There are about ten people dispersed around the back of the Troubadour venue in Los Angeles as the members of Louis XIV are sound checking. A meticulous spectacle, the band pays attention to more details than most in preparation for tonight's sold out show. As the quartet finishes checking a song that encompassed some pretty dirty guitar solos from frontman Jason Hill, he stops to apologize to the other bands for how long they're taking. Looking around at the faces of the other musicians waiting, it seems they don't really mind the delay as they're still slightly in awe of his solos. The last song they will soundcheck is "Illegal Tender," a song they've never played live, that Jason can't exactly remember the lyrics to and that provokes guitarist Brian Karscig to inquire sarcastically, "How do we end that one?" As Jason looks at Brian, he cocks a sly grin and says, "I'll just solo..." Brian laughs and says, "Soloooo bro." At that moment, it occurs to me that it must be pretty nice to be Louis XIV right now. It must be nice to be making music that impresses men and seduces women while playing alongside some of your best friends.
As we head up to the band's dressing room after soundcheck, the rock 'n' roll of the whole thing starts to wear off for me. Behind the scenes, their tour manager Dom is trying to figure out how to deal with a cramped guest list, Jason's feeling ill and Brian is trying to handle some radio business matters. After months solid playing shows or driving all night long in order to reach the next venue, these are a bunch of tired guys. I soak it in while drinking their beer and find it ironic that I had forgotten about the "work" side of rock. I'll admit that as a journalist even I buy into the myth of rock 'n' roll. It's the promise of the never-ending high. It's the soundtrack to nights that never end coupled with bottles that never go empty and maybe a few girls thrown in.
After awhile, Hill turns to me and asks if I want to get something to eat. I oblige as I've been trying to assuage my hunger with Bud Light for the past hour. On our way out of the Troubadour, Hill notices that the club's management has covered up the "butt crack" (if you will) portion of their tour poster that features a larger version of their bare-assed female album cover. Hill walks up, takes one poster down and unfolds the bottom portion, pun intended I guess, before being reprimanded from a club employee that "this is an all ages club man, no butt crack."
Sitting at an Indian restaurant in a bourgeois part of town, I think he and I look like the odd couple in this joint. Seated next to us is a conservatively dressed couple discussing academics. Jason and I zero in on the blonde's big chest and laugh to ourselves. If you've listened to even five minutes of Louis XIV's new album, The Best Little Secrets Are Kept, you'll notice it's about two tits and ass references away from being a concept album on sex. What makes it better than a concept album is the fact that it's a crafty piece of musicianship. The production, handled by Hill, is raw and refreshing. With melodies as catchy as Louis' it would have been easy to over produce the hell out of their tunes in order to create synthetic sexy radio hits. Instead, Hill's gritty inclinations make the album seem like some random treasure you dusted off from your dad's old vinyl collection.
Waiting for our food to arrive, Jason starts to feel seriously ill and calls up Dom to see if he can bring him some medicine. Fumbling with his soupspoon and holding his head, it doesn't seem like this is a guy who's ready to rock. Ironically, it is a guy however who can still talk about sex. Trying to get his mind off being sick, I ask him what the deal is with the lyric, "Hey short girl, you're like a midget, you could turn a phone cord into a widget." Being a miniscule lady, I sarcastically point out that there are several references to "shorties" on the album and that I'm not a fan of the word "midget." He smiles wide and concedes that he is a big fan of short girls... and girls' asses (as witnessed by the aforementioned bare female ass on the cover of the album). As one might assume, the conversation leads to talk of sex, porn and all things related. I'm kind of surprised by Hill's candor, as it's very rare that you meet a musician who is as genuine as their lyrics. Often times, artists present a side of themselves on stage that they secretly wish they could be like but aren't in actuality. However, talk to any of the boys in Louis about sex, drugs or rock 'n' roll and they'll oblige you willingly.
As we walk back to the Troub', Jason has taken some TheraFlu, a few pain relievers and still doesn't feel better. I feel horrible and wonder if it feels less exciting to play a sold out show when your body wants rest so badly. I politely say, "Man, sorry you're sick, wish I could help... but just think of all the young girls in the front row who want to blow you!" Jason laughs and sighs, "Yeah... I could use a blowjob right now." Whether or not the statement is directed toward me, I don't know... I just keep walking...
In front of the venue, I bid Jason adieu for the time being and proceed to wait for the show. The crowd has started to file in... throngs of young high school girls in oddly accessorized outfits, indie hipsters and even a few cholos who tell me outside that they heard a Louis song on the radio and thought, "These guys are really fuckin' cool homes." A friend and I perch ourselves on the very last row of the balcony at the Troubadour. As the lights dim...I keep thinking of being in their dressing room seeing the work side of rock 'n' roll and I'm thinking of how sick Jason is, how Brian just really wanted a shower and how hectic the environment was.
The lights rise and of course, I forget all this. As Hill walks out on stage, he's a completely different person than the man I shared dinner with nearly an hour earlier. The energy in the venue could be described as sweaty and electric. The band's chemistry is phenomenal. As Jason and Brian exchange guitar lines, they playfully fight back and forth with each other in fake stare downs. Drummer Mark Maigaard hits the skins so hard my friend marvels that it's amazing he doesn't have to replace three or four drum heads. Bassist Jimmy Armbrust stands cool, staring down the audience, swaying his hips in a way that suggests that he just hit his stride. The crowd is a mess of girls' arms flailing like tentacles, desperately reaching out for any attention they can get from the Louis boys and guys watching guitar solos that they probably won't be able to copy anytime soon.
After the show, I'm sitting with Jason and Brian as they recap on the last month. Their chemistry with each other on and off stage is endearing and probably part of why the band translates so well live. Talking with the boys, I find myself caving into believing the myth again. As we sit drinking in a posh hotel room overlooking Sunset Blvd. and the L.A. skyline, Brian demurs, "February was a fucking awesome month." As an outsider peering into this life for just a moment, I look out the window and think to myself again, "Yeah...it's pretty nice to be Louis XIV right now." Thankfully, they know it too.
