I Love Los Angeles
I love Los Angeles. I love living here for so many reasons. The weather is some of the best in the country, the coastline is gorgeous and readily accessible, the people make every effort to be pretty (lest they miss a chance to be discovered), and there are lots of vegan restaurants to keep me from becoming a true Los Angeles skinny bitch. I also have to admit that as a person who grew up in a small New England town, once and a while I find myself secretly thrilled when I happen upon unique situations that can really only be described as “soooooo L.A.” Truly, there is a certain allure to living here. Los Angeles draws people in from all over the world, and if we’re fortunate enough, we get to stay and enjoy the magic and history of this beautiful and, admittedly, self-obsessed city, where sometimes dreams actually do come true.
This past weekend I had one of those totally awesome “sooooo L.A.” experiences. My wife and I attended the wedding of a good friend of ours who was born and raised in Los Angeles; a true native. She (the bride) shared a childhood with a playgroup in Bel Air, later graduating from Beverly Hills High School. Despite all of my TV and movie-inspired preconceptions about the snobbery of both Bel Air and Beverly Hills, the bride is one of the most down-to-earth, unpretentious people I know. She lives a modest, fun life as a realtor (and once worked as a talent agent) and has an incredibly magnetic personality, hence the 175+ wedding guest list.
The wedding was held at The Beverly Hills Hotel, which has been on my list of places to see since I moved here over five years ago. The hotel itself is iconic. It has housed movie stars and rock stars for many generations (Marilyn Monroe, Liz Taylor, John and Yoko, etc.). It even has a recording studio in it that Bono is rumored to have used, which of course stirs the music nerd in me. The hotel also happens to be the place where Morrissey rests his head when he’s in town. Now, I’ve been a fan of The Smiths’ and Morrissey’s music since it was possible to actually walk into a record store and buy a 7” vinyl copy of a single on the day it was released. So anywhere that Moz goes in my adopted city, I feel compelled to peek. You know, if it’s good enough for Moz…
Anyway, the Missus and I arrived at the hotel, feelin’ all fancy in our wedding guest attire. I wore a black velvet suit and a burgundy button-down shirt with French cuffs. The wife wore a long, crimson designer gown, complete with a small train (that I admittedly stepped on at least twice during the evening – D’oh!). The ceremony was held in the Polo Garden and officiated, with a refreshingly casual style, by the bride’s brother. Perhaps the most striking moment of the ceremony for me came as he revealed that the bride’s parents were also married at the Beverly Hills Hotel. Theirs is truly an L.A. family to the core.
Cut to the reception. The wife and I were seated at a table just off the stage, with “front row” seats for the band, who started playing just as everyone was entering the ballroom and getting settled. The band had two lead singers, a man who goes by the name of Masta, and a woman named Alexx D., both African American. They were accompanied by a drummer, bass player, guitar player, keyboard player and two horn players. The band started with typical wedding selections like “At Last,” and admittedly, I was like, “Meh.” But then, things got interesting. This was a Jewish wedding, so before I knew it, this seemingly bland r&b wedding band burst into a near fist-pumping rendition of “Hava Nagila” and had that ballroom jumpin’! Soon chairs were up in the air, and some of Beverly Hills High School’s finest alumni, in their best Louboutins and Valentinos, were stomping, clapping, and twirling around the newlyweds like nobody’s business. This was truly a sight to see. Masta, a cross between Morris Day and Al Jarreau, alongside Alexx D., a modern-day Natalie Cole/Beyonce hybrid, were singing “Hava Nagila” with the boldest, bad-ass vibrato tornado that swanky hotel may have ever seen. It was fucking awesome!
Wedding disaster nearly struck in the middle of the song when the hotel’s sound system let out an awful howl of feedback and gut-busting, low-end roar. The band stopped, and many a hairy eyeball was thrown toward the hotel tech dude, who was twiddling knobs, checking connections and scratching his head. Finally, after several minutes of dead air and a nod from the aforementioned tech dude, the band started up again with a different tune, not realizing the chair raising hadn’t yet graced the parents of the bride. Major Jewish wedding faux pas! Luckily, as any decent L.A. experience would have it, Tori Spelling just happened to be on hand as a bridesmaid. Tori rushed to the stage, demanding, “Start again!” They did, and soon chairs were back up in the air, and the room livened anew as if nothing interrupted the celebratory dance. Tori saved the day for her BFF. Pretty fierce.
As the evening continued, the Missus and I found ourselves seated among hairdressers and attorneys working for both social justice organizations and social networking companies. We were the typically Californian lesbian vegans who were served special meals, and ended up fielding about an hour’s worth of how-do-you-do-it questions from the carnivores at the table. At one point someone said, “Oh, her blood type is totally meat and protein, so she could never go vegan.” Ummm, what?
Anyway, as the night went on, so did the band. The instrumentalists were all quite good, and I guessed that most of them are probably studio musicians who’ve played on countless records at some of the finest studios in town. They had major chops. Most impressive though, were the singers. They were true entertainers in every sense of the word. Masta spent the evening mimicking nearly every male singer’s voice in popular music, tackling a wide-ranging repertoire with ease. He was toooooo smooooth. His female counterpart was super hot, and moved from Amy Winehouse to Natalie Cole to Beyonce without breaking a sweat. She also had a way with pantomiming along with lyrics that was in some instances fittingly reminiscent of Motown girl groups, and in others simply hilarious.
For example, when the band performed their rendition of Gnarls Barkley’s “Crazy,” Masta was fully embracing the falsetto wails toward the end of the tune in a way that almost concerned me (like, whoa, Dude), while Alexx D. accompanied him, singing the oooohs and circling the side of her head with her left hand in true “you are coo-coo” motion. Yep, it was kinda funny and kinda 60s throwback cool all at once.
The big crowd favorite came as the band burst into a version of “Bad Romance” toward the end of the night. Vocally, Alexx D. did a damn good Lady Gaga and, once again, employed her best pantomiming skills, this time wielding air cursive as she sang, “You and me could write a bad romance.” The dance floor was completely packed with the most awesomely eclectic wedding crowd of young, old, middle-aged, straight, and gay people who are lawyers, Federal Judges, hairdressers, musicians, actors, designers, realtors, and of course the previously mentioned day-saving BFF and her formidable posse. At times I felt like I was in an Adam Sandler movie with Crazy Singer Man edging slightly over-the-top with his belting out of hit songs. Mostly, I was really happy to be there, witnessing this incredible slice of Los Angeles life that, as a miserable teenager in a tiny, cold town in Massachusetts, I never would have thought I’d be a part of.
At the end of the night, my wife and I said our goodbyes and well-wishes to the newlyweds, then headed out to retrieve our car from the valets. As we approached the waiting area, Dean McDermott was walking back toward the ballroom. As the Missus and I were waiting for our car, one of the valets parked a very fine German automobile in front of us. I shook my head at an approaching valet, who then turned to the driver and said, “Whose car is this?” The driver replied, “Some dude’s. He went to get his wife.” The valet rolled his eyes and gave out a slightly annoyed, “Hhmmff.”
My wife and I looked at each other knowingly. I secretly wished our car would be delayed until the Big Celeb Departure, during which both valets would probably wear big OOPS facial expressions that come with referring to Dean McDermott as “Some Dude” and Tori Spelling as “His Wife.” However, our car arrived moments later, so we missed it. As we drove home on Sunset Boulevard in our medium-fine German automobile, I was filled with wonder and amusement at the city I now call home. Los Angeles; a city where all walks of good folks can celebrate together at legendary hotels, with r&b bands singing Hava Nagila, under the same roof that housed Marilyn Monroe and Morrissey. I love you, Los Angeles. I really do.
Edited by Alix Krijgsman
