A Rocker Remembers the Writers' Villa

When the news of the grisly murder up in Los Feliz first hit the news last week, I was not quite like the rest of the nation. Most of whom keyed in on the killer, Johnnie Lewis, the 28-year-old "Sons Of Anarchy" alum and ex-Katy Perry beau that had allegedly ingested a ton of drugs and gone 51-50 on his octangenarian landlady--more "Hollywood Babylon", more grist for the "isn't LA filled with freaks" mill. For me, I kept scratching my head when I saw the address, 3605 Lowry, the scene of the crime--I knew that number, damn--but from where?

It hit me the day after the news broke--not only had I been there many times, it was the birthplace of a band of mine from the 90s, the Imminent Disaster Blues Band (so named by me, because every gig could very well be a, well, ya know...). Former home to my editor at Daily Variety, Bruce Haring--Bruce had these yearly 4th of July bashes that were off-the-hook fun. As lower-to middle members of the music industry and media assembled in the villa, the madness began a few hours before sunset and ended post fireworks, generally. The IDBB was formed out of those parties and that swinging pad--Bruce played sax, Boo Burns (who was corporate PR at MCA) lead guitar, Rich Martini (film director) keys, myself and the rhythm section of ringers I brought with me, as well as a few Zappa sidemen on horns from time to time. We were an odd bunch.

Which meant that we fit the milieu at Bruce's place (this was before it was divided up into an artist's temporary pad, or maybe even in between--for all I knew, Bruce had actors and writers cribbing there). An actual motley crew. A lot of people from all over the country, drawn to the Promised Land and hanging together. What was amazing about the parties and the people really was the genuine diversity--not in the tedious racial sense, but in the broad span of interests. As someone that came up in punk rock, I had a natural antipahy to business types, but along with fellow peers like Paul V (a former Boston club and radio DJ turned WB exec and temporary Jane's Addiction manager), we formed the odd left flank among "the suits", but there was never friction--the atmosphere there was perfect.

Which is how the place was described in the news after Bruce vacated. A writer/actor/filmmaker haven, a petrie dish, a breeding ground, with a joyous landlady at the helm. That's gone. It will never come back. And for that, I mourn--there are so few corners of our tawdry old town that you can feel genuine nostalgia for, this one is sullied forever. Peace to Catherine Davis, and I suppose Johnny Lewis, too--but these were memories I wish were left untainted forever.