Steve Allen Theater visited - and revisited

Ever since I moved to Pasadena I have heard people - mainly the singer and performer Ian Whitcomb, it must be admitted - talking about the Steve Allen Theater in Hollywood, but I never bothered making a special journey there, reckoning it would happen soon enough anyway. This week I've been twice in three days, and I shall definitely visit it more often.
SAT, as I shall refer to it throughout, is at the other end of Hollywood Boulevard from the Kodak, Chinese and Egyptian theaters, both physically and culturally. Few tourists even pass it, let alone regard it as a destination and, of those that do, virtually all will be Americans. It just doesn't make it onto the European guide books unless you are a committed rationalist or humanist. Why? Because it is owned by the Center For Inquiry - West, a New York-based not-for-profit educational
organization established to promote and defend reason, science, and freedom
of inquiry in all areas of human endeavour. (Isn't cut-and-paste a wonderful invention?)
The theater was opened four years ago and dedicated to Steve Allen, an eclectic choice on the face of it as he was a comedian who got TV talk shows started in the 1950s. But, off stage, he was a great sceptic and supporter of the center - presumably giving his scepticism a rest whenever this worthy organisation was mentioned. He died after a car accident in 2000, just when the CFI thinking about raising the money for a west-coast base.
I suspect the theater was incorporated into the plan to give the CFI additional income: it also rents out part of the offices on the upper floor to the LA Press Club. The result suggests that cash was not abundant when the center was built: it resembles the minimalist design so beloved of UK local authority equivalents. The 70-seat auditorium is on the ground floor, occupying about half the space. The rest is given over to a book shop and an open area for receptions that doubles as the foyer when the theater is operating. Just below the ceiling is a frieze commemorating famous rationalists from Bertrand Russell to Tom Paine.
My Tuesday visit was inspired by my friend Jim Dawson's wish to research material for his forthcoming book on the word Motherfucker. We started at Salomi, an Indian restaurant on Lankershim Boulevard in North Hollywood as part of the ongoing search for acceptable LA curry houses, and this one qualifies. The onion bahji was again bland, but I think we might be able to repair that defect as the boss spent several years working in Brick Lane, so knows British taste. Brinjal bahji, dal tarka, pilau rice, poppadoms and naan were all good and the menu featured vindaloos and jalfrezis - none vegetarian, but again I think there will be scope for negotiation.
Then it was down the Hollywood Freeway to the SAT, which we found only after going round the block a couple of times as I was expecting a more conventional theater frontage, Instead there is only a modest neon sign advertising the CFI, which I didn't know had anything to do with it. But at least there is plenty of parking at the back and I unwittingly went in the back door thus avoiding the cash desk - it's that sort of place, fairly easygoing, bordering on the slapdash, but I happily parted with the $10 fee (no tickets issued, so no door check).
The show was, like a lot of the SAT content, a regular monthly event called Girly Magazine Party. The idea is that a Hugh Hefner-like character, who publishes a magazine called Jaunt and lives at the Jaunt Chateau, is hosting a live recording of a TV show, creating the vehicle for a series of disconnected stand-up comics linked by the host and a warm-up guy. The mood is realistically set in the foyer by a couple of saucily-clad girls handing out free snacks and champagne, so you can get your $10 worth before you even sit down.
Apart from the comedians, the acts include a grinning dressing-gowned lothario who allegedly appears in Jaunt's porno movies, and a brilliant mime who gradually gets drunk and ends up puking all over the stage. It's that kind of show. The act we had come to see apparently had his time cut very short, so did little more than get his ventriloquist's dummy to say Motherfucker over and over again. A bit disappointing, but the Hefner character was excellent - just the right amount of outdated male chauvinism and philistine ignorance of anything artistic, and he even had a Hefnerish oversized pipe to give him some mock dignity. An anarchic evening, and good fun.
Last night was very different: the Press Club Christmas, sorry Holiday, Party. The mixture of journos could have walked straight out of the London Press Club in its heyday, wearing the whole gamut of outfits from suits and ties to scruffy jeans and torn leather jackets, although the women were generally dressed fairly conventionally. Sandwiches, sushi, cheese-and-biscuits and cookies were served free (the ginger cookies were particularly good).
The main entertainment was a rock band from the LA Times called Blue Cube. It wasn't bad for an amateur band, with one exception - the business editor, John Corrigan, on lead guitar, who was in a different league. He had no showmanship, disdained a mike even for backing vocals, just concentrated on some really terrific finger work - ok, not Eric Clapton, but he wouldn't be put to shame by the great man. He stood to one side of the stage, as if he was hardly part of the band, and let them do their thing, then would come in with some fantastic riff which would make what the other were up to completely irrelevant.
This, however, cut no ice with the rank and file. I don't know what they were expecting from a rock band, but as soon as the gig began the theater emptied. When it finished two hours later the rest of the party were huddled outside in the patio - presumably so they could smoke and hear themselves speak, but it was freezing out there. Only in LA? No, but it seemed somehow in keeping with the mood of the party.
Note to UK readers: as the Steve Allen Theater and the Center for Inquiry incorporate the US spelling of theater and center, I have adopted those forms throughout for the sake of consistency. Unadulterated English English will return in future blogs.