few year

The KnuckleHeadz may just be the thing to save America’s youth. They’re categorized too neatly as a punk band from Whittier, but they’re actually a movement: Southern California’s most raucous self-help program and hardcore band. The members are built like dockworkers and dressed like a deleted scene from “The Warriors”: black-and-green leather vests with a spiky-haired skull back patch. They are also the driving force behind the Punk Rock Fight Club, a Southern California-based organization dedicated to improving young men’s lives through fitness and structure. The rules are as strict as they are simple, and in this topsy-turvy world, truly radical: no hard drugs, no crime, no racists, no abusers. Respect yourself, your brothers and your community.

The KnuckleHeadz achieved a moment of internet fame after hosting a completely unsanctioned show in an unsuspecting McDonald’s for a hundred people. The viral clip of the show is the convenient entry point, but it sells short what the gentlemen have built. Onstage, the KnuckleHeadz are all sweat and spectacle: profanity-laced breakdowns, fans crowd surfing on boogie boards riding a human tide, and the green-and-black army in the pit pulling strangers upright. The absurdity of a fast-food slam pit, bodies and burgers briefly airborne — suggests anarchy. Look closer and you see choreography: Men catching falls, clearing space and enforcing a code. Punk has always promised salvation by noise. The KnuckleHeadz add a footnote: Salvation requires reps, rules and someone mean enough to care. Offstage, they run an infrastructure for staying alive.

The KnuckleHeadz in Whittier

(Dick Slaughter)

Founded in June 2021 by frontman Thomas Telles of Whittier, better known as Knucklehead Tom, and with the help of guitarist and tattooer Steven Arceo, aka Saus, of El Monte, the Punk Rock Fight Club (PRFC) has grown in a few years to six chapters and more than 200 members across Southern California. What started as a tight circle around a band hardened into a movement: discipline for kids who never got it, structure for men who need it, and a community without substance abuse . Prospects earn their way through mornings, sweat and commitment before they’re trusted with the skull back patch. The rules read like a brick wall and function like a doorway.

“I started the club because I wanted to do good in the scene,” Knucklehead Tom said “I wanted to create a tribe where we all supported each other, a family for people from all walks of life, especially those who came from broken homes. I wanted people to know they have somewhere to go and a family they can count on.”

Knucklehead Tom of The KnuckleHeadz puts his mic in to the crowd while performing with the band from Whittier.

(Dick Slaughter)

I first ran into the KnuckleHeadz and a few club members by accident three years ago in a London train station en route to the Rebellion Punk Rock Music Festival in Blackpool, a yearly event featuring more than 300 veteran and emerging bands. They were impossible to miss — part wolf pack, part brotherhood, pure energy. That year the KnuckleHeadz struck a chord with me, not just through their all-in, no-holds-barred performances, but also through their message, their obvious love for one another and their mission to better their community. Since then, I have taken a hard look inside both the band and the club; I visited their gym and attended many of their shows. I have met and talked with families and those the KnuckleHeadz and the club have helped. They have indeed, in many cases, worked miracles. But the guys don’t call them miracles. They call it Tuesday.

“Since we founded Punk Rock Fight Club, we paved way for what we knew was the movement and lifestyle many people in our scene needed,” Arceo said. “We’ve changed so many lives and with that our lives changed as well. We made a family built on brotherhood, loyalty with the camaraderie that can only be achieved through martial arts and punk rock. That’s something many of us grew up without. So to be able to bring this into the world is worth every sacrifice. We’re going on five years strong and will keep going till the day we die.”

The band’s ascent mirrors the spread of the club: a steady climb from underground slots to punk’s biggest stages. They earned a place on the final NOFX show and graduated from Rebellion’s side stage to the festival’s main stage. They’ve organized benefits for causes that don’t trend and for people who can’t afford to be causes. The Punk Rock Museum in Las Vegas recently added a piece of PRFC memorabilia, one of the club’s cuts — a leather vest with the skull back patch — to its collection, a true museum piece that still smells faintly of sweat. Next, KnuckleHeadz prepare for a U.S. run with punk legends GBH, the sort of tour that turns rumor into résumé.

Saus, co-founder of the KnuckleHeadz, wearing the band’s signature vest.

The Whittier dojo, KnuckleHead Martial Arts, is where the KnuckleHeadz code gets practical. It’s where guys run martial arts drills and where the mats serve double duty as community center flooring. During the band’s “F Cancer” benefit for 17-year-old Cesar “Little Cesar” Lopez II, the driveway became an impromptu slam pit. Inside, kids tumbled on the mats while guitars shook the walls. Families brought food, local businesses donated services, and more than $6,000 went toward treatments. In the carnival-like atmosphere outside, Little Cesar grinned and hyped the pit from the sideline, proving that joy, like violence, can be contagious.

One member, Bernard Schindler, 55, of La Mirada, came in after a life of ricochets: rehab, prison, relapse, repeat. The club gave him a schedule first and a future second, and now with the support of the club, he’s been clean and sober for more than two years.

Saus performing with the KnuckleHeadz during a Punk Rock Fight Club benefit show outside the KnuckleHeadz gym in Whittier.

(Dick Slaughter)

“Tom and the Punk Rock Fight Club completely turned my life around,” Schindler said. “It gave me purpose, discipline and a new family of brothers that push me to be better. I went from being a broken down drug addict to the healthiest I’ve ever been mentally, physically and emotionally in the 55 years I’ve been alive.”

Since getting involved with the KnuckleHeadz nearly three years ago, Schindler says he’s gotten closer to his family, including his three sons and his girlfriend, in addition to staying sober. “I can honestly say that I couldn’t have done it without Tom and our God-given club, the Punk Rock Fight Club,” he said.

The bassist known as Knucklehead Randy performs while riding on the shoulders of a fellow club member at a benefit show in Whittier.

(Dick Slaughter)

The PRFC trophy case is full of medals and awards, sure, but the real accomplishments are much quieter and miraculous. There are pay stubs where rap sheets used to be, text threads that start with the question “You good?” at 3:17 a.m., and apartment keys handed over when a kid can’t go home.

Hip-hop synth-punk artist N8NOFACE, now a fixture on lineups from the annual L.A. festival Cruel World tours with Limp Bizkit and Corey Feldman, calls Tom “my brother” and credits that code with keeping him aligned. “I was getting clean, and I’ve always believed that if you follow the right people, it helps you stay on your path,” N8 says. “Tom was about health, about not getting all messed up, about being a fighter and a warrior and taking care of your body first. To find that in punk was very different.”

When asked about his hopes for the future of the band, Tom says, “I just want to keep having fun. We love doing it and are grateful for all the love and support.“ The band is currently playing shows across SoCal with gutter punk legends GBH, including a show Friday at the Ventura Music Hall.

“With the club, I want to keep changing lives. It makes me happy to know that my son Nieko has an army of goodhearted uncles if anything were to happen to me. The righteous men in this club make me so proud.”

That’s the trick. That’s the point. In the noise between those truths, a lot of young men hear something they’ve never believed before: a future they’re allowed to keep.

Slaughter is a photographer and writer who has covered music and culture for countless outlets, including the OC Weekly and L.A. Times. He is a founding member of In Spite Magazine.

PARADISE, Calif. — When Jen Goodlin visited Paradise six months after the 2018 Camp fire, she thought she was saying goodbye.

A town native, Goodlin was living in Colorado with her husband and four children. She wanted to witness the devastation that wiped out 10,700 homes, including the small white cottage where she grew up, and turned the dense forest of her youth into a bleak landscape. But once she arrived, she was surprised at her reaction. She could envision so much more than the burned trees and abandoned businesses around her.

Here, she saw, her family could live on a big piece of land as they’d always wanted. Her husband thought she was crazy, but they ran the numbers, bought a 1.2-acre vacant lot and put a trailer on the property. A few years later, they moved into a new, four-bedroom house.

“It took the fire to bring me home,” said Goodlin, 43, who now runs a local wildfire recovery nonprofit.

Jen Goodlin, executive director of the Rebuild Paradise Foundation, in Paradise, Calif., in June 2024.

(Nic Coury / Associated Press)

Young families like Goodlin’s are coming to Paradise, shifting the town’s demographics away from the retirees who once lived there. Attracted by cheap land — lots cost less than a mid-range car— newcomers can build a larger home on larger parcels for less than buying a house in Chico, a city of 100,000 people 15 miles away.

Though Paradise’s current population is less than half of what it was, the local Little League already has more kids than before the fire.

Nearly a decade of megafire in California has brought profound changes to recovering communities. Paradise has become younger. Some rebuilt areas have become wealthier. Renters and people on fixed incomes have found themselves pushed to more urban locales. Both devastated neighborhoods and fire survivors face an unpredictable future that, given the recent intensity of wildfires in California, many more areas will have to face.

Reminders of fire are inescapable in Paradise, from the roadside signposts that designate evacuation routes to the alarm that blares at noon on the 15th of every month, a test of the system that will tell everyone if they need to flee once again. At the same time, the activity in the town belies the desolation implied by building data that show only 30% of destroyed homes have been replaced. Dog walkers and parents with small children play in refurbished parks. At lunchtime, construction workers in reflective vests gather around taco trucks.

A deer treks over an empty lot as homes continue to be built throughout Paradise years after the Camp fire.

(Robert Gauthier / Los Angeles Times)

Local boosters tout that for every year after the fire, Paradise has been one of the fastest-growing communities in California. Another half-dozen homes are being rebuilt each month, according to a Times data analysis.

But as shown in Paradise, the statistics tell only part of the story. The Times found that of the nearly 22,500 homes lost in the Camp fire and California’s four other most destructive wildfires from 2017 to 2020, just 8,400, or 38%, have been rebuilt.

Given the time that has already passed, it’s unlikely that some places — the forests below the northern Sierra Nevada, parts of the Santa Monica Mountains, pieces of old Shasta County mining towns — ever will have the same number of homes as before. In Paradise, it’s essentially guaranteed. Many returning homeowners purchased their neighbors’ burned out lots to build a larger house or simply expand the size of their property.

Instead of simply repopulating these areas, there has been a subtle shift toward living in more urban communities, especially for renters or homeowners who couldn’t afford to rebuild. In Butte County, disaster relief dollars from both the Camp fire and North Complex fire, which destroyed 1,500 homes in even more rural areas two years later, have been funneled toward affordable housing projects largely in Chico and smaller nearby cities untouched by the blazes. Not one such development has been proposed in the North Complex burn scar.

The rationale is straightforward: More people can be housed more safely and sustainably in cities than in mountainous, fire-prone tracts with little public infrastructure. The urban developments also provide access to grocery stores, public transit and other amenities that give them a higher chance of winning state financing competitions and being completed.

Local officials welcome the investments but feel uneasy about what’s happening. Katie Simmons, deputy chief administrative officer overseeing recovery efforts for Butte County, said many rural fire survivors don’t want to move to the city. She called the new developments “displacement housing” that doesn’t address the needs of those in remote areas who continue to “flounder in disaster-caused homelessness.”

As time wears on, fewer and fewer people find themselves in positions to return, sometimes despite extraordinary efforts to allow them to do so.

Palm trees rising over the vacant lot in November 2020 where Journey’s End Trailer Park once stood in Santa Rosa.

(Genaro Molina / Los Angeles Times)

In Santa Rosa, the 2017 Tubbs fire wiped out Journey’s End, a 162-space mobile home park next to a hospital and the 101 Freeway. A partnership between the landowner, the city and for- and nonprofit developers led to plans for more than 400 apartments on the site, including full replacement of 162 units for low-income seniors.

But it wasn’t until summer 2023 that the first apartments opened. Journey’s End residents, so long as they qualified under the age and income restrictions, could return if they wanted.

Few did. About three dozen expressed interest, 12 initially moved in, six of whom remain.

A lot of her former neighbors from the mobile home park died waiting, said Pat Crisco, 75, one of the Journey’s End residents who came back. Others didn’t want to live in apartments. More had settled elsewhere and didn’t want to uproot themselves again, she said.

Pat Crisco is a former resident of the Journey’s End mobile home park that burned in the Tubbs fire. Crisco is now living in the affordable housing apartment development that was built on the site.

(Robert Gauthier / Los Angeles Times)

The stray cats Crisco used to feed at Journey’s End are gone and when the hot wind blows outside her apartment building she gets the “heebie jeebies.” But she feels great about her decision to return. The location is close to the bus, her doctors and grocery stores.

“This is brand spanking new,” Crisco said. “And everything is very convenient.”

Research shows that communities that rebuild more fully tend to end up wealthier than they used to be. Homeowners who come back are the ones able to afford to navigate the process, and brand-new houses in established areas attract outsiders.

Before the Tubbs fire, Santa Rosa’s Coffey Park subdivision was middle-class, with its tract homes routinely going for around $500,000. Nearly all the 1,300 houses lost have been rebuilt. Residents were astounded recently when they began selling at more than $1 million.

Jeff Okrepkie, 46, a Coffey Park renter who used his insurance payout as a down payment for a new home on his old street, said it’s undeniable that the neighborhood is more upscale now, with amenities hard to find elsewhere.

“This is the cliche, Americana, suburban single-family-detached homes,” Okrepkie said. “It’s 1980s-style lots, 1980s-style streets with 2020s-style houses.”

Jeff Okrepkie outside his rebuilt home, second from left, in the Coffey Park neighborhood of Santa Rosa.

(Eric Risberg / Associated Press)

What’s happening in Paradise and Santa Rosa provide continually evolving answers to weighty questions: When has a community recovered? And what does recovery even mean?

In 2019, Paradise received a $270-million settlement from Pacific Gas & Electric, whose power lines caused the Camp fire. The town is using the money to backfill lost tax revenue. But it won’t last forever.

That’s why local leaders are pushing for a new sewer system as part of an expanded town center to attract restaurants and business that would make more young families want to live there. The lack of one limited the commercial district in the past.

For Paradise officials, recovery is when the community can sustain itself once again.

“It looks like it’s going to serve us for 25 years,” said Colette Curtis, the town’s recovery and economic development director, of the PG&E settlement.

Some residents of communities reshaped by fire have found themselves both drawn and repelled by the place they call home.

Roger and Lindy Brown lived in Paradise with their daughter before the fire and their home burned. Their daughter went to Chico State, and Roger and Lindy moved to Oregon. Roger and Lindy moved back to a rebuilt home near their old one a couple of years ago.

(Robert Gauthier / Los Angeles Times)

Roger and Lindy Brown had lived in Paradise for 12 years when the Camp fire struck. After the blaze, the Browns rented an apartment in Chico so their daughter could finish her last year at Paradise High School, which held classes in a mall and then a warehouse in Chico.

Roger, 60, worked in heating and air conditioning and had to return to the town often. He couldn’t take seeing the burned-out trees, cars and homes. The couple took their insurance money and moved to a small town in Oregon. From a distance, the upkeep on their vacant lot proved to be too much so they sold that too.

But Paradise pulled at them, especially Lindy, 66. Their daughter never left, attending Chico State, where she recently graduated. Some of their friends had rebuilt. To her, Oregon felt lonely. Paradise, she said, was their community.

Tom and Diane Boatright built back their home in the second-fastest time after the Camp fire using a modular homebuilding company.

(Robert Gauthier / Los Angeles Times)

Last year, Roger and Lindy bought a house in Paradise, a newly built, blue, two-bedroom with a white picket fence. The home had all they wanted. Solar power. A large lot. Apple, cherry and peach trees in the back. And they were overwhelmed with the thought of starting from scratch.

They’ve kept a Little Free Library on their lawn stocked with books. In the spring, they traded their extra peaches for eggs from their neighbor’s chickens.

On a recent weekday afternoon, Roger and Lindy stood in their frontyard admiring the finishing touches on their only major construction project. They were replacing some of the landscaping with gravel, a decision that made their home more fire-resistant and cut their insurance costs in half.

Roger still felt unsure about returning. Before the fire, he would go to breakfast with the town’s classic car club every Saturday. The 1971 Chevy Nova Roger had restored was lost in the blaze and the car club was no more.

“It’s never going to be the Paradise it was,” Roger said to Lindy.

His wife turned to him. “It doesn’t have to be,” she said.

There are times when you want a vacation that challenges you. But there are other times when you crave a familiar scene, a traveler’s version of comfort food.

What is it that brings people back to the same destination again and again?

Charlotte Russell, a Manchester-based clinical psychologist and founder/editor of the Travel Psychologist blog, didn’t see value in visiting the same place twice when she was in her 20s, but as she got older, her opinion changed.

Now one of her most frequent destinations is Seville, a short, direct flight from her home airport. However, her travel cadence is strategic. “I don’t want to spoil the connection I have to the place by visiting too frequently,” she says. “For me, once every few years seems to be about ‘right.’” Once there, she savors “the beautiful buildings, the orange trees, the smells and flavors of the food,” enjoying the chance to get to know the culture more deeply than a one-time visitor might.

Then again, Russell acknowledges, maybe we can never truly visit the same place twice.

So says psychology professor Andrew Stevenson in his 2023 book “The Psychology of Travel.” In his view, “places change all the time, and so do we. Yes, we can visit the same location again, but are likely to experience it in a completely different way when visiting again, as the place becomes more meaningful, more full of memories, more vital, each new time we arrive.”

We asked Southern California readers to tell us about their most prized repeat destinations. The answers took us all over — Hawaii, Utah, Arizona, England and Hermosa Beach, for instance — for all sorts of reasons they share with us below.

As a young man, he stood next to Martin Luther King Jr. as he delivered his “I Have A Dream” speech. As a college basketball coach, he blazed a trail for Black coaches and players. As an executive, he was instrumental in signing Michael Jordan to his groundbreaking endorsement deal with Nike.

George Raveling had an impact that stretched far beyond basketball, the sport which he last coached three decades ago at USC. He became a revered figure in the game, not for the number of wins he accumulated over his career, but for his role as a mentor to many.

Raveling, 88, died Monday after a battle with cancer, his family announced.

“There are no words to fully capture what George meant to his family, friends, colleagues, former players, and assistants — and to the world,” the family said in a statement. “He will be profoundly missed, yet his aura, energy, divine presence, and timeless wisdom live on in all those he touched and transformed.”

Raveling coached at USC from 1986 to 1994, the first Black coach to take the helm of the Trojans basketball program. Over his first four seasons at the school, Raveling didn’t experience much success, winning just 38 of USC’s 116 games over that stretch.

Raveling found his stride in the second half of his tenure, taking the Trojans to two straight NCAA tournaments and two NITs after that. But his overall record at USC never broke .500 (115-118). In September 1994, Raveling was in a serious car accident that eventually led him to retire. He suffered nine broken ribs and a collapsed lung and fractured his pelvis and collarbone.

After his coaching career, Raveling joined Nike as the director of grassroots basketball, later rising to the role of director of international basketball.

But his biggest contribution at Nike came out of his relationship with Jordan, whom Raveling had coached as an assistant with the U.S. national team at the 1984 Olympics. Jordan, whose deal with Nike sent the brand into a new stratosphere, credited Raveling for making it happen. In the foreword for Raveling’s book, Jordan called him “a mentor”.

“If not for George, there would be no Air Jordan,” Jordan wrote.

Across the basketball world, similar plaudits came pouring in Tuesday in light of Raveling’s death.

Eric Musselman, USC’s current basketball coach, said Raveling was “not only a Hall of Fame basketball mind but a tremendous person who paved the way on and off the court.”

Former Villanova coach Jay Wright wrote on social media that Raveling was “the finest human being, inspiring mentor, most loyal alum and a thoughtful loving friend.”

Raveling grew up in Washington D.C., during a time of segregation and hardship. His family lived in a two-room apartment above a grocery store, where they shared a bathroom with four other families on the same floor. His father died suddenly when he was 9. His mother suffered a mental health crisis a few years later and spent most of her remaining years in a psychiatric hospital. Raveling left home at 14 to attend a boarding school.

It was at St. Michaels, a mostly white boarding school in Pennsylvania, that Raveling first started playing basketball. He earned a scholarship at Villanova, where he became a captain and later an assistant coach.

But the college experience, he later said, had an even more profound impact on Raveling.

“I’ve always felt like a sprinter who’d slipped at the starting box and was 20 yards behind everybody — I’ve been in a mad dash to catch up with everybody ever since,” Raveling told The Times in 1994. “My mom worked two jobs when I was a kid. There were no books in our house. Nobody envisioned that I’d graduate from college. No one even encouraged me to go to college.”

He’d spend the rest of his life, it seems, trying to make up for lost time.

Raveling was standing just a few feet away from King on the National Mall in Washington D.C. in 1963 as he delivered his famed “I Have A Dream” speech. King actually handed Raveling his copy of the historic speech immediately after he finished.

For decades, Raveling kept it tucked inside of a book, before recounting the story to a journalist. According to Sports Illustrated, a collector later offered Raveling $3 million for his copy of the speech. But he declined and donated it instead to Villanova.

George Raveling was inducted into the Naismith Memorial Basketball Hall of Fame in Springfield, Mass., in 2015.

(Charles Krupa / Associated Press)

Raveling pioneered a path that few Black coaches ever had through his career. He was the first Black coach in the history of the Atlantic Coast Conference when he started as an assistant in 1969. Three years later, at Washington State, he became the first Black coach to lead a Pac-8 (now Pac-12) Conference basketball team.

He coached at Iowa from 1983-86 before being hired at USC. At the time, the Trojans had a roster that included Hank Gathers and Bo Kimble, who were coming off their freshman season. Raveling gave the players a firm deadline to tell him if they planned to remain on the team and when they didn’t he revoked their scholarships. Both went on to star at Loyola Marymount.

Raveling was inducted into the Naismith Basketball Hall of Fame in 2015. But as a “contributor”, not as a coach. Even while he was coaching, Raveling seemed to understand that his role meant more than that.

“Winning basketball games just helps you keep your job,” he told The Times in 1994. “But keeping your job helps you work with these kids about the real challenges of life, which all happen away from the court. I know there’s an enormous demand around here to win. But I don’t want someone to ask me what I accomplished in my life and for me to say that I won this amount of games or took a team to some tournament.

“If all I can say is that I taught a kid how to shoot a jump shot, well, that’s not good enough. These kids come out of underprivileged, inner-city areas, and I’m just wasting my time if I haven’t put something of substance into their lives.”

Last fall, the country singer Parker McCollum played a gig on the south shore of Lake Tahoe — the final date of a lengthy tour behind 2023’s “Never Enough” — then flew directly to New York City to start work on his next album.

“Probably the worst idea,” he says now, looking back at his unrelenting schedule. “I was absolutely cooked when I got there.”

Yet the self-titled LP he ended up making over six days at New York’s storied Power Station studio is almost certainly his best: a set of soulful, slightly scruffy roots-music tunes that hearkens back — after a few years in the polished Nashville hit machine — to McCollum’s days as a Texas-born songwriter aspiring to the creative heights of greats such as Guy Clark, Rodney Crowell and Townes Van Zandt. Produced by Eric Masse and Frank Liddell — the latter known for his work with Miranda Lambert and his wife, Lee Ann Womack — “Parker McCollum” complements moving originals like “Big Sky” (about a lonely guy “born to lose”) and “Sunny Days” (about the irretrievability of the past) with a tender cover of Danny O’Keefe’s “Good Time Charlie’s Got The Blues” and a newly recorded rendition of McCollum’s song “Permanent Headphones,” which he wrote when he was all of 15.

“Parker’s a marketing person’s dream,” Liddell says, referring to the 33-year-old’s rodeo-hero looks. “And what happens in those situations is they usually become more of a marketed product. But I think underneath, he felt he had more to say — to basically confess, ‘This is who I am.’” Liddell laughs. “I tried to talk him out of it.”

McCollum, who grew up in privileged circumstances near Houston and who’s now married with a 10-month-old son named Major, discussed the album on a recent swing through Los Angeles. He wore a fresh pair of jeans and a crisp denim shirt and fiddled with a ZYN canister as we spoke.

I was looking online at your —
Nudes?

At your Instagram. The other day you posted a picture of a box of Uncrustables on a private jet.
That photo was not supposed to make the internet. That was an accident — my fault. I don’t ever post about my plane on the internet.

You’re a grown man. Why Uncrustables?
That’s an adult meal that children are very, very fortunate to get to experience.

Did you know when you finished this record that you’d done something good?
Yes. But I didn’t know that until the last day we were in the studio and we listened to everything, top to bottom. The six days in the studio that we recorded this record, I was s—ing myself: “What the f— have I done? Why did I come to New York and waste all this time and money? This is terrible.” Then on the last day we listened all the way through, and I was like, Finally.

Finally what?
I just felt like I never was as focused and convicted and bought-in as I was on this record. I felt kind of desperate — like, “Am I just gonna keep doing the same thing, or are we gonna go get uncomfortable?”

Why New York?
One reason is that city makes me feel like a rock star. In my head when I was in high school dreaming about being a songwriter or a country singer, I was picturing huge budgets, making badass albums in New York City or L.A., staying in dope hotels — just this fairy tale that you believe in. The other reason is that when you’re cutting records in Nashville, people are leaving at 5 to go pick up their kids, or the label’s stopping by and all this s—. I just wanted to avoid all of that — I didn’t want to record three songs on a Tuesday in June and then record three songs on a Tuesday in August. I wanted to go make a record.

Lot of history at Power Station: Chic, Bruce Springsteen, David Bowie.
John Mayer wrote a song and recorded it in a day there — that song “In Repair,” with him and Charlie Hunter and Steve Jordan. That’s how I found out about the studio years ago. We actually ended up writing a song in the studio: “New York Is On Fire.”

A very John Mayer title.
I wanted to go in the late fall when the trees were changing colors and the air was cool.

Why was Frank Liddell the guy to produce?
I knew if he understood Chris Knight and the songs he had written that he could probably understand me and the songs I had written. I’d made half a record with Jon Randall, who’d produced my last two albums. And I love Jon Randall — he’s one of my closest friends in the world, four No. 1s together, multi-platinum this and multi-platinum that. But I just needed to dig deeper, and Frank was a guy who was down to let the songs do the work.

What do you think would’ve become of the record you were making with Randall?
It would’ve sounded great, and it would’ve had some success. But I don’t know if I would’ve been as emotionally involved as I was with Frank. Frank got a better version of me than Jon did.

What if nobody likes this record?
It’s like the first time I’m totally OK with that.

Country radio moves slowly, which means “What Kinda Man” may end up being a big hit. But it’s not a big hit yet.
It probably won’t be. The only reason that song went to radio is because “Burn It Down” had gone No. 1, and the label wanted another one. I was like, “Fine, go ahead.” I’ve never one time talked with them about what song should go to radio.

On this project.
Ever. I just don’t care. The song that goes to radio is very rarely the best song on the record.

What was the best song on “Never Enough”?
Probably “Too Tight This Time.” It’s slow and sad, which is my specialty.

You recently told Texas Monthly, “I don’t write fun songs. I’ve never really liked them.”
There’s some I like. “Always Be My Baby” by Mariah Carey f—ing slaps. I love feel-good songs. But in country music, feel-good songs are, like, beer-and-truck-and-Friday-night songs, and those have never done anything for me.

“What Kinda Man” is kind of fun.
But I think it’s still well-written. It’s not all the clichés that every song on the radio has in it.

What’s the best song on this album?
“Hope That I’m Enough” or “Solid Country Gold” or “My Worst Enemy” or “My Blue.”

Lot of choices.
I love this record. I don’t think I’ll ever do any better.

Is that a sad thought?
Eh. I don’t know how much longer I’m gonna do it anyways.

Why would you hang it up?
I don’t know that I’m going to. But I don’t think I’m gonna do this till I’m 70. We’ve been doing these stadium shows with George Strait — I think I’m out a lot sooner than him.

You watch Strait’s set?
Every night.

What have you learned from him?
When it comes to George, what I really pay attention to is everything off the stage. No scandals, so unbelievably humble and consistent and under the radar. The way he’s carried himself for 40 years — I don’t think I’ve ever seen anybody else do it that well. I’d love to be the next George Strait off the stage.

I’m not sure his under-the-radar-ness is possible today.
I fight with my team all the time. They’re always trying to get my wife and kid in s—, and I’m like, “They’re not for sale.” I understand I have to be a little bit — it’s just the nature of the business. But at home, that’s the real deal — that ain’t for show.

“I can’t explain how deeply emotional songs make me — it controls my entire being,” McCollum says. “The right song in the right moment is everything to me.”

(Matt Seidel / For The Times)

I’d imagine People magazine would love to do a spread with you and your beautiful wife and your beautiful child.
They offered for the wedding. I was like, “Abso-f—ing-lutely not.” I don’t want anybody to know where I live or what I drive or what I do in my spare time. And nowadays that’s currency — people filming their entire lives. Call me the old man, but I’m trying to go the complete opposite direction of that.

One could argue that your resistance isn’t helpful for your career.
I’m fine with that.

Fine because you’re OK money-wise?
I’m sure that plays into it. But, man, my childhood is in a box in my mom’s attic. And nowadays everybody’s childhood is on the internet for the whole world to see. I’m just not down with that. I don’t want to make money off of showing everybody how great my life is. Because it is f—ing great. I feel like I could make $100 million a year if I was a YouTuber — it’s movie s—. The way it started, the way I came up, the woman I married, the child I had — there’s no holes.

Where does the pain in your music come from?
I’ve thought about that for a long time. I don’t think it’s the entire answer, but I think if your parents divorced when you were little, for the rest of your life there’s gonna be something inside you that’s broken. My parents’ divorce was pretty rowdy, and I remember a lot of it. And I don’t think those things ever fully go away.

How do you think about the relationship between masculinity and stoicism?
It never crosses my mind.

Is your dad a guy who talks about his feelings?
F— no.

Was he scary?
I think he could be. My dad’s the s—. He’s the baddest son of a bitch I’ve ever met in my life.

What image of masculinity do you want to project for your son?
When I think about raising Major, I just want him to want to win. Can fully understand you’re not always going to, but you should always want to, no matter what’s going on. I hope he’s a winner.

When’s the last time you cried?
Actually wasn’t very long ago. A good friend of mine died — Ben Vaughn, who was the president of my publishing company in Nashville. I played “L.A. Freeway,” the Guy Clark song, at his memorial service a couple weeks ago. That got me pretty good.

You said you’re OK if fans don’t like this record.
I don’t need anyone else to like it. I hope that they love it — I hope it hits them right in the f—ing gut and that these songs are the ones they go listen to in 10 years when they want to feel like they did 10 years ago. That’s what music does for me. But I know not everybody feels music as intensely as I do.

Was that true for you as a kid?
Even 6, 7, 8 years old, I’d listen to a song on repeat over and over and over again. I can’t explain how deeply emotional songs make me — it controls my entire being. The right song in the right moment is everything to me. Where I live, there’s a road called River Road, in the Hill Country in Texas. It’s the most gorgeous place you’ve ever been in your life, and I’ll go drive it. I know the exact minute that I should be there in the afternoons at this time of year to catch the light through the trees, and I’ll have the songs I’m gonna play while I’m driving that road.

You know what song you want to hear at a certain bend in the road.
Probably a little psychotic.

Are you one of these guys who wants the towels to hang on the rack just so?
I like things very clean and organized.

Is that because you grew up in that kind of environment or because you grew up in the opposite?
My mom was very clean and organized. But I don’t know — I’ve never one time gone to bed with dirty dishes in the sink. My wife cooks dinner all the time when I’m home, and as soon as we’re done, I do all the dishes and load the dishwasher and wipe the counters down.

You could never just chill and let it go.
No, it’s messy. It’s gross.

Parker McCollum performs at the Stagecoach festival in 2023.

(Allen J. Schaben / Los Angeles Times)

Do people ever interpret your intensity as, “This dude’s kind of a d—?”
People would always tell me I was cocky, and I’d be like, I don’t feel cocky at all. I was raised to have great manners: take my hat off when I meet a lady, look somebody in the eye with a firm handshake, “Yes, ma’am,” “No, ma’am,” “Yes, sir,” “No, sir,” no matter the age or the gender of the person. Manners were such a crazy thing in my childhood — it’s the only way I know how to speak to people. So I’ve always thought it was so weird, in high school, girls would be like, “Oh, you’re so cocky.”

I mean, I’ve seen the “What Kinda Man” video. You obviously know you look cool.
I don’t think that at all. I think I look kind of dumb.

I’m not sure whether to believe you.
I couldn’t be more serious. This is very weird for me to say, but Frank finally put into words what I’ve always felt with every photographer, anybody I’ve ever worked with in the business since I was 19 years old — he said, “This record sounds like Parker’s heart and mind and not his face.” The fact that I’m not 5-foot-7 with a beard and covered in tattoos — it’s like nobody ever thinks that the songs are gonna have any integrity.

Boo-hoo for the pretty boy.
People always called me “Hollywood,” “pretty boy,” all this stuff. I guess it’s better than calling you a f—ing fat-ass. But I’ve never tried to capitalize on that at any point in time. I’ve always just wanted to be a songwriter.

But you know how to dress.
Kind of?

Come on, man — the gold chains, the Lucchese boots.
That’s all to compensate for the fact that I don’t know what the f— to wear. I know I like gold and diamonds. Loved rappers when I was younger. Waylon Jennings wore gold chains and diamonds, Johnny Cash did — they always looked dope. I was always like, I want to do that too.

If the fans’ approval isn’t crucial, whose approval does mean something to you?
George Strait. John Mayer. Steve Earle. My older brother. My dad.

You know Mayer?
We’ve talked on Instagram.

Why is he such a big one for you?
The commitment to the craft, I think, is what I’ve admired so much about him. It’s funny: When I was younger, I always said I was never gonna get married and have kids because I knew John Mayer was never going to, and I really respected how he was just gonna chase whatever it is that he was chasing forever. Then he got into records like “The Search for Everything” and “Sob Rock,” and he kind of hints at the fact that he missed out on that — he wishes he had a wife, wishes he had kids. That really resonated with me. I was like, all right, I don’t want to be 40 and alone. It completely changed my entire perspective on my future.

You played “Courtesy Of The Red, White And Blue” by the late Toby Keith at one of Donald Trump’s inaugural balls in January. What do you like about that song?
I bleed red, white and blue. I’m all about the United States of America — I’m all about what it stands for. A lot of people get turned off by that nowadays. I don’t care — I’m not worried about if you’re patriotic or not. But Toby was a great songwriter, and I love how much he loved his country.

In that Texas Monthly interview, you said you felt it was embarrassing for people to be affected emotionally by an artist’s political affiliation.
Nobody used to talk about it, and now it’s so polarizing. Am I not gonna listen to Neil Young now? I’m gonna listen to Neil Young all the f—ing time.

Why do you think audiences started caring?
Social media and the constant flood of information and political propaganda that people are absorbing around the clock. It’s just so dumb. I’ve got guys in my band and in my crew that are conservative and guys that are liberal. It makes no difference to me.

Of course you knew how your involvement with Trump would be taken.
Think about being 16, wanting to be a country singer, then getting to go play the presidential inauguration. What a crazy honor. There’s not a single president in history who was perfect — not a single one that didn’t do something wrong, not a single one that only did wrong. I just don’t care what people think about that stuff. Everybody feels different about things, and nowadays it’s like two sides of the fence — you either agree with this or you agree with that. I’m not that way.

What do you think happens next for you?
This is the only record I’ve ever made that I didn’t think about that as soon as I walked out of the studio. I have no idea what the next record is gonna be. Not a clue.

If we meet again in two years and you’ve made a record full of trap beats, what would that mean?
Probably that I was on drugs again.

Speaking with musician and producer Adrian Quesada elicits a calming effect, as if a salve has been applied to the people conversing with him. His voice moves and bounces with intrigue and interest, but never catapults itself upward in decibels.

The soothing and entrancing qualities of his disposition mirror that of his latest album, “Boleros Psicodélicos II,” a 12-track sonic field trip through Quesada’s Latin American influences — and a testament to teamwork — that dropped on Friday.

It shouldn’t come as a surprise that the mellow Austin-based musician prefers to kick it in the background, fancying himself more of an Izzy Stradlin than a Slash — despite having his name splashed across his imminent record.

“I always consider myself more of a producer than an artist. Being a solo artist is a very recent thing for me,” Quesada told The Times on a recent sunny day by Echo Park Lake. “It’s really raw and kind of a weird thing for me because it’s not my style to be in the forefront. I just like to make the music. I try to move in silence.”

He managed to maneuver the music industry by flying under the radar up until a few years ago by playing in large ensembles. His former band, Grupo Fantasma, had 10 members; his mid-2000s Latin-funk group Brownout was also a dectet; and his Grammy-winning group, Black Pumas, had seven (sometimes eight) members. While he obscured himself physically, his musicianship and production skill always stood out.

Grupo Fantasma’s “El Existential” won a Grammy for Latin rock or alternative album in 2011. Black Pumas were nominated in the new artist category in 2020, then received three more Grammy nods in 2021 — which included record of the year for the track “Colors” and album of the year for the group’s eponymous album. Black Pumas also nabbed two Grammy nominations in 2022 and another one in 2024.

Quesada embarked on his journey as a solo artist with “Boleros Psicodélicos” — the spiritual precursor to his latest album. It featured covers of boleros from across Latin America, as well as original material, with Quesada enlisting artists such as iLe from Calle 13, Mireya Ramos and Gaby Moreno to lend their voices to the project.

The Times called that 2022 album a “tropical mystery-thriller of a record,” imbued with a “crispy, 1960s psych-rock feel [that] … sets the scene for Latin indie’s best and brightest vocalists to truly sparkle.”

“Boleros II” finds Quesada as aurally slick as ever as he tackles the oft-covered romantic Spanish standard “Cuatro Vidas,” plus Los Pasteles Verdes’ “Hoy Que Llueve” and brand-new tracks — all while integrating his signature three-over-two rhythms.

(James Carbone / For De Los)

Born and raised in the border town of Laredo, Texas, Quesada always felt he was “at the crossroads of a crossroad.”

“It’s not quite Mexico, but it’s not quite Texas and it’s not quite the Rio Grande Valley,” Quesada said. “Laredo is completely bilingual, everybody just speaks Spanglish. I didn’t have a distinction between English and Spanish and it was a couple of different cultures together. Now with music, people seem really caught up on genres — this is in Spanish and this is in English. And none of that really fazes me.”

Like most American kids of the ’80s and ’90s, Quesada’s biggest source of musical consumption came from binge-watching MTV, with a sprinkling of recommendations from friends.

“I was home a lot by myself and I would just watch MTV, so I used to watch all the shows: ‘Yo! MTV Raps,’ ‘Headbangers Ball,’ ‘Alternative Nation’ and ‘120 Minutes,’” he said. “That was where I was discovering stuff. And then friends had an older cousin who used to make me cool tapes, and other friends would pass around hip-hop tapes.”

Quesada says he finally became curious about what a music producer does after listening to N.W.A in his teen years. He recalls sitting in front of his Casio keyboard with its pre-programmed drum machine and trying to dissect the intricacies of what producer Dr. Dre was able to craft.

Revealing the arbitrary nature of self-imposed borders — of both countries and genres — is one of Quesada’s artistic goals, opting to build bridges and not walls.

“There’s a thing called the narcissism of small differences, which means we can’t get over our differences that we have with other people that are so minuscule, we have to differentiate ourselves,” Quesada said. “And I’m starting to finally feel a responsibility for showing people nothing is that different. Latin rhythms are not that different from soul rhythms, or funk rhythms, or rock ’n’ roll. That’s probably the biggest [impact] my upbringing has on me.”

Despite his deeply Texas roots and sensibilities, Quesada’s “Boleros II” and his recent life experiences have been immensely L.A.-coded.

Quesada was nominated for original song at this year’s 97th annual Academy Awards, for writing the track “Like A Bird” with Abraham Alexander, as featured in the Colman Domingo-led film “Sing Sing.”

“I had fun with that. I was catching key things in the movie, seeing what they did visually, and what I could do musically on the song,” he said of working on the piece.

That process led to him spending more time in L.A. than anticipated. “The Oscars kind of flipped my world upside down,” he said. “I had to be here a lot between the nomination being announced and Oscars night. That was the first three months of the year.”

Carrying the L.A. momentum from the Academy Awards to “Boleros II” is the notable presence of Angelenos on the album, including Hawthorne’s perpetual sadboi Cuco, El Monte native Angélica Garcia and Carson soul singer Trish Toledo. (L.A. producer Alex Goose may not be Latino, but his intrepid hip-hop production chops blend seamlessly with Quesada’s eclectic sensibilities.)

“L.A.’s such a predominant Latino town,” said Quesada. “All the references I was showing Angelica, Trish and Cuco, they were very familiar with all that stuff. It came really natural to them. So I do think there’s something with L.A. where they get it culturally here. I leaned on a lot of L.A. artists.”

Quesada is currently touring as part of Trio Asesino, in support of Hermanos Gutiérrez on their U.S. tour. Quesada will perform songs from “Boleros II” at L.A.’s Grand Park on Aug. 2, as part of a free summer concert series by Grand Performances. (Editor’s note: De Los will be a co-presenter of Quesada’s performance.)

“‘Sing Sing’ was about rehabilitation through the arts and how it can change people’s lives, not just reaching people as a fan, but also reaching more kids who can take up art,” Quesada said of the mission of the Grand Performances series. “I believe in the power of art. Everything from a song inspiring a whole movement to a song just making you smile for the day, that’s the power of music.”

Shai Gilgeous-Alexander puzzled people when he debuted his signature Converse shoe during All-Star weekend.

Converse? Where Chuck Taylor retros reside? Sure, Gilgeous-Alexander — known simply as SGA — was a rapidly improving player on a rapidly improving Oklahoma City Thunder team. But him as the face of a fading performance sneaker outfit didn’t compute.

Fast forward to the NBA Finals. Moments after the Thunder’s 103-91 Game 7 victory over the Indiana Pacers, SGA ascended the stage to accept his most valuable player trophy with a golden colorway of his signature shoe hanging from his neck.

Then on Tuesday, SGA doubled down, enjoying the championship parade with “Trophy Gold” Converse SHAI 001s on his feet.

Who would have thought Oklahoma City would become a flash point of foot fashion. And during Paris Fashion Week no less, when big brands from Nike and New Balance to Adidas and Asics introduce new product lines.

Nothing enhances marketing like winning, and SGA is the undisputed NBA victor of the season. He’s the anointed MVP of the regular season as well as the Finals, leading the league in scoring and doing it all with an impish grin and requisite humility.

As creative director of Converse, the shoe fits.

“I’m able to essentially do whatever I want to do with the shoe. How it’s going to play out, the ball is really in my court,” SGA told Boardroom TV in December. “It’s something that I could imagine every athlete would want to ask for, to try and tell their story and show themselves to the world how they want to do it. To have complete control, it’s a blessing.”

But can SGA elevate Converse from the bargain rack? His SHAI 001s aren’t grandpa’s Chuck Taylor All-Stars, those classic shoes of timeless design consisting of a white toe cap over cotton canvas adorned with a distinctive All-Star logo.

They made a comeback last year when presidential candidate Kamala Harris wore them but Converse recorded year-over-year sales declines of 15% or more in each of the last three fiscal quarters.

Chuck Taylor was a semi-pro basketball player and traveling salesman for the Converse Rubber Shoe Company in the early 1920s when he designed the shoe. By the 1950s nearly everyone on a basketball court wore them, but they declined in popularity by the end of the 1970s before enjoying a comeback as nostalgic casual footwear.

A few years after going through bankruptcy, Converse was swallowed up by Nike in 2003 for $305 million. So, technically, SGA is just another massively paid shill for Nike, standing in line behind Michael Jordan, LeBron James, Tiger Woods, Selena Williams, Cristiano Ronaldo and Rory McIlroy.

But by aligning himself with an all-but-forgotten underdog of a brand, SGA has an opportunity to author a chapter in the signature shoe wars that could rival his already substantial accomplishments on the court.

There is one problem. The Shai 001 won’t be available for sale until the fall. Converse can’t capitalize on OKC and SGA fans wanting to rock the golden “butter” footwear of their new hero, and wanting them NOW.

A limited release, at least, did take place in downtown Oklahoma City for two hours Tuesday before the parade.

Aligning with a current player always involves an element of risk for a shoe company. Converse learned this firsthand in 1997 when it dropped Latrell Sprewell as an endorser and spokesman after the NBA star choked coach P.J. Carlesimo during a Golden State Warriors practice.

And the risk isn’t always about misbehavior. Puma unveiled the Hali 1, its first shoe in collaboration with the Pacers’ Tyrese Haliburton on the day this year’s NBA Finals began. Haliburton tore an Achilles tendon in Game 7 and will miss most, if not all, of next season.

So Converse must continue to be quick on its feet to capitalize on its so far fortunate choice of SGA to represent the brand. He’s only 26 and displays leadership and other qualities of a role model in addition to otherworldly hoop skills.

Can Converse become relevant again in the performance space? Can SGA become as linked to the brand as Chuck Taylor? First the shoes must hit the market. One step at a time.

“I wanted to create something new,” SGA told Boardroom TV. “I wanted to bring Converse into my world and have Converse through my lens.”

In a region where baseball is king, the long-awaited rematch of last year’s World Series between the Dodgers and Yankees is unfolding. Ohtani. Judge. Two of the game’s best, facing off once more.

But just down the 5 Freeway in Anaheim, the home of Disney, the hottest ticket in baseball this weekend belongs to a stilted pitcher, juggling infielders and a yellow-suited, top hat-wearing carnival barker.

For back-to-back nights, more than 45,000 fans packed the Big A to see the Savannah Bananas — a team born from a small-time collegiate summer team that became a tour de force that has forever changed baseball. It was one stop during the Bananas’ most audacious barnstorming effort since their baseball traveling show hit the road just a few years ago.

The Savannah Bananas celebrate amid confetti after beating the Firefighters at Angel Stadium on Friday.

(Luke Johnson / Los Angeles Times)

These tickets were only available through a lottery — reserved months in advance. And when they went on sale, all were gone in an instant. The only way in was through the resale market, where just hours before first pitch on Friday, the lowest price (fees and taxes included) for a pair of tickets on StubHub was $209.52.

Meanwhile, two lowest price StuHub tickets for the Dodgers versus Yankees game were available for $171.72.

All for the sake of “Banana Ball.”

This baseball game is a ballyhoo. One rooted in the thrills, energy and pageantry of early 20th-century carnivals, but with a 21st-century twist — the atmosphere of a TikTok reel brought to life. It’s the showmanship of Ringling Brothers Circus combined with the athletic flair of the Harlem Globetrotters.

But above all, it’s a brand built on Walt Disney’s blueprint— not just to entertain, but to make the audience feel.

“When you look at all the touch points — the joy, the fun, the dancing, the celebrating — and think about all the different stages, just like Walt, we think about all the stages: from the parking lot to the plaza, to the upper deck, to the dugouts,” said Bananas owner Jesse Cole, the man in the top hat. “How do we make someone feel something?”

Instead of lounging in a cushy, air-conditioned owner’s suite, Cole is in the dugout hours before showtime — a Disney-like archetype, his energy as vibrant as his layered, all-yellow suit, braving the afternoon heat.

Savannah Bananas founder and owner Jesse Cole leads the crowd in a cheer as his team takes on the Firefighters at Angel Stadium on Friday.

(Luke Johnson / Los Angeles Times)

“Nonstop,” Cole said, describing Banana Ball in a nutshell. Refusing to sit, not wanting to lose an ounce of edge, he added, “It’s all about energy. We want to give people energy, delivering it every second, from the moment we open the gates at two o’clock until the last fan leaves at 11.”

While gates opened at 2 p.m., fans began arriving as early as 11 a.m. — clamoring for a shot at Banana-themed merchandise, many leaving the team tents with bags in both hands. In the parking lot, two young boys passed the time playing catch, gloves in hand.

As the afternoon wore on and the temperature climbed to 91 degrees, crowds trudged through the heat, some seeking refuge beneath the oversized Angels helmets at the stadium entrance, all for a chance to meet their favorite Banana Ballers. At the pregame plaza party, fans collected autographs, posed for photos and presented handmade gifts to players.

Savannah Bananas mascot Split marches through the crowd before the team’s game against the Firefighters at Angel Stadium Friday.

(Luke Johnson / Los Angeles Times)

When the gates opened, the LaCaze family pointed out their 9-year-old daughter’s favorite player, David “DR” Meadows. Decked out in her signed Meadows jersey, Carrigan LaCaze ran into his arms, with glove and oversized baseball clutched tightly and began speaking with him as if they were old friends.

“I ran to DR, and we started hugging and just started talking for a while because I missed him,” Carrigan LaCaze said. “Tomorrow is actually one year on the dot since I met him.”

A Christmas road trip planned around the holidays, the family of four traveled across three states from their home in Alexandria, La., to Anaheim for two reasons: to visit Disneyland and see the Bananas. It was their second game — the family first saw the Bananas in the club’s hometown of Savannah, Ga., when Carrigan, who is battling cystic fibrosis, was granted a Make-A-Wish experience so meaningful it was a no-brainer to relive it.

“It’s great,” her father, Pierre LaCaze, said of the player interactions. “We’ve gotten to keep track with some of them during the course of the year. We come back, we see them again. You know they’re truly about the fans.”

Rainer Easton, 11, tries to catch a yellow “Banana Ball” from the stands before the Savannah Bananas take on the Firefighters at Angel Stadium on Friday.

(Luke Johnson / Los Angeles Times)

The Bananas don’t sell tickets. They sell connections, moments and memories.

For Cole, meetings are a constant brainstorming session on how to keep fans engaged and interacting. That’s how he measures success. He says when the focus shifts to transactions, the game begins to lose its meaning.

“Our success is not judged by revenue,” Cole said. “It’s not judged by sales. It’s judged by the moments we create.”

But the numbers don’t lie.

The last time the Bananas came to Southern California, they played in front of 5,000 fans at LoanMart Field in Rancho Cucamonga in 2023 — a far cry from now selling out 18 major league ballparks and three football stadiums with capacities over 70,000.

Fans fill the stands as the Savannah Bananas take on the Firefighters in front of a sold out crowd Friday at Angel Stadium.

(Luke Johnson / Los Angeles Times)

Attendance has soared year after year. Last season, the Bananas drew one million fans. This year, that number is expected to double, with more than three million people on the waitlist for their ticket lottery. Every game since February has sold out and every date in June and July is as well.

Michael and Melinda Schulteis, a husband and wife from Mission Viejo, were there the last time the Bananas came to town. When they heard the team was returning, they knew they couldn’t miss it.

“The intimate atmosphere at the last event was great,” Melinda Schulteis said. “But I’m curious, because they do such a good job putting on events, what touches are they going to add to still keep it close and intimate and give us another great experience?”

As the Bananas’ success and reach have grown, spilling out from cozy minor league parks into stadiums not built for intimacy, the games still feel like family gatherings. Whether serenading players with stadium anthems like Bon Jovi’s “Livin’ on a Prayer” or the waving of phone lights to Coldplay’s “Yellow,” the crowd moves in sync, no matter the tune.

While they’re a privately owned team and don’t disclose revenue figures, they’ve confirmed generating millions. Much like their box office appeal, their social media reach extends into the millions as well.

The Savannah Bananas perform a kick line before taking on the Firefighters at Angel Stadium on Friday.

(Luke Johnson / Los Angeles Times)

Their antics — choreographed dances, lip-synced walk-ups, backflip outfield catches — have attracted nearly 10 million followers on TikTok, almost double the combined total of the Dodgers and Angels. That viral mastery, and the parasocial bonds it fosters, is part of what makes every game feel tight-knit.

With his glove by his side, hoping to catch a foul ball for an out — one of the many offbeat rules of Banana Ball — Michael Schulties was disappointed he missed his favorite player, RobertAnthony Cruz, whom he first discovered on social media through his baseball coaching channel, better known as “Coach RAC.”

Cruz, who drew the longest meet-and-greet line, is a former minor leaguer in the Nationals’ farm system and a local — born just an hour away in Fontana. The game was a homecoming for Cruz, who joined the Bananas in 2023.

With more than 70 family members and friends in attendance — and even more social media direct messages asking for tickets — playing in big league stadiums has become a dream come true, especially for a former minor leaguer whose baseball ambitions nearly died when he never got the call to the show.

Savannah Bananas pitcher Correlle Prime delivers at Angel Stadium on Friday.

(Luke Johnson / Los Angeles Times)

Behind all the gimmicks, wackiness and absurdity, the roster is still filled with ballplayers — many of them with unrealized MLB dreams — now finding a second life through Banana Ball. And for Cruz, it’s the happiest he’s ever been in the sport.

“I never would have imagined playing in this capacity,” Cruz said. “Banana Ball didn’t even exist when I was pursuing my dream of professional baseball. To be here, to see a sold-out crowd at a stadium that I went to growing up all the time, it’s very special.”

As the team travels the nation, sold-out crowds and newfound stardom have become the norm for Cruz.

“I’m not surprised by anything anymore,” Cruz said. “If you told me that we’re playing on the moon next year, I’d be like, ‘All right, cool. Let me know when and where, and I’ll be there’ … I wouldn’t be surprised if this thing continues to grow at an unprecedented rate.”

Despite their growing success, the Bananas’ brand of baseball remains polarizing — an easy target for detractors of zaniness, gatekeepers of fun and opponents of pizzazz who either don’t understand it or refuse to see its appeal.

“Anybody that criticizes this, we’re not for them,” Cole said. “There’s tradition in baseball, perfect. They’ve got Major League Baseball. … For people that want to come out and have fun, not take themselves too seriously and see something they’ve never seen before — and hopefully see the greatest show in sports — we built something for you.”

The formula works. And again, the numbers don’t lie.

The Savannah Bananas’ Jackson Olson celebrates a Troy Glaus base hit while the Bananas take on the Firefighters at Angel Stadium on Friday. Comedian Bert Kreischer celebrated behind the Bananas in the dugout.

(Luke Johnson / Los Angeles Times)

Yes, the Savannah Bananas’ brand of baseball is far too outlandish ever to be compared to the major leagues — from flaming baseballs, rump-shaking umps and dress rehearsals. That’s the point. It all feels like something conjured from the wildest dreams of the late Bill Veeck’s imagination found a home, in a good way.

With many of the Banana Ball’s 11 rules — like an automatic strike when hitters step out of the box or ejecting bunting hitters because bunting “sucks” — are grounded in some sports-based logic, the innovations remain sacrilegious to baseball purists.

But for a fleeting moment in December, Major League Baseball and Banana Ball were almost linked.

In Banana Ball, the Golden Batter rule allows teams, once per game, to send their best hitter to the plate regardless of where they fall in the batting order.

MLB commissioner Rob Manfred caused a stir when he floated a potential seismic rule by floating, making an offhand comment about the golden batter rule. Manfred later clarified it was merely “a very preliminary conversation” among members of the league’s competition committee and had not been formally discussed by the full ownership group.

A far-fetched idea, but Manfred has ushered in sweeping changes, from the widely praised pitch clock to the more contentious extra-inning “ghost runner.”

“Anything that’s best for the fans, I’m all in,” Cole said of its potential. “I know Major League Baseball won’t do it because of traditions, but … we’ve had a lot of fun doing it.”

The Firefighters run on the field before taking on the Savannah Bananas at Angel Stadium on Friday.

(Luke Johnson / Los Angeles Times)

But MLB would be behind the Bananas, who already introduced their version of the rule last season with a typical flair and showmanship. Their spin on it is a batter summoned from the dugout wearing a James Brown-esque cape and a gleaming golden helmet — an honor that went to Joe Lytle, who came to bat in the top of the ninth for the Bananas’ Anaheim opponent, the Firefighters.

Ultimately, in a game where the score isn’t the end-all, be-all — but the fun is — the Bananas beat the Firefighters 5–2.

Like any other Bananas game, the festivities took center stage. It began with the “First Peel,” a signature ceremony in which a young fan bites into a banana to declare whether it’s good or bad — setting the tone for the night.

Heisman Trophy winner and USC legend Matt Leinart threw out the ceremonial first spiral (because, of course, he did). And in true fashion, Angels World Series MVP Troy Glaus made a surprise cameo as a pinch hitter.

But what was more important was the trip to Anaheim, a fitting one for Cole and Co.

The team that opened its season lip-syncing “Be Our Guest” from the Disney classic “Beauty and the Beast” — and its owner, cut from the same theatrical cloth as Disney — were celebrated a visit to the Happiest Place on Earth — Disneyland.

Savannah Bananas founder and owner Jesse Cole provides color commentary during the baby race between innings at Angel Stadium on Friday.

(Luke Johnson / Los Angeles Times)

Greeted by fans in yellow gear, Cole’s creation — the Bananas — marched in step down Main Street U.S.A., alongside Walt’s own — Mickey Mouse, Goofy, Donald Duck.

“When I walked underneath the castle and over the bridge and in front of thousands of people, they were all there for us,” Cole said. “Then I look and see Walt’s statue, holding the hand of Mickey, and I see that and I’m like, ‘This is special.’”

It was a full-circle moment for Cole, who became “immersed in the magic” after his first trip to Disney World as a kid — and who now says, “In a perfect world, I’d play catch with Walt on Main Street.” Serendipity.

“For me, that was an emotional moment — to know that we have worked so hard to create something that means something to people, that they come from all over the country just for a chance to see us,” Cole added.