(written June 28, 2017)
There are no churches in LA—only schmooze-houses with steeples. But on Tuesdays and Wednesdays, we musicians go to The Pig & Whistle to hear the Gospel According to Mike.
Mike Giangrecco is an old boy from New York, who's been on the LA music scene in some form or another since he moved Out West in ‘83. He's worked at just about every club in LA at some point, ran the Whisky-A-Go-Go at its prime, and booked, managed, and toured with some of the biggest names during the most explosive era in music history. He’s seen the rise of recording giants, directed young long-hairs to chance the dream, and bore witness the genesis of a new world. The Butterfly Effect of Mike’s guidance has molded rock history more than anyone—even he—will ever know.
Now he runs an open mic in the back room of the Pig & Whistle. His days of wrangling bands and building shows have earned him reign over a small saloon, where only the most curious souls end up after passing through the main bar on Hollywood Boulevard. His wooden kingdom hasn't changed since it harbored drunks during Prohibition, other than the addition of a stage and the removal of the beds that harbored drunks used to sleep off a nice, felonious bender. Today it still harbors us drunks, but in 2017 it is from the tourists outside.
Mike greets everyone who finds their way back to the old clubhouse the way a pit-bull might greet a mailman. Wide-eyed wanderers are met with a gruff, New Yorker: “Fighv dah-lahs.” We pay our offering and sit creakily among the wood chairs. The room vibrates to life with guitars tuning up and the “check-check” of Abhi, the sound guy, as the congregation fills in:
Fake Mustache – a guitarist and singer/rapper whose command of rhythms, both on guitar and vocally, will never stop amazing me. Often he’ll play wearing a fake mustache, hanging under his nose by a chain from his Blues Brothers sunglasses. He’s a younger player and doesn’t play stoned like the rest of us, so they may be hiding timidity rather than red eyes.
Sam Pic – a classically-trained guitar prodigy with perfect pitch. Sam lives for free in the attic of another open mic in town, after moving from Boston, and he holds an un-arrogant certainty that he is the best guitarist in LA. But his mind runs manic without a guitar in his hands.
Twitter Mark – usually the only comedian at the mic, but that doesn’t stop him from charming the room with his humorously bad jokes. Always he convinces one of the girls he brings to pay his $5 buy-in, but I don’t know what they’ve ever gotten out of it.
Didkule – a gorgeous Israeli girl with cropped hair and a nose ring, who strums a nylon-string guitar and sings so sweetly you’d wish you could curl up in you own ears and sleep.
Roger Brown – an older Black Folk singer with a delicious flavoring of Spanish guitar, and a vibrato in his voice that’ll shake the soul off’a yer bones.
As is the nature of musicians (and of LA), folks blow in and out of town without much notice, but for the faces that become familiar, that stage is our altar. We come, we sing and play our hearts out, and we are recharged for another week.
Unspokenly, the room settles to a hush promptly at 7:30, and all of us—even Abhi, the sound guy—sit in anticipation for Mike to begin the service. And then he does.
Mike lugs his weight to the front of the room and exhales into a stool, centerstage. How are we doing? We’re doing yeahs-and-whoos. He gives us the same old rundown: two songs, eight minutes, whichever comes first, be in-tune, be ready, be supportive. Then he asks if anyone has any questions, comments, stories, news, fiction, or otherwise.
And we all shut-up. Because we know he does.
Mike starts the benediction. The opening prayer is dedicated to us. He thanks us for pursuing the art of telling stories. He reminds us that it is a rare gift and to never take that for granted. He reiterates that this place of worship is for us to begin on our musical journeys, and he is humbled to host us at the nascent.
Then he begins the sermon. Sometime in ‘92 A.C. (that’s “After California,” once he’d moved), Mike was living in Hollywood, right around the Rodney King riots. He was trying to book this band, “The Pricks” for a last-minute cancellation at the Roxy. They filled in, the show was a hit, and they went on to play more shows and even got offered a publishing deal.
The Pricks’ guitarist still had two years of school to finish, so they had to postpone their music career. But they played around campus and by the time they were back and touring, they had an even larger fanbase with the college crowd. The fact that they’d since changed their band name to “Linkin Park” didn’t hurt either. The moral? Integrity pays off. (Either that, or don’t call yourselves The Pricks.)
Mike shifts on the stool from reminiscence to pedagogy. “Ya gotta have integrity.” He says. “Ya gotta have talent, but ya gotta have integrity. Honesty, integrity, and talent.” His youthful rebelliousness causes him to hear and seem to resent his own authority. He grumbles and shifts again in the stool, and he’s done. The room applauds, but he’s unfazed.
“Ahl-right. Now who wants to get up first?”