A dive bar that opened in 1935 and never once got renovated into something nicer is a rarer thing in this city than a good venue. The Ken has both problems solved by simply refusing to change.
Soft Vein bring their minimal wave down from Orange County the night after playing Santa Ana, which is how bands at this level tour — two cities, two nights, a van, and the assumption that the forty people who care in each place will turn up. They do. The Ken's back room is small enough that the drum machine sounds like it is in the room with you, because it is.
Ten at night on Friday the thirteenth of November, up on Adams Avenue.
A dive bar that opened in 1935 and never once got renovated into something nicer is a rarer thing in this city than a good venue. The Ken has both problems solved by simply refusing to change.
Soft Vein bring their minimal wave down from Orange County the night after playing Santa Ana, which is how bands at this level tour — two cities, two nights, a van, and the assumption that the forty people who care in each place will turn up. They do. The Ken's back room is small enough that the drum machine sounds like it is in the room with you, because it is.
Ten at night on Friday the thirteenth of November, up on Adams Avenue.
A dive bar that opened in 1935 and never once got renovated into something nicer is a rarer thing in this city than a good venue. The Ken has both problems solved by simply refusing to change.
Soft Vein bring their minimal wave down from Orange County the night after playing Santa Ana, which is how bands at this level tour — two cities, two nights, a van, and the assumption that the forty people who care in each place will turn up. They do. The Ken's back room is small enough that the drum machine sounds like it is in the room with you, because it is.
Ten at night on Friday the thirteenth of November, up on Adams Avenue.