Like any other average San Diego couple, we were growing a bit tired of double features at the drive-in and watered-down drinks at Swinger clubs, so one recent weekend we took each other to romantic Los Angeles, for Crabby Appleton’s opening and the watered-down drinks at the Whiskey-a-Go-Go. The trip was jammed with contrasts, for while there’s probably no town so tacky in its insensitivity as L.A., and no dive where the patrons work so hard at having a miserable time as the Whiskey, Crabby rose above the smog of ennwi-posturings to glow both with the spirit of kids “Looking for Love” in Southern California and untrammeled American rock ‘n’ roll.

Crabby played to two somewhat disparate crowds on two successive nights: Friday it was the “party” for local press, Names and various sycophants, at which jaded columnists sit glumly and young hotshots like Bangs sometimes drive over a hundred miles to attend, all for what is generally some of the rottenest music on the current promo pad and free drinks from bitchy waitresses. (Ours made us repeat an order for Chivas Regal and water four times, then corrected our pronunciation with a grating snap: “You mean Chee-vus Ree-gul!” Rubes take hives home (rom this town.)