I’m trying to think of the last time I had been to The Smell. It was so long ago that I nearly forgot to enter through the alley in the back. Maybe I haven’t been here since before the pandemic? The last show I remember seeing at the venerable L.A. DIY space was that dog and Graham Coxon. It was a night hotter than this one, sometime during the summer before the timeline went awry. A lot has changed since 2019. That The Smell still exists says a lot about the venue. I probably should go to shows here more often, but the thing is that, once you hit a certain age, hanging out at an all-age punk venue with no specific purpose can be a little awkward. Like, do I really need people to assume that I’m a mom keeping an eye on her weird kid when I’m still, mentally, the weird kid?
Tonight, though, I have a specific, age-appropriate purpose. I’m going to see HLLLYH, which is the new band spawned from The Mae Shi, who I saw at The Smell more than once back when I was young and downtown was still a ghost town after dark.
The Smell is the exact opposite of what you would expect of a downtown Los Angeles space in 2025. There is no alcohol and no menu of overpriced elevated snacks. There are, however, vegan-friendly concessions at very affordable prices. There is art inside, but it’s not “carefully curated” for your Instagram feed. It’s just there because it’s art and, alongside the band stickers and political signs, it’s part of underground culture.
The venue is linear. It’s long and loosely divided into three different sections. The entrance, back by the alley, is a lobby with a snack stand, a zine collection and tattered couches. It’s one of the few spaces in present-day Los Angeles that resembles a 1990s coffee house. The middle is where bands typically set up merch tables. Then the back space, which is actually the front if you’re looking at the The Smell from Main Street, is the stage. From what I remember, it is always hot in this area, even in the middle of January, even if the crowd is light. It’s this muggy kind of heat that first hits when you’re walking past the bathroom and merch tables. As you get closer to the stage, the heat grows thicker and stickier, as if you’re walking through the memories of every show that had ever taken place here.
Maybe the murals have changed over the years. I notice one of a mod-looking young woman in the show space that looks fresh. (I did Google around while writing this and learned that the mural, by Damsel, is fairly new.) The stickers stuck in various spots around the venue might be new too. IDK. Fartbarf and “Fuck Trump” are as 2016 as they are 2025. The vibe, though, is definitely the same. I run into a friend, another DJ, as soon as I walk in and we talk in the lobby. In between bands, I mention to my friend that the DJ here, Kyle Mabson (from Monday Nights) was playing a song I hadn’t heard out in a while, “Nightcall” from Kavinsky.
I buy a black cherry sparkling water and head into the show area, wondering why I don’t come here more often. I’m definitely not the only grownup in a band t-shirt hanging out, at least tonight. The Smell has been around since I was in college and they’ve continued to do their thing despite gentrification, rising cost of living and the algorithmic strangleholds that have made so much nightlife in this city expensive and boring af. The Smell is essential for IRL, local, independent culture and I think it’s a little too easy to forget about that when we spend our days scrolling through feeds dominated by the latest viral trends.
HLLLYH is fantastic. Their debut album, Uruburu, came out earlier this summer and I recommend getting it if you’re looking for something that’s in between pop-punk and art rock. Lyrically, it captures a world that feels both real and unreal, which is all-too-appropriate for this decade. Their set (which includes my own favorites from the album, “Flex It, Tagger” and “Black Rainbows”) is raw and high energy. I bop around in the front until the heat feels too oppressive. I should have known better than to wear a cardigan tonight. I shove the sweater in my bag and sneak off to the back where it’s less sweaty. Then I head back up to the front and bop around some more.
After the show, I stop by the Grand Star for Decadanse. Outside the club, in Central Plaza, is one of those events I can really only describe as a boujee rave. These are the high-priced dance parties organized by various different promoters that are usually headlined by a Beatport-famous DJ who plays completely unnecessary house remixes of songs you know. They’re the kind of events a marketing person would describe, without irony, as an “immersive experience,” not because you are at a physical place instead of looking at pictures of one on your phone, but because said physical space is reconfigured for maximum social media engagement. Really, it’s the embodiment of everything about Insta-era nightlife that makes me want to vomit.
I don’t know who is headlining tonight’s boujee rave and don’t particularly care. I’m just really annoyed by the Kylie soundalike vocals (are those live?) on a remix/cover of “Can’t Get You Out of My Head” that does not need to exist. In what timeline is it a good idea to make a new version that sounds nearly identical to the old version except that the new singer sounds like the karaoke version of the pop star whose old version is one of her signature songs? Oh, yeah, this one, where content for the sake of gaming algorithms has nearly replaced actual creativity. Dear reader, this is the real reason why AI will take over the world and, if you don’t want that to happen, you have to resist the bullshit.
But, there are still pockets where it feels like IRL still means something, like at The Smell, or inside the Grand Star during Decadanse. Fifi LaRoux drops Images song “Les démons de minuit” right as I’m about to hit the dance floor. Wikipedia says it was a big hit in France and is still popular there, but I’m an American who has never been to Europe, so the only reason I know this song exists is because I hear it at Decadanse. And, every single time I hear it, the song’s big, dramatic chorus that I cannot understand, get stuck in my head.
I only stay long enough to dance to a few songs played on vinyl and wonder what movie was playing on the TV. Then I remember that I have two assignments due on Monday and probably shouldn’t have gone out at all, so I call it a night.
Liz O. is an L.A.-based writer and DJ. Read her recently published work and check out her upcoming gigs or listen to the latest Beatique Mix. Follow on Instagram or Bluesky for more updates.
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