Tuesday nights are made for tacos, beer, and music, and to my surprise, also lines. A slew of people awaited my well being at the Echoplex, filled with anticipation and a somehow missed happiness, which lingered heavily throughout the streets of Los Angeles. The crisp night breeze made for a welcoming companion as my arms struggled to find their way into my leather jacket, which seemed to come from a rack at Baby Gap. Waves of adolescents hurried past my lounging steps to get a better spot in the beast of the line, which moved with ease once the clock struck a little after 8:15 p.m.
For those passing by, assumptions would be made of hometown heroes playing to haul such a crowd.
But not Tuesday night.
First time taking the stage in LA, Liverpool’s Her’s were the main course and brought dedicated fans for the feast. Delectably prepped by the likes of sultry blues crooner, Laura Jean Anderson and New York’s Field Trip, the assortment for the night revolved around audible feels.
As Anderson made her way to the stage there wasn’t a way in hell I could swim through the crowd. The pole and conveniently placed bar seemed to be louder than anything, and somehow knew my name. I saw my photographer’s arm in the distance. Flash seemed to radiate from the disco ball above, down to his beard, and conveniently back to the stage in an odd marriage. Anderson’s moody tone guided the trailing bulbs and regardless where you resided, her tone resonated beautifully. Slicking out tracks from her latest EP, Lonesome No More, the sultry and intimate performance filled the dark, husk of the venue.
Beer crept in, along with the details of the day. I really hope I locked my car. They seemed to pounce louder in between sets, along with comical conversations and an authentic human to my left. This rung true against the bedroom-pop background, realizing Field Trip was the gatekeeper of said sounds. Couples took to the crevices of the Echoplex, escaping the very minimal hint of light that did come our way, and secluded in warm embraces. The music was enough to be appreciated from these corners, or possibly, was enough to show appreciation in a corner.
A loving assortment of jangle-pop calmed the antsy pines that circulated from the crowd soon after. Her’s — Stephen Fitzpatrick (vocals and guitar) and Audun Laading (bass and backing vocals) — eased from track to track with flawless transitions and ample support from their drum machine.
Laading continued to fill the stage with sensual grooves, heard on “Cool with You,” to a more grounding hum, matched by an unbreakable demeanor of flooded joy. Each move instantly caught my eye from the comfort of beer number three. His welcoming dance steps encapsulated the stage, alongside delicious slaps from — what I assume and could see — his Rickenbacker bass. Finally, life made sense of why I had to do inventory at Guitar Center. This was that moment: spotting head-stocks in the dark.
Romanticizing by Fitzpatrick’s bedroom vocals and fluorescent guitar plucks, a youthful and blissfully unaware flush seeped. Bleeding from the same vein as Beach Fossils and various surf rock fronted ensembles, the duo’s primed innocence made you feel alive. “I’ll Try” brought the crowd to an appreciated cheer and washed each show-goer in the soundscape of adoration.
A surplus of feelings brought out a natural hue on the crevices of my oval structure. Fitzpatrick’s sweet tone became huskier and growled with an uncertain longing on “She Needs Him.” New wave embellishments danced with surf doo-wop and playfully sulked in Fitzpatrick’s vocals. It could’ve been the money found on the ground, the bottomless cup of alcohol, or simply the chemical bounce that acquired through exchanging words, but Her’s was a gentle reminder of simply enjoying each day as they came, almost unheard of as of late.
But not Tuesday night.
Waves of adolescents gleefully skidded past our relaxed steps, to their cars or nearby establishments of food, which moved with ease once the clock struck a little after midnight.