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Gonzo Report: Eating dinner while little kids mock-mosh at Golden Island
“The tot absorbs the punk rock shot with the skill of experience”
Aaron Lind Organ Trio: bass lines so good they don’t even need a bass player.
“Jazz is whatever the fuck you say it is.” I tell guitarist Aaron Lind, whose organ trio is performing at Golden Island Dim Sum and Asian Cuisine in Mira Mesa tonight. Though I’m not opposed to randomly blurting obscenities to strangers, this particular obscenity isn’t random. My statement arises from a discussion of the similarities between the punk and jazz communities. While jagoff gatekeepers talk shit about kids in Bad Religion shirts they got from Hot Topic, the jazz community has their own self-appointed “experts” who decide what is “real jazz” and what falls short. It’s the antithesis of two styles that are all about freedom of expression and individuality. Leave it to some dickhead to come up with rules.
The patrons at Golden Island don’t seem obsessed by the nuances of authenticity, nor do they appear to be dickheads. They’re here for the food, and Lind and his band are there to provide dinner music — they seem to me like they’re background, designed to attract very little attention. But that’s an art in itself. It’s a challenge to get the sound right in any venue. The presence of carbon-based life forms alone can jack up your acoustics. And given that said bodies will fluctuate in number and location throughout the night, and that the volume level needs to be loud enough to hear, but also quiet enough to make conversation easy...well, it’s just too much math stuff for me. Fortunately, soundman Iain knows his shit, so the mix and volume are excellent and sustained.
While I’m there at Golden Island for the music, I’m not complaining that there’s food (though I do have to try not to throw up in my mouth when I spot chicken feet on the menu). The place provides an educational experience: I learn that dim sum is not a particular dish, but a variety of small dishes, often shared with friends and family. My friend Silas schools me about this via Google University. He also says something about etiquette, but I can’t hear him over the sound of my own chewing as I shove the other half of a beef bun in my mouth.
My eyes, meanwhile are caught by the scene on the under-used dance floor. Two children who can’t be over six stop their borderline-mosh pit dancing when drummer Justin Joyce takes a solo. The younger of the two is mesmerized; his older sibling attempts to break the trance by hip-checking him. The tot absorbs the punk rock shot with the skill of experience and continues to stare until his brother leaves to run around the dance floor, then heads to his family when the band breaks for 15 minutes. The break is filled by fans of the musicians as they gather around; clearly, not everyone is here for the food alone. I barely have time to talk to organist John Opferkuch about the bass lines he’s been playing before he extricates himself for a well-deserved beverage. His lines are so good that I’m not even resentful that there’s no bass player to pick on.
I see restaurant staff wheeling glass-sided food carts, keeping them warm with a Sterno candle. This inspires me to repeat “Fire! Fire” a la Beavis to one of the carters. Seems like she’s heard it before; she stops just long enough to figure out that I don’t need anything from her. I’m about to pull my shirt over my head to channel Cornholio and demand T.P. for my bunghole when I see a plate being set down at our table. Well, it’s actually Silas’ plate. My plate has been there for a while, but I’ve been busy!
As the band starts their next set, I dig into garlic honey pork ribs so satisfyingly sticky that I feel like I’m eating candy. Then the garlic kicks in and the melding of flavors delivers a satisfying explosion that overwhelms the intrusive thoughts of someone eating chicken feet somewhere in the world, and maybe even this room.
The drummer child is back up front again, and his brother pulls on him to come to the table where their family is eating. I take the opportunity to ask his parents if he plays music, and tell them what I observed. Their smiles beam at me as they say they expose him to all kinds of music and instruments, but he hasn’t settled on one yet. I scan their plates for chicken feet, but don’t see any. I know I probably didn’t have to look, but my curiosity often gets the better of me — though it stops well short of munching on poultry extremities.
Here's something you might be interested in.
Gonzo Report: Eating dinner while little kids mock-mosh at Golden Island
“The tot absorbs the punk rock shot with the skill of experience”
Gonzo Report: Eating dinner while little kids mock-mosh at Golden Island
“The tot absorbs the punk rock shot with the skill of experience”
Aaron Lind Organ Trio: bass lines so good they don’t even need a bass player.
“Jazz is whatever the fuck you say it is.” I tell guitarist Aaron Lind, whose organ trio is performing at Golden Island Dim Sum and Asian Cuisine in Mira Mesa tonight. Though I’m not opposed to randomly blurting obscenities to strangers, this particular obscenity isn’t random. My statement arises from a discussion of the similarities between the punk and jazz communities. While jagoff gatekeepers talk shit about kids in Bad Religion shirts they got from Hot Topic, the jazz community has their own self-appointed “experts” who decide what is “real jazz” and what falls short. It’s the antithesis of two styles that are all about freedom of expression and individuality. Leave it to some dickhead to come up with rules.
The patrons at Golden Island don’t seem obsessed by the nuances of authenticity, nor do they appear to be dickheads. They’re here for the food, and Lind and his band are there to provide dinner music — they seem to me like they’re background, designed to attract very little attention. But that’s an art in itself. It’s a challenge to get the sound right in any venue. The presence of carbon-based life forms alone can jack up your acoustics. And given that said bodies will fluctuate in number and location throughout the night, and that the volume level needs to be loud enough to hear, but also quiet enough to make conversation easy...well, it’s just too much math stuff for me. Fortunately, soundman Iain knows his shit, so the mix and volume are excellent and sustained.
While I’m there at Golden Island for the music, I’m not complaining that there’s food (though I do have to try not to throw up in my mouth when I spot chicken feet on the menu). The place provides an educational experience: I learn that dim sum is not a particular dish, but a variety of small dishes, often shared with friends and family. My friend Silas schools me about this via Google University. He also says something about etiquette, but I can’t hear him over the sound of my own chewing as I shove the other half of a beef bun in my mouth.
My eyes, meanwhile are caught by the scene on the under-used dance floor. Two children who can’t be over six stop their borderline-mosh pit dancing when drummer Justin Joyce takes a solo. The younger of the two is mesmerized; his older sibling attempts to break the trance by hip-checking him. The tot absorbs the punk rock shot with the skill of experience and continues to stare until his brother leaves to run around the dance floor, then heads to his family when the band breaks for 15 minutes. The break is filled by fans of the musicians as they gather around; clearly, not everyone is here for the food alone. I barely have time to talk to organist John Opferkuch about the bass lines he’s been playing before he extricates himself for a well-deserved beverage. His lines are so good that I’m not even resentful that there’s no bass player to pick on.
I see restaurant staff wheeling glass-sided food carts, keeping them warm with a Sterno candle. This inspires me to repeat “Fire! Fire” a la Beavis to one of the carters. Seems like she’s heard it before; she stops just long enough to figure out that I don’t need anything from her. I’m about to pull my shirt over my head to channel Cornholio and demand T.P. for my bunghole when I see a plate being set down at our table. Well, it’s actually Silas’ plate. My plate has been there for a while, but I’ve been busy!
As the band starts their next set, I dig into garlic honey pork ribs so satisfyingly sticky that I feel like I’m eating candy. Then the garlic kicks in and the melding of flavors delivers a satisfying explosion that overwhelms the intrusive thoughts of someone eating chicken feet somewhere in the world, and maybe even this room.
The drummer child is back up front again, and his brother pulls on him to come to the table where their family is eating. I take the opportunity to ask his parents if he plays music, and tell them what I observed. Their smiles beam at me as they say they expose him to all kinds of music and instruments, but he hasn’t settled on one yet. I scan their plates for chicken feet, but don’t see any. I know I probably didn’t have to look, but my curiosity often gets the better of me — though it stops well short of munching on poultry extremities.
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