There is always a certain sense of anticipation prior to a Brian Jonestown Massacre performance. The Echoplex on Sept. 2nd was certainly no exception. The feeling is almost one of indulgence, like a child sneaking into their parent’s bedroom while home alone, hoping against hope that they’ll find something juicy to tell their friends. The difference here is that the BJM leave that secret closet drawer unlocked; daring you to open it and see what’s inside. And good God, nary a one has the personal resolve to refuse. In a room full of shoe gazers, stoners, self described intellectuals, yuppies, and every other brand of highly righteous or spiritually deprived, anti-establishment sons of bitches; one almost feels at home amid a haze of fine smelling cannabis which I would wager my first born son to be either Northern Lights or Panama Red.

The Brian Jonestown Massacre is headed by a man named Anton Newcombe. He is somewhat of a polarizing figure considering the fact that many of his friends and band mates insist that he suffers from a God complex. Some are of the persuasion that Anton is little more than a sophomoric fraud who has evolved into a credible musician solely because he hasn’t the brain capacity to succeed at any other endeavor. Indeed, the award winning documentary “Dig” did nothing to refute such claims by including footage of heroine-induced diatribes and other on-stage antics from which the band developed into a sort of underground phenomenon. This is a band, after all, that brawled with itself at the Viper Room some years back during a showcase full of record labels all interested in signing them to a deal. They remained unsigned for the next several months.

Yet underneath all of that infighting (and outfighting; for the BJM has also been involved in endless numbers of physical and verbal confrontations with audience members), there exists a quantitative answer as to why the band continues to flourish in its own little underground universe. And it has everything to do with the sound. One of the saddest realities of Anton’s perpetual self-destruction is the plain and simple fact that he makes singularly magnificent music. Though Anton plays well over 80 instruments ranging from sitars to self described “weird Chinese shit,” the BJM has also housed several musicians of note over the past decade. Members of Black Rebel Motorcycle Club, The Warlocks, Dead Meadow, and even Dandy Warhols frontman Courtney Taylor have been eager to work (and quarrel) with Anton. Prolific to the point of absurdity, BJM recorded “Their Satanic Majesties’ Second Request,” “Take It from the Man,” and “Thank God for Mental Illness,” all full length albums, in 1995 alone.

Leftist to a degree which would make any Bolshevik blush, Anton has always taken issue with others making money off of his music. Centrally speaking, this is the root cause of what can only be described as a lifelong war with record labels; or as he would likely call it, Anton versus Goliath. The irony, of course, being that this Goliath signifies not a barbaric ogre intent on destroying the smaller man, but rather, a surly gatekeeper who refuses admittance into Starland anyone who refuses to surrender his blood, his money, his music, and a proverbial hand job for good measure. Unwilling to sacrifice even a drop of his lifeblood, Anton has made available, for free, all 7 LP’s and 2 EP’s on the band’s website; a heartfelt “fuck you” to every record label who has worked in seeming unison to promote the shitty and stifle the great.

A shirtless (and a little too gaunt) Anton took the stage at the Echoplex along with band mates Frankie Teardrop, Ricky Maymi, Collin Hegna, Daniel Allaire, and Rob Campanella. As the temperature rose, so too did the tension. Several half-hearted taunts from eager fans aroused a friendly discourse laden with expletives. Later in the set, Anton took issue, as he often does, with the performance of one of the others. This time it was the levels of Frankie Teardrop’s guitar while playing a new track off of the band’s upcoming eighth album entitled, “My Bloody Underground.” While glaring at Teardrop, Anton opined, “get it fucking higher or sit the song out like you did last time.”

When all was said and done, the crowd of misfits and soul masochists were treated to a terrific performance of music full of everything one would expect at a Brian Jonestown Massacre show. As this cross section of Los Angeles would no doubt attest, this is one of the best and most subversively important rock bands of a generation; like a modern day Velvet Underground, a group who started a revolution only to get trampled along the way. Love him or hate him, God or fraud, Anton Newcombe and his band are vital pieces, forefathers if you will, to a thriving underground rock scene that calls Los Angeles home.

By Chris Virnig