It doesn’t occur to my friend and I how one finds a secret venue. Yes, you can have the address and you can print up directions, but if you don’t know what it is you’re looking for, how can you find it? So, we’re driving through east LA, lost, unsure what to do, when we see a group of people milling about and smoking on the sidewalk, and we figure this must be the place. The stairs never seem to end, and when they do they lead to a wide open loft with plastic lawn chairs lined up in the center, surrounded by wooden benches that hug the walls. There is a hand-made “Please No Smoking” sign (which is being ignored) and a makeshift bar set up on a kitchen counter near the entrance. The lights are dim. The band is playing. There is a pink-haired woman clapping and stomping her feet to the music, trying to breathe life into the room. This is 2023 Gallery.

At the center of all this commotion is Crater Farmer. They are a two-piece band with accordion, trumpet, stand-up bass and vocals. The music is slow and somber as  front-man Charles de Castro alternates playing the accordion with one hand, the trumpet with the other, and singing in a throaty voice of desperation. They sound like a stripped-down Beirut with a nicer, gentler Tom Waits fronting. As de Castro sings, the room feels empty. It’s only him and his broken-hearted songs of a haunted past.

Crater Farmer’s set is nearing its end when we notice three gentlemen in depression-era suits, equipped with two guitars and a washboard waiting impatiently by the piano. These are the Dough Rollers, and they certainly look the part. Once set up and center stage, their singer, Malcolm Ford (even his name sounds like something from a history textbook) opens only one side of his mouth to sing, letting out strained, muzzled yelps with attitude. Jack Byrne, the lead guitarist, appears as if he’s attending Sunday school, his hair slicked back and face void of expression, as he plucks his guitar strings. They perform with such urgency and commitment I keep waiting for them to announce the Stock Market Crash of 1929, and for the audience to collectively gasp in shock. Their songs bounce from playful, to angry, to sad, while never failing to grab the attention of the audience, persuading everyone in the room to clap and stomp their feet obediently.

Suddenly the pink haired woman jumps up and storms to the center of the room, while an older gentleman, wearing a beige suit (that seems as though he wears it every day) and glasses with a broken lens, accompanies her. Suzy Williams and Brad Kay launch into bluesy piano songs that come across as relics, Williams singing and dancing, beating her hands against the wall while Brad takes a piano solo. At first no one knows what to make of all this, until collectively the room begins to realize Williams isn’t playing a character at all. She is this blues singer from a forgotten generation, singing songs of lust, libido, love and all the beautiful consequences that come along with them. She doesn’t have an insincere bone in her body, and we all adore her because of it. Then everyone loses their minds. Couples make their way up next to Williams and dance around her while she sings. She turns the show into a party. de Castro of Crater Farmer jumps up and slow dances with Williams.  Members of the Dough Rollers are chewing the fat with audience, and everyone is dancing.

Ford of the Dough Rollers says this is the last show they will play for awhile, taking some time off to record and pursue other projects, and Suzy Williams will be on tour on the east coast for the majority of March, but The Petrojvic Blasting Company, another band that de Castro is a member of, have performances lined up during the beginning of March in Los Angeles.

The Petrojvic Blasting Company

Mar. 5th ~ Zingara ~ (Venice) ~ 7pm ~ Free

Mar. 17th ~ Spaceland ~ (Silverlake) ~ 10pm ~ $5

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