ESPS and the Dream of the Rarebit Fiend

I’m always interested in what the kids do for fun in L.A. Anytime I’ve ever had the displeasure of setting foot in this sprawling, salty, garden of indulgent delights, I’m turned on by all the glamour and sweat, the poverty and diamonds. Then I get to see where the buddy lives and it’s a hole stocked with porn about the size of my pantry, but at least it’s nestled in the Hollywood Hills, right? Hey look there’s Ice-T’s tennis court. Day two and you just want to get outta here. Everyone’s got agendas for their agendas, but never seem to do much but intern for some guy who works for some guy who works for Capitol Records new shitgaze subsidiary. Still – lately I’ve been hearing that the smog is clearing, things are happening, No Age is fucking huge these days, and actors are into musicians. They hang out together and start record labels together. Others just wander close by in Silverlake or Laurel Canyon and jam infinite. What the fuck am I talking about? I’m sure I’d love the north much better (we want two states).

Anyways, back to that bit about No Age. Love them or hate them, they get tons of ink. I ride the fence when it comes to this band, but their taste is impeccable. I recently read a nice little L.A. hot list by Dean Spurt and he mentioned this band ESPS, and the thangs he was saying bout them was more than flattering. Something about his words prompted me to send money in an actual envelope, with an actual stamp, in order to pick up their first offering. “Dream of a Rarebit Fiend” (on Storms of the Heart) may steal a title from one of my favorite turn of the century artists, Winsor McCay, but the song has nothing to do with nightmarish psychedelic comic strips and everything to do with that feeling I get when I’m loving L.A. – the privileged bohemian lifestyle of a young drug-fueled director, drowning in shag carpet, surrounded by b-list models/actresses, enjoying air conditioning in the parlor, while sunshine speaks through prisms like a trusting friend, spindling reels of footage you took on a trip to Morroco – oh the life.

Meanwhile ESPS, donned in 70’s vulgarity and excess, play a gnarly lackadaisical stoner sing-a-long in the corner. The great space coaster just dropped them off for the night. And boy do they love the beat and boogie, “Teller’s Line” is the closest thing to a tried and true Thin Lizzy pool party – and for that I’m am indebted to this band for the long haul. Don’t bring me down, bruce.