Carnage Asada at The Sardine

By Baraka Noel

Editor’s note: The Sardine has thirteen concerts scheduled over the next four weeks. Find their calendar at thesardinepedro.com RLn sent a reporter to an event at The Sardine this past Friday, Sept. 29.

We found a stretch of quiet sidewalk outside the Sardine on Pacific Avenue, this late-evening calm somehow reminiscent of the hours following a summer rain. Just before eight o’clock, the opening act pulled up and began loading equipment at the worn-in and eclectic neighborhood dive.

Ariann and Sheila tended bar as the trickle of regulars opened up into a steady pour. Rafa, a dapper fedora-clad gentleman, manhandled his amp from the trunk of a classic car, the lot of unpaid roadies and magic men. The Goliath III pulled a balancing act as garage rock wafted from the bar.

Brand new, mint-condition liquor license; struggling musicians lugging gear – a new era for old favorites on Eleventh Street. We were greeted by a tired bouncer, various hobo clown lamps, an array of interesting beards and the stray barside pants-crapping anecdote. What did I hear by the well- “You stepped in your own poo?”

Some black and white film played on the patio as more fedoras and instruments made their way along a narrow passage and the Clash blasted over Bluetooth through living room speakers in the main room. A parade of artistic elders; with recorded crossover bluegrass-pop serenading concertgoers, as the openers handled setting up.

The Mecolodiacs are available online, streaming. I got to hear ’em live – Rafa’s bass, Vince on flute and sax; Wayne’s percussion, with Joe Baiza reigning on guitar. A great little crowded grimy dive show: chaotic blues riffs and jazz sax.

Dim lit smoky cadences, like a college party that forgot to end. Their melodic rhythms collapsing into anarchy from crescendo, then revving back to life.

The enthused cheers and casual camaraderie of a happy crowd, bathing in liquid-funk rhythms bleeding faintly into hip hop. A passionate throng of harbor lifers gyrating to brassy ska-infused funk and bluesed-out bebop riffs. Pink panther-esque at times, laced with noir detective undertones; downshifting to some flute-led, western bandolero tune – like the theme song to a Banderas retro flick. From stuttering wind melodies into staccato percussion.

A crowd of overalls, mustaches and intriguing hairstyles reminiscent of late 80s nostalgia and beach rave culture splashed in flickering lights against Creepshow-postered walls.

Dondo! took the stage next. Fronted by Dez Cadena of Black Flag, in a baseball cap, they announced another appearance at the American Legion; launching into their classic rock warmup. Air thick with echoing feedback and sweat- lurching from skanky punk-fusion to Celtic surf rock, their slender guitarist in black with a skull t-shirt. Somehow familiar murmurs of brit-pop nonchalance flickering in a squeal and hum of post-grunge exuberance – they thrashed, shred and yell-growled over a pedal-wa hum and electric shrieks for a shoegazing crowd.

Fierce urgency of a night past curfew: headbang of the graying mop; late school night

atmosphere over solo cup beers. “I love San Pedro” claimed the band, under wailing melodies; gas station poetry through a pulsing axe and amped-up percussion. Hard drum breaks, a textured wall of strings, bassy cyclone and the banshee’s howl.

Sardine’s headline act, Carnage Asada, patiently claimed their stage. From the opening riffs of Black Trench Coat, crowing fans made their presence known. An opening drum solo invigorated the room – splashy snares. Their lead singer – alternately shy and aggressive, after “years of insanity … still ain’t died [and] … still can’t cry”.

A thrumming rock pulse of Long Beach sound, militaristic rhythms and in-the-pocket haphazard groove. Strutting fanatics of the band, straight out of Thomas Crown Affair. I don’t know where you found yourself Friday, but the scene is alive and well. 

Details: https://www.thesardinepedro.com/
Venue: The Sardine, 1101 S. Pacific Ave., San Pedro