneves, but their historical triumph was
nudged and leapfrogged by the pace set by his fellow IndyCar drivers
(Tony Kanaan, Gil de Ferran, Scott Dixon and many others), many of whom
were racing lap after lap at peak speeds near 230 mph, driving three
cars wide into the corners, their steeds a Dodger Dog away from
touching and locking wheels and transforming their carbon fiber
automobiles into instant catapults of death.
Think of getting in your Volvo and motoring from the Farmer’s Market on
Fairfax up and over the Grapevine all the way to Marin County, north of
the Golden Gate Bridge and San Francisco. In less than two hours. And
living to tell about it. It was that cool. -- Cole Coonce
LIGHT CYCLE OVER CENTRAL PARK: TERROR AND LOATHING IN GOTHAM IN THE NAME OF HEALING
Okay, this was in New York and not Los Angeles, but ever since 2001
when those crafty A-rab rug-riders commandeered a couple of airplanes
and deconstructed twin towers of commerce and steel into mere ash and
corrugated, spindled metal, a nation mourned, civil liberties were set
on fire in the name of a greater good and we’re all in this together
now, yeah?
Two years and four day s later, Chinese meta-artist and pyrotechnician
Cai Guo-Qiang has a brainstorm. Get a government grant; come to America
and light off something called The Light Cycle Over Central Park. The
basic idea was thus: Set off a sequential battery of timed explosions
in the heavens above Central Park, and allow the smoke to congeal in a
halo of atonement (?!) and benediction. It would be an epic gesture in
the form of a giant smoke ring shadowing the entire perimeter of
Central Park.
Whatever. This correspondent is always a fan of gratuitous explosions,
even when it is in the name of healing and a city coming together. So:
Guo-Qiang is going to detonate his fireworks display at 7:45, come
overcast skies, hell or high water. The official word -- via the
Village Voice and Channel 7 news -- is that he will abort the show only
if it rains.
At 7:41, four minutes before show time, it rains. Nay, it pisses. It
pours. The skies open up. Art-damaged horn-rimmed culcha’ chimps
dressed in black reach for umbrellas and run out of Central Park and
seek shelter under the awning of the Plaza Hotel or the trees lining
Fifth Avenue. Likewise, couples, singles and families oblivious to any
benediction stop strolling and cycling through Central Park and attempt
to get out of the rain.
Some of the stragglers notice thunder and lightning booming and
flashing over muted skies, and kinda go, “Wow.” But the thunder and
lightning suddenly gathers momentum, velocity and intensity.
BOO-UUHHMM. (beat... beat... beat... ) BOO-UUHHMM. (beat... beat... )
BOO-UUHHMM. It was immediately all too apparent this wasn’t nature
doing its thing.
Those tapped into the arts realized that the light cycle healing was a
“go” anyway, damn the weather, the clouds and the torrential downpour.
Others, who were just cruising Central Park and were unexpectedly
caught in a squall, just heard explosions going off and went “Holy
Fucking Shit!” and ran and ran and ran. For five minutes on 9/15, 2003,
the Central Park area of New York was terrorized in a twisted echo of
the very event that attempted to come to terms with This Millennium’s
First True Cataclysm.
Because of the wet and the clouds, there was no smoke ring to be seen.
Which underscored this point: This whole Benediction and Healing gag
ain’t gonna be easy. And irony still ain’t dead. -- Cole Coonce
THE FALL @ THE ECHO OR ALL TOMORROW NEVER KNOW’S PARTIES
I lost count on how many times 2003’s All The Tomorrow’s alternative
music festival was canceled, postponed or relocated. Originally booked
for June in Hollywood or maybe even UCLA, then September, I think it
finally went off in November on the Queen Mary or something.
What is germane is this: the canceled All Tomorrow’s Parties was the
vehicle that airlifted the greatest band ever out of Manchester,
England over the pond and back to Southern California, home to a
fervent collective of fuckfaces (nee fans of the Fall). Old-timers will
remember performances at the Anti-Club in 1979, and Myron’s Ballroom in
1981. Newbies remember the excoriating 3-night stand at the Knitting
Factory in 2001. Much devil’s dandruff and denture sets later, the Fall
were back in LA with their sharp cadenced, existentially correct form
of post-punk anti-rock, as funneled through the mind and voice of the
greatest bandleader since Frank Sinatra, Mark E. Smith. On a an
under-lit stage and over a skiffle beat, crunchy-as-concrete guitars
and Plan 9 from Outer Space organ, a brittle Smith bellowed, wheezed
and exhorted “Dolly Parton and Lord Byron, They said patriotism is the
last refuge, But now its me...”
Even if the punters couldn’t understand what Smith was saying, they all
seemed to agree with him. His fans know that even at his most
inscrutable, Smith is always right and tapped into the zeitgeist.
The fact that Smith and his hired lads and the missus flew over on
their original plane ticket, booked an impromptu and under-promoted
show at the Echo and didnae’ wait for the promoters of ATP to
reorganize is emblematic of Smith’s chemically-fueled work ethic.
The bottom line: An act that never stopped touring or putting out
records since its inception in 1978 with “Live at the Witch Trials,”
graced Los Angeles with its intelligence and its presence, and gave all
of us still with our original chopper hope for when our teeth fall out
just like Smith’s.
KRAFTWERK TOUR DE FRANCE SOUNDTRACKS
In 2003, Texas cyclist Lance Armstrong wins the two-week long Tour de
France an unprecedented five concurrent times. It is the 100th
Anniversary of the Tour and international interest is at its most
fevered pitch in history. Meanwhile, Germany’s electro-disco
progenitors Kraftwerk haven’t put out a real record in 17 years, but
they ride their bikes every day. An epiphany flashes through Dusseldorf
like Tesla’s ball of lightning. What better symmetry than to break the
silence and release a soundtrack to the 100th Anniversary of the tour
itself?
Problem: Two group members quit because band leaders and main
synth-droids Ralf and Florian won’t discuss music at all, and won’t
even turn on the computers until after they have cycled 200 kilometers
that day. Every day.
Regardless, slowly work on Tour de France Soundtracks congeals. It’s a
soundtrack and it’s a concept album. It is all electronic hi-hats
sputtering out syncopated 16th notes, sampled human breathing noises
and the clinking of derailleurs. One song is about vitamins. Another
about oxygen intake. Another extols the metallurgical virtues of a
titanium bicycle frame. Another sings of the utility of heart meters.
Even one tune examines lift-over-drag ratios and bicycle seat height.
Because of Ralf and Florian’s fanatical cycle regiment, the record is
released two weeks too late to accompany Armstrong’s ride to the Champs
Elysees in Paris.
No Matter. Tour de France Soundtracks is still the coolest thing
they’ve done since Radioactivity or Trans Europe Express. It is the
greatest concept album since Lou Reed’s Metal Machine Music -- and far
more hummable.
Epilogue: After the tour, Lance Armstrong leaves his wife, and begins
riding tandem with Sheryl Crow. Kraftwerk refuse interviews with music
papers unless the scriveners agree to discuss cycling exclusively and
no other topic, most specifically not music. It is verboten. -- Cole
Coonce
CLUTCH DUST VAPORIZES INTO THE ETHER: THE COLE COONCE READER