Low End Theory, Sometimes Referred to As The

VIA PUBLICA TION ISSUE 03 ight at L N ow : A E e n d m T o h H e s o e r y m o C A L Low End Theory, sometimes referred to as the epicenter of the Los Angeles’ hip-hop scene, maintains its notable lineups and massive audiences every Wednesday night in Lincoln Heights. Since the early 2000s, Low End Theory has been bringing a die- hard 18+ crowd to the two-tiered Airliner for weekly hip-hop, glitch, dubstep, and psychedelic DJ sets. Founded by Daddy Kev in 2006, the event has hosted legendary artists such as Thom Yorke, The Gaslamp Killer, and Glitch Mob. 56 57 VIA PUBLICA TION ISSUE 03 By Jordan Pedersen toise-shell glasses and a bobbing Afro: it has to be the Gaslamp Killer. I’m familiar with Introduction by Ally Hasche Gaslamp mostly via his 2012 studio album, Breakthrough, a head-rush blend of world Photos by Rift Gardiner music and psychedelia. I’m not sure what to expect of his DJ set. The first thing I hear is the wub, that distinctive intestine-liquefying bass. Everyone’s do- We arrive late. The first thing I notice is the line, and the age of the line: young. If I had to ing that turn-up dance or whatever you call it. guess, most of the attendees look late-teenage, maybe early 20s. Many if not most are underage, at least as far as alcohol is concerned. The wub dissipates, and Gaslamp welcomes another one of Low End’s hosts: LA rapper and Hellfyre Club founder James McCall, better known as Nocando. I know Nocan from The two kids, outside of the rope line, pleading with the bouncer confirm my suspicion. the podcast he does with Jeff Weiss from Passion of the Weiss and from his records, “Bro we weren’t holding beers. Please let us back in.” “Well we’ll just have to look at the most notably this year’s Jimmy the Burnout, a huge step forward from 2010’s Jimmy the security footage, and there may be consequences.” The day that bouncer examines that Lock. security footage is the same day those kids weren’t holding beers. Nocan’s a veteran of the battle rap circuit, and, indeed, his lyrics carry the blend of lyri- I’m 27, my hairline is pushing 35. I have work in nine hours. I immediately regret letting cism and street-ready shit-talking you’d expect from someone who came up that way. “I our ringleader – “call me Captain Fun!” she says – drag me into this. just read my horoscope / Says that I should score some dope and flip it for a mortgage I text a friend. “You gonna make it?” “Nah, thing in Hollywood. I hear Q-Tip’s gonna be there though.” I tell my companions the news. We all squeal with delight. I may be old and cranky, but I couldn’t feign indifference at the news of Tip. I guess this was a good idea after all. Suddenly we’re at the front of the line and then we’re inside. The place is packed, but there’s no line at the bar: yeah this is for kids. But, oh, what kids they are. My first thought as we step outside: “I am not cool enough for this.” The place is a sea of flat brims, gold chains, dark red lipstick. Everyone pulls everything off. I live in California, but this is California. I glance down at my plaid shirt self-conscious- ly. Somebody suggests we head to the balcony, and I oblige, grateful for any excuse to escape the reminders of how out of place I feel. We head upstairs and reconnoiter the place: It’s basically an alley with a tent pushed all the way to the back. The balcony looks over the alley, and if you turn around and head note / It’s funny how stupid we feel the more we know,” he says on the opening track back inside, there’s a second stage and another bar. Inside is where the guest DJs from Burnout. Gutter meets English degree. post up – this week it’s Nguzunguzu and Monster Rally, both locals, both guys I’d been excited to see – but at least tonight, the vibe is lackluster. It feels like the party nobody Here, though, he’s all aggression, a fire hose turned on full blast. He raps a few bars in came to. Nothing to see here. We head back outside. his own voice, and then obliges Gaslamp as he twists Nocan’s voice through an other- “I wanna get in the pit,” Captain Fun says. Realizing my chances to get anything decent worldly vocal filter, turning his raps into alien squalls punctuated by demonspawn belly for my story are diminishing with every moment we spend on this balcony, I quickly laughs. agree. There’s an admirable willingness to play implicit in this transaction. Usually I think of the As I enter the tent, I crane my neck to see who’s behind the altar. I see a flash of tor- rapper as one thing and the DJ as another, with the latter typically cast as the supporting 58 59 VIA PUBLICA TION ISSUE 03 player to the former’s leading man. Here, though, the DJ is the king. But Low End Theory is so fundamentally its own thing that even a brief respite feels Or that’s not exactly right. The emphasis is on the whole: this isn’t a crowd watching a odd, and that’s ironic considering the break is coming from the guy who made Low End performance. It’s a through-composed experience. Nobody bogarts the spotlight. Ev- Theory, the album. Only when Tip chooses EPMD’s “You Gots to Chill” – which samples eryone is there in service of the groove. And the crowd does their part, dancing along “More Bounce to the Ounce” by the Dre-worshipped electro gods Zapp – does the vibe dutifully at every turn. snap back into place. “We’re taking on real house party vibes now,” Gaslamp says, all but twirling his super- Despite my earlier grousing, it’s been a great night. But it’s close to 1 AM, and even Cap- villain mustache as he cooks up another diabolical concoction. tain Fun’s enthusiasm is waning. We dip as Q-Tip wraps up his set. Nocan waves to the crowd, and his portion ends. Gaslamp shifts his focus from elec- In the car on the way home, we take a scenic route. All of us spent some amount of time tronic to hip-hop. Pusha T trills over the crowd: “What happened to that boy?” The crowd in the Midwest, so we exult in the bumpy topography of Los Angeles. We share our fa- tweets back, the way we did before the app. Jay Z enumerates his just-shy-of-a-hundred vorite drives: the 110 to Pasadena. Driving into the sunset on the way to Venice. Snaking problems. K-Dot piles his goons into the back of his momma’s minivan with a pack of around the Silver Lake reservoir. cheap cigars and a beat CD. Tonight we take Glendale over the river, admiring the glow of the old orange street The crowd, who I’d disparaged for their youth, seems suddenly expert. Everyone chants, lamps, as Glendale becomes Hyperion. “MARTIN HAD A DREAM,” yeah, but they don’t lose Kendrick as he clears the hill and starts gaining speed. The guy next to me raps along to every word from Andre 3000’s We talk about what gives LA that peculiar floaty, vaguely euphoric feeling people talk legendary intro to “International Players Anthem.” “These girls are smart, three stacks,” about. One of our companions tries to nail this down. “What makes you feel that way?” Andre rhymes. We glance at each other and grin knowingly. None of us can really put our finger on it. “Maybe it’s the amount of time we spend in The guys on the controls are something like amazing, but the crowd is no slouch either. the car,” someone suggests. Maybe it’s the concomitant spread-out-ness of our lives This is a reciprocal relationship. here. Or maybe it’s just the hills that create all those great views. If you expected this to be a set heavy on classic g-funk, you’d be out of luck. Sure, they But tonight we all feel at home. There’s something about an event like Low End Theory pop up now and then, the patron saints of the evening, and we all say our catechism. But that feels grounded. Ironically, it’s the lack of provincialism that makes it feel that way. we’re a generation past that now; this is the age of Q and Kendrick, not Snoop and Dre. Los Angeles is a city of transplants, after all. Plus this is an event with its own juju. It’s not classicist, but it’s not aggressive in its con- Low End Theory echoes LA’s otherworldliness and, at its best, its euphoria. When the temporariness. You can’t cross-reference this set with the Power 106 top ten. There’s no lights are pulsing and the bass is throbbing and Gaslamp’s bobbing behind his turntable, YG, it’s before DJ Mustard. you feel the infectious energy everyone comes here for. Instead of a radio staple like Mike Will Made It hovering over the proceedings, Busta But it feels like an anchor, too, a place that is indelibly LA but not forbiddingly LA.

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