Back to Back to the Grind: 1-8-2010

When I was growing up in this town, I didn't hang around coffeeshops. I didn't really hang around anywhere. But I'd been to "Back to the Grind" quite a few times in my life. Their coffee is strong, their hot chocolate comes with generous amounts of whipped cream, the lemonade is cheap as hell, and as the biggest independent coffee spot in downtown it's possibly the hippest place to be seen.

I guess I shouldn't be surprised that they sometimes have bands there. Like they did tonight. No cover charge, one drink minimum, and three local acts. This was a chance to get to know the "scene" in my suburban So-Cal town, such as it is, so I figured it was really time for me to stop lolly-gagging and head OUT on a Friday night.

The first band was Mothers of Gut. The guitarist I talked to said it was the frontman's idea. He washed his hands of the name. The guitarist held his Strat like he was worried he would break it, the sweater-wearing, emo-haired bassist could have been wearing a mask and no one could tell, the frontman had a huge bushy moustache that I couldn't see past. The drummer was the only one who looked like he was having any fun. They did not so much play their music as construct it, and they layered on the effects so heavy that the guitar sounded like it was under water, the singer was in a tile bathroom, the bassist was playing a synthisizer and the drummer was...who knows. This is music that takes itself very, very seriously. Get some production behind Mothers of Gut, and it could really fly. The coffee house is not for them.

After that, The Polite were a breath of fresh air. Where Mothers of Gut had been tense, joyless creatures, The Polite were all smiles, cracking wise with the people at the front coffee tables, taking a long time to tune their instruments, and it seemed like they personally knew all of the people who suddenly flooded the bar. The coffee house was packed and at least one hipster leaning against the bar knew all the words to the songs. They were poppy and punky and a bit surfy, and even if they didn't challenge much, they are extremely easy to like.

The RAGA was the last group, with a barrell-chested, hollow-body wielding, Spanish-singing frontman, who sound not unlike Los Lobos's less muscular little brother. Not an un-apt metaphor for East LA vs. Riverside.

Not many dendrites in this group, but a fun diversion.