Hyperkult

Dawn breaking over Bon Iver

Last weekend went by in a dreamlike blur. Somehow, a friend and I managed to stumble from Disneyland on Friday to a birthday party at The London West Hollywood on Saturday night to Bon Iver’s once-in-a-lifetime sunrise show at the Hollywood Forever Cemetery, emerging with mildly scathed circadian rhythms and ravenous appetites. Luckily Joan’s on Third covered us on the hunger front, along with a couple other Bon Iver concertgoers with yellow wristbands matching ours. I vaguely remember an exchange with a fellow Hollywood Forever survivor while waiting for my food (Her: “Wasn’t that amazing?” Me: “It was amazzzzzing.”), but anything that happened after 9:00 AM was pretty much stricken from my sleep-deprived mind.

I’ve still got a small case of what I’m calling “graveyard cough,” but my scratchy throat is a small price to pay for a concert experience that I’ll never forget. Though the gates of Hollywood Forever—the “resting ground of Hollywood’s immortals”—opened at midnight, my friend Frances and I opted to take a disco nap at my apartment and show up around 4:00 AM. Fighting our way through Hollywood’s foggy streets and dodging a neon-clad male hustler yelling “You know you can afford me!” to passing cars, we finally crossed into a land of phantoms, headstones, and hoodie-wearing Silverlake hipsters.

We missed a screening of Bottle Rocket earlier that morning, a movie chosen specially for the occasion by Bon Iver’s Justin Vernon. But no matter, because there was a projection of Planet Earth on the mausoleum wall and hypnotic mood music to lull us into a half-meditative, half-delirious state. The band must’ve sensed how out of sorts we would all be, so they called on Buddhist monks—yes, actual Buddhist monks—to be our alarm clock at 5:30 AM with a blessing and chanting ceremony.

As if that wasn’t enough to settle us into a state of pure zen, the band then took the stage, launching into their work from For Emma, Forever Ago and the Blood Bank EP. I’ve always filed For Emma under “writing music,” or “hole me up in a cabin for the winter” music, which, actually, is just what Vernon did when he was recording the album. But live I wasn’t moodily swaying my head back and forth like I’m wont to do when Emma wafts through my headphones. Oh, no. There was a bit of strange seated dancing going on, some tapping of feet, and tempo-synched neck bobbing that I normally reserve for whatever mega-awesome remix I’m obsessed with at the moment.

Yet Bon Iver, all heart on stage, gave us the kind of magical melancholy that we all sleepily trekked there for. After a finale of “The Wolves (Act I and II),” the mostly ass-parked audience gave a standing ovation and Vernon left us with this cryptic note of thanks: “Thank you guys so much for making this so wonderful. You guys are so kind, for real. Let’s do it again, maybe—or maybe never again. I love that.”

I love that, too.

Stumbling through cemetery fog at 4:00 AM

Sleepy Bon Iver fans

My designer documentary kick of a couple months ago was preparation for The September Issue’s recent release. The chance to look behind the darkened lenses of “Nuclear Wintour,” as Vogue editrix Anna Wintour is known by some, and what continues to be the only fashion magazine I read religiously, was a voyeuristic (Vogue-ristic?) dream come true. While the movie is not earth-shatteringly revealing, it is transportive, even for audience members who don’t know Thakoon from Chris Benz.

I had the chance to prescreen the film and interview director R.J. Cutler, who previously produced the Bill Clinton campaign documentary The War Room. The politically-minded (and sartorially-challenged) filmmaker was enchanted by Wintour and her Condé Nast family, even if getting Vogue Creative Director Grace Coddington to smile for the camera was a trying task. I’ve posted my article below, which appears in the, ahem, September issue of SOMA. Click on the article for legible text.

Spago's Almond Upside-Down Cake

From a 1994 episode of Saturday Night Live, featuring the Baldwin family, Kim Basinger then included, as contestants on Family Feud:

Ray Combs: Kim! Join me over here, you have fifteen seconds! [Kim follows Ray to the center of the set.] One hundred people surveyed—Go! [Clock begins ticking.] A place you might go for a birthday.

Kim Basinger: Spago.

Ray Combs: Something you do before leaving work.

Kim Basinger: Call Spago!

Ray Combs: Something you might read on a bus.

Kim Basinger: Spago’s menu!

Ray Combs: A place where you might look for a lost sock.

Kim Basinger: Spago!

Ray Combs: And, someone you might call while on vacation.

Kim Basinger: Mike Ovitz!

[The Baldwins cheer]

In the rapid world of restaurant turnaround, especially in a town as finnicky and trend-crazy as Los Angeles, Beverly Hills is where a small handful of local institutions will die when Neiman Marcus freezes over. Which, sure, is actually a distinct possibility in this economic climate. Nonetheless, still alive and kicking are restaurants whose glitter-and-glam reputation precedes their culinary one: The Ivy, Mr. Chow, Kate Mantilini, and so on.

And then there’s Spago, an anomaly that’s both so ’90s, but still so relevant. There are banquettes with dated geometric patterns, menus and wall art decorated with illustrations of a rotund grape-picker, and the weirdest motley crew of diners I’ve seen in a while—and this is Los Angeles, for chrissake. Last night, when I went out with a small group to celebrate my friend Frances’ birthday, I observed a diner in a Union Jack blazer cradling his tutu-outfitted daughter, an older, white-suited man chatting up his disaffected date (easily 20 years his junior), and a rakish Peter Facinelli lookalike doing the same with his blonde buddy, but with much more success.

At a lot of restaurants these days, it’s hard to tell whether the food, the chef, or the scene is the star. In Spago’s case, it’s all three: solid dishes, fearless leader Wolfgang Puck, and Beverly Hills’ best, worst, and strangest patrons. Our group sampled everything from miniature beet layer cakes to seared tuna with fennel and a tomato confit (my choice) to almond upside-down cake with raspberries, figs, and housemade gelato. Spago consistently earns a Michelin star-rating, and witnessing sous chefs bust ass through the exposed kitchen, it’s easy to see—but more importantly, taste—why.

Just before dessert arrived, Wolfgang emerged to individually introduce himself to the remaining diners, which is something I wish more chefs would do whether they’re of his celebrity stature or not. So there you have it; last night I got Puck-ed, and it was good for me.