by Alyssa Ramos
As we sped down Fountain Avenue in my friend’s new BMW M6 with unnecessary bursts of speed and jolts of braking and swerving around cars, EDM music blaring, and the enviable jingling of the seven Cartier Love Lock bracelets on his wrist, I started to wonder if I made the right last minute decision to go to this supposedly secret comedy show.
“This is so far.” He said mundanely, cocking his head to the right to give me a dramatic look while his long black curls bounced around his face.
“I know, when I saw that it was all the way in Hollywood I was like, ummm who’s driving.” I was totally serious, but realized how ridiculous I sounded after I had said it. Luckily any one of my friends would have agreed with me.
He reached for something in the side pocket of his door, and pulled out what I could clearly see, even in the dark, was a silver flask. “Good thing I brought a flask, want some?” He asked, as if it were completely normal and legal to have a flask of whiskey in his car in case of emergency drives over one mile. I shrugged and took it from him, why not? It probably wasn’t safe that he took multiple swigs, but something about his demeanor made me believe that he knew what he was doing. “Where the hell is this place?”
I took out my phone to read the text message with instructions from Sara – there was some secret process we had to go through in order to get in. “She said we have to find some chick holding a red rose on Vine and La Mirada and say the password, “frutata”…there! I see her!” I saw the girl holding the rose, instructing some people on how to get in. “Oh good, there’s valet parking.” He scoffed.
As I opened my door, I saw the people who had just been talking to rose lady now talking to a door guy, who was telling them to do the secret dance to prove that they were invited. They did some weird hop and twirl…..there was no way I was doing that. I looked down the street at the lady with the rose and pointed to the door, she smiled and waved her rose at us, indicating that we could skip the little dance and just go in. Thank god.
We climbed the rickety red velvet steps up to where the music and chatter was coming from, stopping at the top to give our names to the girl with the list. The place is called The Attic for a very good reason…it’s a legitimate attic that looks like it would have been in heavy use as a speakeasy during prohibition. The actual event was called Nickel Club, and had a small stage set up in the back-middle area, surrounded by different types of old fashioned chairs and benches, and a young, suspender-clad jazz band positioned to the right of it. We immediately made our way to the bar on the far right where we luckily spotted Sara and her friends who had already secured a spot past the fifty person long line, with a Moscow Mule, and Jim Bean on the rocks waiting for us.
They had of course saved the bench in the front row, so we took our seats and waited for the show to begin. It was evident that many people were regulars, they were the ones dressed in Gatsby-speakeasy-esque attire, and those who were newbies were filled in on what was going on by the hosts of the evening, whom of which you had to be invited by to attend. There were four comics, all of whom were extremely entertaining, with their jokes emphasized by the occasional help of a drumroll or trumpet snare from the band. In between acts the jazz band would play swanky beats that further enhanced the speakeasy vibe, along with my friend sneaking whiskey pours from his flask into our empty glasses.
The jokes were intelligent and tasteful, thankfully lacking in the sexual joke category, and focusing more on relatable topics like typical LA behavior (“when people come visit and they ask which road is best to take, we say Sunset. Don’t you dare tell them about our sacred Fountain tunnel!”), and worldly matters such as the blasphemous disappearance of Malaysian Flight MH 370. The show only lasted an hour or so, but the intimate crowd, exclusivity, and refreshment of doing something new was well worth it and worthy of a return visit.
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