A Brick Oven Where Heavy Metal Cooks
The business district of Sunset Boulevard is quiet at night; when you walk down the nearly empty stretch of boulevard just east of Cahuenga, it’s hard to imagine that things are ever jumping around here. Look a little deeper.
There’s a modest storefront nearby, the kind of place you’ve walked past a hundred times during the day without really taking notice. At night, you might catch a flash of red neon out of the corner of your eye. Then you might see some radically dressed couples heading for the door. Come closer, and you feel the rumblings of an intense beat inside. The sign reads “Lingerie.”
Inside it’s another world, an atmosphere of white-hot sound. A large figure guards the door, like Pluto’s dog Cerberus at the far end of the river Styx. So this is where heavy metal comes from. I buy a ticket and bolt through the gate.
A Bird’s-Eye View
The club is a giant square box with a stage in one corner. There is a narrow staircase leading to an overhanging balcony; I gingerly climb it for a bird’s-eye view of the dance floor. A row of stools faces the musicians from behind a clear plastic partition. From here, all I can see are leather jackets. There’s enough leather in this place to open a furniture store. People are dancing feverishly in front of the stage.
Under the glare of the stage lights the Circle Jerks, tonight’s headliners, are working their frenzied set. Their sounds fill my ears--driving, shattering sounds that no one seems to mind. A woman near me, who looks old enough to be my grandmother, is sharing a beer with two enormous men dressed for a motorcycle rally. Two-to-one she rides a motorcycle herself.
No Escape
Lingerie looks like the inside of a giant bread oven. The entire structure is lined with brick, and the walls have a hard-edged glint. Sound bounces around like exploding popcorn. You can’t escape it. The upstairs is for the faint-hearted. Downstairs, it’s pure energy. I am perched over a corner railing, as far as possible from the massive speakers alongside the stage.
I spot a head-banded waitress--her hair looks as if it’s been stir-fried in a wok--running up the stairs with a tray of drinks. But the lighting is subdued where I’m sitting and it’s hard to get her attention. I decide to take matters into my own hands. The bar is at the base of the stairs.
As I descend the staircase, the music becomes deafening, narcotizing. My whole body is engulfed by waves of sound. The bartender’s head is shaven and looks as if he has given it a spit shine. He says something to me but I can’t hear it. He hands me a Corona.
A Higher Plane
On a sofa nearby is a young couple. He’s got leather pants and a black T-shirt sporting some very unprintable advice. She’s in bright Day-Glo orange. She’s touching his face affectionately, but he’s just looking away, nodding to the beat, on a higher spiritual plane. Neither of them speak.
Suddenly, the music stops. The set has ended. The audience applauds as much from exhaustion as from appreciation. I’m totally drained and stagger toward the door. I’m not ready for another set, but it looks like I’m the only one leaving.
I pass the ticket booth on the way out. “Absolutely no ins and outs,” a voice says. Outside, Sunset Boulevard seems as quiet as a brook on a moonlit night in Idaho.
Club Lingerie, 6507 Sunset Blvd. ; (213) 466-8557. Full bar. Cover charge at door. Must be 21 or older to enter.
