Larry Dean Embry (1958-2013) Catrancher Studios (The Skid Row Years)

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Larry would say it many times in the years after 9/11.

“It was like someone flipped a light switch”.

I was holding my head in my hands the night our rightfully elected president Al Gore conceded the presidency to the man who stole it, George Bush. I possessed a terrible wisdom. I didn’t know what would happen to the country next, I just knew it would be bad. The galactic polemics of The Star Wars saga finally made sense. There was indeed a dark force after all.

Larry was not a political junkie like I was. He didn’t see what the big deal was. Does it really matter who is in charge? They’re all controlled by the same people anyway. America is idiot proof isn’t it? His attempts to talk me down did no good. I knew the world was in for a rough ride.

I couldn’t have predicted 9/11. But that was the catalyst for all the shit that came down after. Larry got up to speed pretty fast on his politics. Before, our marathon phone conversations revolved around our favorite bands, gossip about fellow musicians and guitars. Now we talked about the fate of the nation and it’s citizenry. And, Larry’s crumbling empire.

Specifically, the time marker Larry repeatedly cited was the Iraqi war. His phone stopped ringing at that point. For some reason, a trillion dollar credit card war in Afghanistan wasn’t enough. A second was initiated in Iraq to assure us that “we would get em’ over there, before they came over here”. However, even in personal crisis Larry maintained his famous sense of humor when he described the blind fever of war, stoked by the images of undernourished Arab men struggling – hand over hand- across a playground monkey bar every night on the network news.

Catrancher was a more appropriate name for Larry’s business than he ever anticipated. Because it seemed he really did have nine lives when it came to the plate spinning act he executed keeping his doors open and a roof over his head. The utility bills were number one priority at a post-production facility. If the lights go out, so do the computers that generated the income to pay for everything else. So the electricity was paid. Even if it meant an entire day of rationed frozen vegetables. Because, that’s what a single dollar could buy.

He negotiated extensions on his monthly lease payments with his landlord. Somehow a client would come through or the necessary guitars would get pawned to stave off eviction. Sometimes Larry would be holding as many as 15 tickets at a time.

Sometimes, I would delicately broach the subject of a scaled back lifestyle. Perhaps consolidating his massive guitar arsenal to the essentials or moving his base of operations to a more affordable house or apartment. Out of the question. Larry had created his own unique kingdom. He would rather sit on the throne of his castle and eat frozen vegetables rather than dine on lobster and caviar on a futon in a studio apartment in The Valley.

Finally the day came when the plates could be spun no longer and started crashing to the ground. Larry’s funds and his landlord’s patience evaporated at the same instant. Things were looking very bleak, but Larry’s guardian angel came through once again in the form of a lump sum inheritance. Not a fortune but enough to secure a lease for a new workspace. The only question remaining was where would Larry relocate to. I was hoping The Valley or maybe North Hollywood so we could get together more often.

Larry was always full of surprises. But, nobody was ready for his choice of landscape…Downtown Los Angeles. More specifically…, Skid Row.

What’s in a name? Certainly Skid Row was the last stop on the alcohol and drug fueled homeless express. But, in recent years it has increasingly become a preferred destination for urbanite renters looking for downtown cache and cheap, spacious housing. It’s probably coincidence that Larry’s move to Skid Row marked the beginning of the most difficult part of his life. And in some ways, his most rewarding. However, the bad luck started right away.

In point of fact, his new residence was a couple blocks away from the nocturnal tent city for the homeless and dispossessed. But definitely inside the loose boundaries that defined Skid Row. He found a very hip loft space on a secluded dead end street where meter-maids feared to tread. The space itself was a single gigantic room with a 20 foot ceiling and a skylight. The room had an alcove for bookshelves or a bed. All in all it was a satisfactory space for living and work: with enough square footage to warehouse Larry’s guitars, drums, keyboards, audio equipment, books, cd’s, vinyl records, sheet-music, computers, video monitors, guitar miniatures, antique kitchenware and various soulful ephemera too exotic and numerous to remember.

The landlord assured Larry that late night sound editing was no problem in this remote part of town. One problem…. Somebody forgot to ask the neighbors.

Dominic, myself and our Parisian friend Cyril gathered at Larry’s for our annual April reunion. Jamming at Larry’s was always part of the schedule of events for these visits. Just as we got started Larry suddenly got up and left. When he returned, he looked agitated and disappointed. His fellow loft dweller who occupied the same floor was trying to study and said the music was audible at concert volume in his residence. Apparently the walls were paper thin and without insulation. Landlord’s assurances be damned, Larry would have to sound-proof his space if he was to stay. In view of the fact it was a single room with a cathedral height ceiling, the cost would be astronomical. Larry would have to move… again. His next destination? Incredibly he chose to stay on Skid Row. Not just the district, but right smack dab in the middle of tent city across from the rescue mission.

Larry loved living downtown. I kind of understood. I always had a romantic fascination with the grimy anti-beauty that clung to the steamy underbelly of any major city. I appreciated the stark beauty of the L.A. River at night looking towards Union Station and the concrete canyons. I appreciated it in the abstract. However, living there was a whole different reality. How or why he thought potential clients would brave the journey remains a mystery to me.

My first visit to his new abode was a severe education. My naive visualization of Skid Row was of a dark, noir waste land. Deserted, except for a handful of homeless loiterers leaning against lampposts or propped up by cold brick buildings; swigging from a bottle concealed by a paper bag. The reality assaulted my senses and sensibilities to the core.

The sheer scale hits you first. Blocks and blocks thick with homeless, ill, and discarded humanity. The upper crust of this subculture have pup tents to sleep in for the night. The middle class have ingenious cardboard structures. The bottom rung simply sleep on the sidewalk in sleeping bags or filthy blankets. In the morning authorities clear out the area so commuters and business people can move about freely and conduct their 9 to 5 imperatives unmolested. Then at dusk, after the commuters have abandoned the city for the safety of the suburbs, the nomadic underclass recaptures the streets again. A human ebb and flow as relentless and unstoppable as the tides.

The smell is what hits you next. The unmistakable funk of feces and urine. Larry described it as smelling like a barnyard. Perhaps, but a barnyard that includes the stench of human desperation.

Larry had no parking facilities adjacent to his building. We would park in the lot of a local dive bar and walk three city blocks to his building entrance. The drill was simple, Dom, Cyril and myself would maintain a tight formation and walk fast, people would stop, turn, gawk. If they tried to engage you in conversation you pleasantly bade them good evening and walked faster. Sometimes epithets would be hurled at your back. Luckily for us, poverty meant undernourishment and its accompanying weakness. Three well nourished, sober males could probably fend off any spontaneous physical threat, providing no weapons were brandished.

Once safely inside Larry’s new sanctuary, one could not help but be impressed. It was a huge space with large rooms and alcoves. A skateboard half-pipe occupied the main room that would soon be mutilated to form a concert hall with an elevated stage. A separate area had enough room for a large studio and adjoining control booth that could accomadate the playback needs of an entire band. A walk up to the roof gave you a panoramic 360 view of the city including a breathtaking view of the skyline. Great place to create, jam or hang. But, only one floor below, a churning river of broken spirits.

It was at this point in our friendship that we drifted apart. It happens with age and circumstance. I got married to a wonderful woman and moved north to Thousand Oaks. The greenery, wildlife, slow growth and civility was the polar opposite to Larry’s choice of habitat. The economy hit us hard as well. It was a struggle to maintain a house, kids, and animals in an upscale California community. Various familial calamities and illnesses further monopolized my attentions and energies. Visits with Larry became annual events. Gaps between our marathon phone conversations stretched from days to weeks, to months. We talked about recording again wistfully; realizing it would probably never happen, which sadly it didn’t.

Larry was a fighter. Not in the physical sense. But in an existential sense. He loved his life and the world he was creating. But, he started to have bad luck and bad health. He would fight back courageously and (sometimes) miraculously. However as mentally tough as he was, his personality softened with age. In his youth he was a rock with sharp edges and a hard surfaces. The last few years of his life had weathered him smooth. He seemed full of love and acceptance and increasingly concerned about maintaining a strict karmic code of conduct. I no longer attended his parties, but through the miracle of social networking, I witnessed his new circle of friends and acolytes. He seemed to be building a community. An unlikely oasis of light, art and hope in the desert of negativity that was Skid Row. He asked me to write a profile on his studio. I did. I spent a lot of time and love on it. I hoped a lot of famous musicians would read about Catrancher Studios and make Larry rich. It didn’t happen but Larry was thrilled with the article anyway.

Even as our phone sessions became more infrequent, we kept up with each other on Facebook. He would post videos of happenings at a new club in his complex called The Tempered Plug. He would also post pictures of any new acquisition. After, acquiring all the main food groups in the guitar and stringed instrument world, he turned his attention to keyboards. He was surviving well apparently. Pianos, Pipe Organs, Hammonds, Synthesizers, Harmoniums, Pump Organs, Clavinets. Going to his place was like going to a museum. He had gone beyond the simple concept of creating a music studio. He was creating his own universe and an alternate reality to a world where the currency of music was devalued to nothing.

Larry had battled back from a serious motorcycle accident when his timeline went silent again for a few days. News finally came in a message from his sister that he was in the hospital with a serious illness. When the illness was identified, it chilled me to my core. Pancreatitis. Again, I found myself in possession of a terrible knowledge I did not want.

In short, I suffered as a caregiver with a close family member who suffered from the same disease. Few people (or doctors) fully understand it and the fact that it’s NOT cancer disarms people. It’s an ugly, remorseless disease. A drinkers disease. And, ironically, the two people I knew who had it weren’t drinkers. Fortunately my family member had health care that gave her access to the finest specialists in the world at Cedars Sinai. Larry tragically didn’t. I shared what knowledge and advice I could with Larry and his sisters and tried to maintain hope.

Dominic, Cyril and I made our annual pilgramge to Larry’s place April of this year per our custom. Larry sat us down and with his formidable storytelling skill told us the chronology of his illness and hospitalization. It was a harrowing story and a scathing indictment of our public services system. Larry was dehumanized by paramedics and emergency personnel. However, once he was hospitalized he had only praise for the doctors and nurses who tried their best to take care of him and keep him alive. At one point in the story, he broke into tears. I had never seen Larry cry in my life. He was a lion of a man. Now he looked old and vulnerable. The more he told me, the sadder I became. I knew too much. A terrible knowledge. I went into denial like most people do. Maybe Larry would pull another rabbit out of his hat. Maybe the doctors at L.A. County got it all wrong.

We all smoked a bit. Larry abstained. He showed us his new keyboards like a proud papa. He told me he would just walk around at all hours of the night from room to room and play different instruments as a meditative therapy. Larry showed me a Mexican 12 string bass he had just acquired for a paltry 71 dollars. He said he would buy one for me. I didn’t know what to say. Then we jammed. Larry played Hammond organ and we all locked in for a few minutes of telepathic synchronicity. Larry called out to me…..”Dale, I feel better, the music is healing me…” My heart was breaking.

If there was any silver lining it was the fact that Larry was not concerned with money during this difficult time. An admiring (and affluent) filmmaker had him on a 3000 dollar a month retainer for services and to reserve his unique loft space for location shoots. His rental had also been reduced when it was discovered he was getting ripped off on his rent by a scoundrel who was subleasing the space to Larry at an exorbitant rate without the owners knowledge. At this particular time of crisis karma swooped in to take care of his basic human needs and put part of his mind to rest.

Eventually it was time to go. Hugs were exchanged. Love was expressed. Larry was smiling and chatting like his old self. We walked out the door. I was trailing behind the others. There was nobody standing between me and Larry as I looked back. It was tough walking away. There was a gravitational pull. Larry wasn’t in a hurry to close the door. He was standing at the portal leading to the amazing world he created. The world he loved. A world that was totally him. I was struggling to keep any thought of finality out of my mind. He said something as I was walking and looking back. I can’t remember what it was. But, he was smiling. It was the last time I saw him alive. A big smile. He was happy……

Larry Dean Embry (1958-2013) The Catrancher Years (Hollywood)

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Larry’s accelerated learning curve at 38 Fresh Studios gave him the requisite tools to begin his career as a freelance sound engineer. At 38 Fresh he did Hip-Hop sessions, commercials, jingles, knock-offs, voiceovers, musical artists….anything thrown his way. He found a funky but unique 3 bedroom upstairs apartment on Beachwood Dr. in central Hollywood, not far from 38 Fresh. The rent was a very manageable 800 dollars a month. I helped him move in. He sure had a lot of stuff… It was old Hollywood all the way. It had old hardwood floors that were common to the golden age which paired nicely with  Spanish styled archways . His living room opened up to a veranda that gave him a kings-eye view of the street leading to Santa Monica Blvd. From here he could enjoy his coffee, bread dipped in olive oil (one of his favorite repasts) and the occasional joint. He was a good neighbor; respectfully waving “good evening” to the transgender prostitutes as they walked past his apartment towards Santa Monica Blvd. to their appointed rounds. Those in the neighborhood not engaged in carnal careerism were (for the most part) hardworking Latino families. Salt of the earth folk whose kids were never shooed away from Larry’s porch.

This was a happy time for Larry. He was slowly but surely gathering a client base. Some of which were kooky, offbeat, but ultimately harmless Hollywood characters. Larry soon realized being solely an audio engineer was of limited potential in an era of home studios and declining record sales. So he adapted his skills and became a post-production specialist. In the exploding media culture there was a need for skilled machinists who could clean up dodgy audio, add special audio effects to mask ambient artifacts and could quickly do “lay-backs”; a skill requiring the engineer to match separate video and audio tracks and merge them together seemlessly. It was grunt work, but it was plentiful and to quote Larry, “the money was green.”

Larry entertained a lot during this period. His Christmas parties were always eagerly anticipated. New friends merged with old. Booze and weed were in abundance and Larry would spend the entire day cooking and baking greek pastries from scratch. Larry was well travelled and had a Euro sensibility. If you are going to invite people to your home, you don’t buy a bag of chips and a keg of Bud. You cook and express your love and appreciation for their kinship from the heart and from the hearth. Music would be provided by party attendees or would issue forth from a very large vintage console record player. Vinyl only. Young and old would marvel and play DJ with Larry’s exotic record collection. His favorite moment was when a stunning twenty-something Latina female examined one of his records like a bronze-age artifact and exclaimed to her companion, “look! It plays on both sides!” T. Rex sounded especially potent on this ancient sound system and Larry loved to play The Slider as a demonstration record proving the superiority of old-school hi-fi. Life was good and Larry was optimistic about the future. His fabled guitar collection could still squeeze within the confines of a spare bedroom (Though not for long).

Larry was a man of the people. Many would have considered Beechwood a run-down neighborhood, Larry embraced it with open arms. In fact two of the neighbor girls (Mayra and Brenda)  adopted him as their uncle, and remained in contact with him into their adulthood until his death. I’m sure he would have gladly stayed there indefinitely. However, an odious new landlord appeared on the scene bent on gentrification. And, after an uncomfortable transition period, Larry reluctantly moved.

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He didn’t move far. He decided he needed a proper business environment in a commercially zoned location in an area referred to as post-production row. He found a comfy if slightly run down upstairs office complex on Seward St. The building was covered in Ivy and had a dramatic steep stairway leading up to the front door. It had wow factor but it wasn’t a home. Larry lived there anyway and showered at the gym for some time before he could earn the money and free time to install a shower. It was a bachelors’ existence to be sure, with bathroom and kitchen facilities uncomfortably co-mingled. But I enjoyed going there and we sporadically re-kindled our artist-producer relationship. However, inexplicably, Larry seemed to have drifted far from his own muse. Preferring to produce and enable other artists instead.

The most enjoyable recording session I ever experienced was at Catrancher. Dominic was working the mixing board that night so Larry was free to unleash his inner Andrew Loog Oldham and engage in some unorthodox production techniques. One of which, was to shove a loaded hash pipe in my face at regular intervals. He would then hand me a guitar of his choosing and fiddle and swap stomp boxes at my feet experimenting with sounds. He would shout instructions and encouragement from the kitchen; such as, “Cool Dale, keep playing that John Cippolina shit!” The song ended up on my second CD. Larry knew what he was doing. I never played a better guitar solo in the studio than I did that night…or had more fun.

Larry could be stubborn and intractable, but could also evolve and change at the same time. It was interesting to me that when he was an alpha blue-collar house painter he was a self-described ‘dog person’. However, when he crossed over into being an hermetic, bespectacled studio mole, he chose the company of the most Zen species of domestic companions, the cat. In turn he christened his burgeoning empire, CATRANCHER STUDIOS.

With no distractions and the tools and work ethic to succeed, Larry got stuck in and started doing well. Really well….

Larry was starting to get more work than he could handle. He didn’t price gouge and he didn’t come cheap either. He told me one year that he grossed a quarter of a million. He later joked that he would many times turn down a 1000 dollar evening of work, prefering to ‘light up’ and watch a shopworn VHS of one of his favorite movies of all time, “Ed Wood”. I think he watched it every day for a month straight. His guitar and music accessory arsenal grew at a frightening pace in direct proportion to his increasing work load. He planned to bring in another engineer with an eye to expanding the business further and possibly subcontracting work. We discussed his run of winning cards and I cautioned him he should put money away in case the cash flow should stop. His answer was always the same…..”Why would it stop?”

……Then George Bush happened.

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Midnight Sun (Champaign Lullaby) is my most Larry influenced song. I wrote it in his music room on one of his baritone ukes when I was house-sitting at his Beechwood apartment. Years later I would record it at CATRANCER with Larry very much in charge of the sound and production. From this day forward the chorus line:

“Life is the sum of all things begun and left undone”, will always remind me of him.

My desire is to memorialize the memory and fascinating life and work of Larry Dean Embry, not my music. However, the Midnight Sun session was captured on film by my wife Renee. Larry and Catrancher are featured prominently. Renee insisted on filming the session. I protested that recording sessions tended to be tedious and repetitive endeavors and there wasn’t much to capture. I’m glad she ignored me. Here is our humble film called “The Making Of Midnight Sun”.

Larry Dean Embry (1958-2013) The 38 Fresh Years

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Larry spent his early adult years sustaining himself as a house painter. As time wore on, Larry eventually realized that his mental and physical health would require a career course correction ASAP. His last big project was a recording studio in central Hollywood called 38 Fresh Studios. Larry really pulled out all the stops and did beautiful job designing, painting and renovating the interior of the facility.

Larry had the keys to the complex and the owner was very impressed and grateful for Larry’s efforts. The owner advised Larry to go ahead keep the keys to the studio with the proviso he bring in some clients. It’s unclear if Larry negotiated an apprenticeship or oversold his engineering abilities. All I know is, I got an impassioned phone call from Larry telling me he needed a musical lab-rat post haste to help him get up to speed on the science of sound engineering and record production. So we struck a high-powered “production deal”. I would pay Larry the princely sum of seven dollars an hour, and he would produce and engineer three of my songs. I would have three songs memorialized at a 24-track ‘state of the art facility’ for a pittance and for posterity.

Three tracks turned into 16. My first album as well as an EP were recorded with Larry at the helm. Larry was also recording his music there and compiled an album’s worth of material. He also engineered pick-up sessions to fill in the gaps. 38 Fresh Studios became the focal point of our lives in the last few peace and prosperity years of the 20th century. The sweat and creativity he would lavish on his own songs would creep into my sessions and vice versa. I played on his songs and  he played on mine. I was in the September of my life and he was 4 years my junior. Minutes and hours were productive and packed with activity. When we weren’t recording at 38 Fresh, we are on the phone talking about our projects. The hundreds of hours spent together at 38 Fresh arc welded us together in friendship. I was the fussy, perfectionist Virgo and he was a dynamic Gemini. The sparks would fly and words would get exchanged. Feelings got hurt. But, a brisk “I’m sorry”, a clap on the shoulder, and a late-nite Margarita break would set us back on course. Many times, it seemed Larry was more committed and passionate about my album than I was.

To say our sessions were fully sanctioned would be an untruth. 38 Fresh paid the bills by producing the music for Bill Nye The Science Guy and Cypress Hill among others (including the immortal Sandra Bernhardt and The Strap-Ons).  I would sit by the ‘bat phone’ in the evening and would wait for the “all clear” from Larry. I managed to trim my nocturnal commute from Castaic to Hollywood down to a neat 37 minutes. We were younger then than now….

Larry would spend his free time on his back under the Trident – B mixing board figuring out the inner workings and trouble shooting. When the sea-changing digital-audio innovation “Pro-Tools” was introduced to the studio Larry mastered the technology with remarkable speed and his conversion from house painter to sound engineer was in full-forward trajectory. Larry was gifted with genius, balls and resolve I clearly did not possess.

During this period, it seemed the imperatives of his living situation required him to spend more time and energy on my music than he did on his own. However, he did create some remarkable works of art during this hot-house phase of his life. His was particularly proud of the song “Sands Of Galilee”. It’s stunning and it re-activated my tear ducts when I played it again recently. Of course it’s poignancy and gravitas is amplified by his recent passing. Larry was not religious. Larry considered himself a pantheist. He was a spiritual man but remained “un-affiliated”. I’m sure being a good mid-western boy, he had more than a passing acquaintance with The Bible. I’m assuming this from the lyrics of this song. However, when he did ‘testify’, he did it with a panache and nuance that few others possessed.

Here then is “Sands of Galilee”. Featuring one of Larry’s greatest guitar moments and the sacramental wine-soaked piano styling of Dominic Bakewell….

Click here>>>>>>>>>>Larry-Dean-Embry/the-Sands-of-Gallilee

Larry Dean Embry – Guitarist/Artist/Producer (1958-2013)

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The Howlers – “All Blues”
Larry Dean Embry (Vocals/Guitar)

 

Click here>>>>> Larry Dean Embry – All Blues

Larry Dean Embry has passed and left a gaping void in my life that I’m still coming to grips with. He would want you to remember him as a guitar player. He was a lot of other things. But, that’s what gave him his swagger and confidence, and was the main road that led to all his other accomplishments, Songwriter, Singer, Engineer, Producer, Studio Owner, Visionary and Rebel. He was also a great and generous friend.

I will be posting videos and music Larry created for the next few days. Until I can find the strength to write a comprehensive tribute to the man.

Here is  Larry’s first vocal on record. I took it off the vinyl LP “The Howlers” . Larry also plays great guitar on it. Also on the track was Garth Hudson (The Band) on Keys, Dominic Bakewell on bass, Rivers McDogg on flute and Joe Sala on Trumpet.

NOTE: The easiest and quickest way to make this track available was to digitize and load it on MY Soundcloud site. IF you see my name associated, that is why…..

Skid Row’s Hidden Place – The Tempered Plug (At Catrancher Studios)

Authored by Dale Nickey:

If you walk down Skid Row in downtown L.A., you will see a desert of  despondency and dementia. However, wafting out of the upper floor over the assembled multitude you will hear music.  Invisible to all below is an oasis of hope and light called Catrancher Studios; equal parts musical laboratory, performance space and church of the muse and mind.  When economics dictate, Catrancher is also a top-notch post-production facility.

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Catrancher is owned and operated by feline impresario Lassie. However, she delegates most technical and musical support to her human Larry.

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Those who make the pilgrimage to Catrancher, will find one of the more alluring features is the 24/7 club cum musical alter, The Tempered Plug. You see, the loft space that currently houses the Catrancher complex came equipped with its very own half-pipe. Apparently the previous resident was an agoraphobic skateboard enthusiast who favored brushing up their kickturns and axie stalls in the comfort of home. A radical half-pipectomy left Catrancher with an impressive elevated bandstand for live music performance.

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However, the attraction of Catrancher and The Tempered Plug is not only the incongruity of the locale,   the space is also a visceral treat for any musician who likes instruments, collectables, and ephemera large and small.  You will find an array of stringed instruments to rival most music shops (sans the ‘don’t touch without assistance’ placards). Additionally, every mundane household item (lamps, ashtrays, clock,  mousepad, thermometer etc….) is a miniature guitar or musical instrument.  And,  if your media of choice is books. You could get lost for years in the Catrancher library of vintage classics.

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If jamming on Don Ho tunes is your plate of poi, grab a slack key Hawaiian guitar off the wall or one of a dozen varieties of ukulele on display.  And, if you really do feel the spirit and want to go all hymnal on somebody’s ass, sit down at a real live pipe organ, harmonium or old school church pump organ. There’s no musical elitism at Catrancher. If you want to grab a bass off the wall and sit in on a more conventional jam, all the better;  just decide if you prefer the four or eight string variety.

If you do attend a performance happening at The Tempered Plug, there are some basic rules of engagement.  The sacrament of music is not bestowed lightly. Loitering in the stairwells to smoke, natter and pose is discouraged. If you’re there, you’re there. You must give the courtesy of your presence.

The homey comforts of The Tempered Plug aside, Catrancher Studios has a more practical reason for its existence.  It’s a recording studio meant to capture and disseminate music of all sorts. Lassie and her human Larry maintain a ‘state of the art’ Pro-Tools facility in order to capture any magic the muse friendly environment of Catrancher might produce. Voice-overs are also a specialty.  Some studios specialize in producing hi-fidelity sounds and do it well.  Catrancher offers the same with extras that cannot be found in any other recording studio in the city.

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There’s a vibe at Catrancher.  People record in New York to catch that city’s energy.  Same is true with New Orleans and San Francisco.  Up until now, L.A. had a sound more associated with the snootier, show-bizzy aspect of the music industry. L.A can now boast an urban, edgy but organic sound that embraces the wildly diverse pallet of indiginous cultural influences. That sound and vibe belongs to Catrancher Studios. Skid Row’s hidden place…..

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View from the roof of Catrancher Studios>>>>>>>

This article remains posted as a tribute to the great Larry Dean Embry who tragically passed away in 2013.