Remembering Brendan Mullin

Remembering Brendan Mullin. Another one bites the dust. One of the most influential contributors to the LA music scene died suddenly this week, one moment on holiday in Ventura, the next, dead of massive stroke. Brendan was a fixture in the club scene and his founding of the legendary Masque club, haven to the earliest stirrings of LA's punk scene, would be enough give him a lifetime's punk cred.

But it was his writing as well, in well-thought-out, modest to a fault accounts of the bands who got their first shots at the Masque or began to build their followings -- X, the Germs...the list goes on and on. Brendan became an historian for a scene... where facts were an afterthought and righteous rowdiness was all. Brendan became an historian for a scene where facts were an afterthought and righteous rowdiness was all.

I met Brendan through mutual friends at the Weekly, then saw him fairly regularly hovering around the edges of various club scenes. It's a beat that takes its toll and gets old fast. It's a beat that takes its toll and gets old fast. But it also had its occasional moments of luminous discovery, of transformation when a middling band who'd been banging around trying to figure out what their sound was, what they wanted to say, why the hell they were still carrying their own amps and instruments to clubs after all these years, might suddenly come together one night and...soar. And on the off-chance that something like that might happen, Brendan invariably seemed to be there, providing his own unobtrusive stamp of approval on the proceedings.

I suppose in the punk world, Brendan was already well into his geezer-hood, but it was easy to forgive and forget when one considered his contributions, his hard-earned badges of dishonor. He was, like many of us with personal investments in the scene, old enough to know better, but too young to quit. That's why it stings to know he got the hook so soon. At least I like to think he was having a good time, off on a lark and enjoying himself when the plug was pulled. Rest in peace, Brendan, and my your ears keep on ringing. RIP.