Within the vicinity of the flash emanating from Halle Jean’s camera, I lean on the pale tile of the bathroom shower located upstairs at the Echo. I laugh at something Thomas says and follow the camera as it flickers towards us once again. Nico is sipping a lemon La Croix and eating Cheeze-its. I steal a few (actually more than a few). Backstage we jitter together like a million lightning bugs: an October night is falling, but the sun is still up. The divine timing of getting to play while the sun’s still up. This is how I frame our 4:45pm set time, happily opening the ‘And Always Forever’ festival.

We wander down the staircase that connects the green room to the stage. At the landing of the staircase is a glimpse of the outside world, an opaque window letting all the evening’s last light in. We stop and arrange ourselves. There’s Rowen in a polkadot skirt, perfect. Thomas in his slouching blazer and loose trousers. Nico sharply dressed and smirking. And finally I’m wearing what I always wear, a black suit jacket and trousers. Halle Jean giggles and snaps a few more photos. I don’t show my teeth but I’m grinning.

‘2 minutes’ says an anonymous voice,

‘Alright, let’s do this,’ I say, and tug on Thomas’s shoulder. We wander the remaining way to the stage and huddle together, not a single nerve in the body is asleep, alive yet calm.

I had been feeling more confident about this set, as we had more than twice the amount of real estate on stage than at previous shows. Instead of being shoulder to shoulder, we each had our own terrain to fidget. Thomas and I could duck behind the girls and rock, Nico and I could sing together and actually see one another, and Rowen’s bow and arrow violin technique could fly around the stage sniping me and whoever else was tuned in. I used my space and the noise from the amplifier stacks behind us to become as benevolently possessed as possible. Our set felt alive and new, even though we had just played the same line up of songs for our previous two shows. I felt I was climbing the curtains of the stage in my mind, and when we walked off at the end of our set, we were warm to the touch. Pure gratification. Grinning still, showing my teeth this time.

After the ceremonial task of loading gear from the venue to my truck, driving back up Sunset Blvd, laboring up the stairs of Thomas and Rowen’s house into the living room, then dropping the gear, and finally feeding and taking the dogs out, we made good on plans to reunite at our friends’ Lexi & Jason’s apartment. The time it took us to execute the load out allowed for a moment of reflection for Thomas and I. We both agreed that our set seemed to crystallize our vision for the band. Good news, that’s how you do it, you play…

— Reunited with the girls, we link up with Viv (who has plans for us). She is dressing the band in full Ann Demuelemeester, putting each of us in defining outfits. We feel giddy. This is different, but feels right.

Jason sits at his kitchen table as we each get ready one by one: first the girls get dressed in raven-like black dresses, each complimenting them as individuals. Nico is put in a long meandering dress that commands reverence, Rowen in a more compact two piece that seems to embody her perceptive yet playful personality. They both look like elegant dark angels. Halle Jean and I run across the street to fetch beers and a Payday candy bar. We return with Peroni’s and Jameson, I eat my bar before even exiting the gas station parking lot. I take a nip from the Irish whiskey and finally put on my Ann jacket. It narrows my frame, sharpens my look into a razor-like gothic-americana silhouette. A tassel dangles from the jacket like a clipped wing of a battle-torn raven. I feel like a blonde gaunt Johnny Cash. Thomas is adorned in outlaw leather, sporting a Bolo tie that accentuates his bold facial features, his eyebrows and eyes blazing like dark suns.

We gather in the kitchen in our manicured outfits, drinking beers and passing around the Jameson. The conversation is dominated by folklore of a mythical rock and roll legend. Martin Rev, one half of the groundbreaking punk band Suicide, and solo keyboard sorcerer, who will be taking the stage in a matter of hours back at the venue. Jason Renaud who is working at his kitchen table joins in on the praising of one of our heroes. We mention an extra guest list spot and invite him to join us for the set. Can’t miss that.

After our beers find themselves empty and the whiskey warms us, we walk across the street to Taix French Restaurant. Taix being an institution of Sunset, a fixture of Old-Hollywood, and perfect evidence of my Permanent Carpet Theory.

The theory is simple: Hollywood establishments with permanent carpet are like spirit-sponges. Every martini spilt, every cigarette smoked, every gossip told and legend made, absorbed into the fabric of the place–an accumulation lore in perpetuity. Jones, Chateau Marmont, Taix French, my apartment building… permanent carpet–fabled, never to be steamed out.

Inside the restaurant we slither and follow the hostess to a booth in the back of the labyrinth. It’s only October but there is a festive holiday glow to the place, part Hallmark, part Godfather. We pile into the booth and order boulevardier’s and French fries. We fill ourselves on bread and butter, and once again flashes from Halle Jean light up the dining room. Other tables don’t seem to mind. Viv, Halle, Thomas, Rowen, Nico, and I huddle together at the table and eat and drink. Ailed by an empty stomach, our cocktails do a little more than usual, we are whiskey-fools, perfect for a fall night. We snap a few more photos in our Ann Demeulemeester attire before exiting the restaurant, ready to get back to the venue and see our knight in shield sunglasses.

The air back inside the Echoplex is heavy, the kind of fog that is created from dancing and movement, rich with anticipation. Attendees of the festival are shuffling up and down the stairs, the line-up demanding a certain level of nautical navigation, charting waters between the two stages. When we arrive DJ Python is playing on the Echo stage where he will be followed by Martin Rev.

Rev makes an appearance before his curtain call to address some apparent technical difficulties with his minimal set up. The sound crew are stumped. Humble of Martin to come out on stage, in a sparkly tank top and Sketchers, and of course his signature sunglasses to figure out what was going on. Nico and I grab popcorn and a couple of Guinness and watch as they untangle cables, and duct tape the keyboard to its stand (more on this in a moment).

Finally they seem to have everything set up, and sound begins blaring out of the system. Uncomfortably loud synths and drums begin to pulse through the crowd. Hilariously, after maybe 20 seconds of music, Rev stops the track, walks slowly off the stage, and we wait a little longer for his return.

The stage is set, lights are faded down, and the Punk Pioneer appears again, this time he seems to carry himself with a bit more bravado, he is addressing the crowd, and he begins speaking incoherently into the microphone. The effect on the vocal is a signature slap-back delay, it’s drowning really, and with that he delivers cavernous croons into the void. To say that his set consisted of him playing his ‘songs’ would be to assume that what we began hearing had been performed before, or even premeditated. That being said, there were some familiar moments. The instrumental behind ‘Rain of Ruin’ — one of my favorite Suicide cuts was delivered, with no Alan Vega. Rev seemed to have his own story to tell and his own relationship to the piece of music.