Musician

Exactly a year after the Eaton fire broke out, musicians are banding together once more for an upcoming benefit show, called A Concert for Altadena.

As a way to both raise funds and bring the community together, the night is set to include performances from musicians like Jackson Browne, Dawes & Friends, Aloe Blacc, Jenny Lewis, Everclear, Stephen Stills, Mandy Moore, Judith Hill, Brad Paisley, Ozomatli, Brandon Flowers of the Killers and more.

Many of the featured acts have ties to Los Angeles and Altadena specifically, like Dawes, an indie band from Altadena who notably sang a lively rendition of “I Love L.A.” at this year’s Grammys ceremony. Moore, who is also performing, similarly lost their homes in the fire.

“I’ve seen firsthand how music can mobilize people for good. This concert brings together artists, fans, and neighbors for something bigger than all of us — recovery, hope, and rebuilding lives,” said Grammy winner Eric Krasno. The guitarist, who also lived in Altadena, helped organize the event and is set to perform.

Even behind the scenes, people like Kevin Lyman, who founded the Vans Warped Tour and is a longtime Altadena resident, is working as the event’s lead producer.

“Music has always been a force for community. With this event, we’re not just putting on a show — we’re helping Altadena rebuild homes, restore businesses, and heal hearts. This night is about unity and purpose,” said Lyman.

All of the proceeds from the show will go to the Pasadena Community Foundation’s Eaton Fire Relief & Recovery Fund, which helps provide resources to families impacted, and the Altadena Builds Back Foundation, which focuses on the long-term recovery of housing in the neighborhood.

The Eaton fire is the second most destructive wildfire in California’s history, destroying more than 9,000 structures in an area of nearly 22 square miles. It is also one of the state’s deadliest fires, with 19 people killed. Since the January fire, rebuilding efforts have proved to be slow-moving in the face of bureaucracy and high overhead costs.

The benefit show will take place Jan. 7 at the Pasadena Civic Auditorium. Tickets go sale Nov. 7.

Ike Turner Jr., the son of Ike and Tina Turner who won a Grammy for traditional blues album in 2007 as a producer on his father’s album “Risin’ With the Blues,” has died. He was 67.

Turner died Saturday at a Los Angeles hospital from kidney failure, family member Jacqueline Bullock told TMZ. She said the musician had been battling heart issues for years and had a stroke last month.

“It is with great sadness that we announce the passing of my cousin, Ike Turner, Jr.,” Bullock said in a statement to the New York Post. ‘”Junior’ was more than a cousin to me, but rather a brother, as we grew up in the same famed household together.”

“As the son of Tina and Ike Turner, from an early age, his talents were evident as there wasn’t an instrument he did not want to play,” the statement continued. “Eventually, Junior would end up helping to run Bolic Sound Studios, the recording studios founded by his father, Ike Turner.”

Ike Turner Jr., and friend Mary Ellis at a memorial service for his father in 2007.

(Damian Dovarganes / Associated Press)

A musician, producer and sound engineer, Turner was pulled into the music business by his father when he was 13.

“My father took me out of [the] house and out of school and I traveled [with them],” Turner said in a 2017 interview on “The Bobby Eaton Show.” “That wasn’t no easy work.”

In that same interview, he also shared the role his mother Tina played in the instruments he picked up in his youth.

“My first instrument was drums, until my mother started making me break my drums down every day,” he said. “The piano was always there in the family room, so I started playing piano. I play guitar and bass. Everything except horn because horn used to make me dizzy from blowing air.”

Turner was one of four children associated with Ike Sr. and Tina Turner’s famed union, which ended with the latter filing for divorce in 1974 (finalized in 1978). The couple performed together from 1960 to 1976 as the Ike & Tina Turner Revue, but their musical achievements were often overshadowed by the former’s abuse.

Born in 1958 to Ike Turner Sr. and Lorraine Taylor, Ike Jr. and his brother Michael were adopted by the “What’s Love Got to Do With It” singer upon her marriage in 1962 to their father. Their siblings also included Ronnie and Craig.

“Tina raised me from the age of 2,” Ike Jr. told the Mail on Sunday in 2018. “She’s the only mother I’ve ever known.”

Over the years Turner had commented a number of times on his estrangement from his mother since his parents’ divorce. In 2018 he said he had not spoken to her in nearly 20 years.

Turner was preceded in death by both of his parents and two of his siblings. His father died in 2007 of a cocaine overdose and Tina died in 2023 after a long illness. Craig Turner died by suicide in 2018 and Ronnie Turner of complications related to late-stage cancer in 2022.

Fans of the seminal, long-running podcast “WTF With Marc Maron” — and I count myself among them — have been treated to thousands of deep-dive interviews with a starry array of actors, musicians, comics and even some politicians (Barack Obama was a guest in 2015). It’s also been an intimate window into the conflicted inner life of the show’s eponymous host. Maron has seemingly pulled few if any punches in his podcast’s opening monologues as he’s held forth on everything from his fraught emotional state and his two-decade struggle with drug and alcohol addiction (he’s been sober since 1999) to the untimely 2020 death of his romantic partner, the well-regarded indie filmmaker Lynn Shelton (“Humpday,” “Your Sister’s Sister”).

Much of this personal territory and more is revisited in the absorbing, fly-on-the-wall-style documentary “Are We Good?” (named after Maron’s “WTF” sign-off phrase), produced and directed by Steven Feinartz.

Feinartz, who also directed Maron’s last two HBO stand-up specials, began filming his subject in 2021. He trailed Maron as he performed in comedy clubs from Los Angeles to Montreal, recorded his podcast from the garage studio of his Glendale home, visited with his elderly father and, most pivotally, worked through the soul-crushing loss of Shelton. That loss becomes the driving force of the doc, with Maron’s grief informing his daily life and thought process, while also providing cathartic, darkly humorous fodder for his stand-up gigs.

It’s a tricky balancing act that Feinartz depicts with candor, grace and patience, never letting the film’s provocative pathos turn overly grim or sentimental. A stand-up bit in which Maron recalls his ghoulish urge to snap a hospital selfie after bidding goodbye to the deceased Shelton (don’t worry, he decided against it) provides a gulp-worthy example of the comic’s brazen yet reflective approach to the world around him.

That Shelton died at the start of the COVID-19 pandemic made for an additionally cruel and difficult time for Maron, who was unable to share his pain with many others as social distancing took over. He eventually found the funny in that conundrum as well, incorporating the memory into his routine with satiric glee.

Anyone familiar with Maron’s grumpy, F-bomb-tossing persona will likely savor these 90 or so minutes in his swirlingly neurotic company. He unabashedly leans into that vibe here, even while wrangling his pair of self-possessed cats. While Maron sometimes kvetches about Feinartz’s hovering cameras, he seems to have given him a kind of all-access pass to his daily life in a way that belies his trademark crankiness. He may be a reluctant showman, but he’s a showman nonetheless.

The uninitiated, however, might find Maron somewhat less engaging. He readily self-identifies as “selfish, anxious and panicky” and for some, a little of that may go a long way. Still, it’s not hard to relate to his many cogent musings (“How do you love somebody else if you really can’t love yourself?”) as well as to respect he clearly had for Shelton, who’s seen here in an array of luminous, heartbreaking clips.

Other comic talents such as Nate Bargatze, David Cross, Caroline Rhea, Michaela Watkins and John Mulaney also weigh in, bringing a mix of the sincere and the droll to their frank and friendly observations about Maron. On his podcasts and elsewhere, Maron has spoken at length about growing up with narcissistic, emotionally detached parents and how that dynamic likely laid the groundwork for his problematic sense of self. Although that’s not discussed in great detail here, the scenes between Maron and his dad, Barry, now in his mid-80s and living with dementia, have a subtle poignance that shows a kinder, more accepting side of the comedian than perhaps even he might have expected.

Meanwhile, a bit more could have been made of Maron’s acting work, a sideline that’s gained momentum over the last decade or so with worthy roles on TV’s “Glow” and “Stick,” and in films including “Joker” and the upcoming “Springsteen: Deliver Me From Nowhere.” Maron’s oft-stated uncertainty about his acting ability and the push-pull he has admitted to feeling might have dovetailed nicely with his other qualms.

That said, the profile, which features vivid archival and personal footage and photos of Maron throughout the years, is by no means comprehensive, nor does it try to be. At heart, it’s about a vulnerable man at a unique moment in time and how his past has prepared him — or perhaps not. And we are definitely good for experiencing this singular artist up close.

The famed hip-hop mogul told the court that his actions were ‘disgusting’ and ‘shameful’ in a plea for leniency.

Musician and producer Sean “Diddy” Combs has been sentenced to four years and two months in prison for transporting people across state lines for sexual encounters.

His sentencing hearing on Friday capped a federal case that featured harrowing testimony and ended in a forceful reckoning for one of the most popular figures in hip-hop. Combs, 55, was also fined half a million dollars.

Since Combs has served a year in jail already, he is expected to be released in about three years. His lawyers wanted him freed immediately and said the time behind bars has already forced him to embrace remorse and sobriety.

He was convicted in July of flying his girlfriends and male sex workers around the country to engage in drug-fuelled sexual encounters, a practice that happened over many years and in different locations. However, he was acquitted of sex trafficking and racketeering charges that could have put him behind bars for life.

“Why did it happen so long?” US District Judge Arun Subramanian asked as he handed down the sentence. “Because you had the power and the resources to keep it going, and because you weren’t caught.”

Combs showed no visible change of emotion as he learned his sentence, sitting in his chair and looking straight ahead as the judge spoke. He remained subdued afterwards and appeared dejected, with none of the enthusiasm and smiles that accompanied his interactions with lawyers and his family earlier in the day.

In a final word before sentencing, Combs told the judge his years of behaviour were “disgusting, shameful” and apologised to the people he had hurt physically and mentally. He said his acts of domestic violence were a burden he would have to carry for the rest of his life.

His defence lawyers played an 11-minute video in court portraying Combs’ family life, career and philanthropy. At one point during the video, Combs put a hand on his face and began to cry.

His nearly two-month trial in a federal court in Manhattan featured testimony from women who said Combs had beaten, threatened, sexually assaulted and blackmailed them. Prosecutor Christy Slavik told the judge that sparing Combs serious prison time would excuse years of violence.

“It’s a case about a man who did horrible things to real people to satisfy his own sexual gratification,” she said. “He didn’t need the money. His currency was control.”

Combs was convicted under the Mann Act, which bans transporting people across state lines for prostitution. Defence lawyer Jason Driscoll argued the law was misapplied.

During testimony at the trial, former girlfriend Casandra “Cassie” Ventura told jurors that Combs ordered her to have “disgusting” sex with strangers hundreds of times during their decade-long relationship. Jurors saw video of him dragging and beating her in a Los Angeles hotel hallway.

Another woman, identified as “Jane”, testified she was pressured into sex with male workers during drug-fuelled “hotel nights” while Combs watched and sometimes filmed.

The only accuser scheduled to speak Friday, a former assistant known as “Mia”, withdrew after defence objections. She has accused Combs of raping her in 2010 and asked the judge for a sentence that reflects “the ongoing danger my abuser poses”.

Smack-dab in the middle of Hispanic Heritage Month, PBS will air the 38th Hispanic Heritage Awards tonight.

The show took place on Sept. 4 at the Warner Theatre in Washington, D.C., and honored a collection of musicians, artists, actors, journalists and business leaders.

This year’s honorees, selected by the Hispanic Heritage Foundation, included NPR’s “Alt. Latino” journalist Felix Contreras, stoner comic and Chicano art collector Cheech Marin, Puerto Rican pop music visionary Rauw Alejandro, Oscar-nominated actor and dancer Rosie Perez, Rizos Curls Chief Executive Julissa Prado and “Mexican Queen of Pop” Gloria Trevi.

Honoree Felix Contreras accepts the Journalism Award onstage during the 38th Hispanic Heritage Awards in Washington, D.C.

(Paul Morigi / Getty Images for Hispanic Heritage Foundation)

Contreras is one of the few journalists to ever receive the esteemed honor, though he was initially reticent to accept. “We learn early on that [journalists] are not supposed to be the story,” Contreras told The Times earlier this year.

Recently, Marin has moved on from a successful career making stoner comedy films and is now best known for his work as a collector of Chicano art. After being a lifelong gatherer of art, the Cheech Marin Center for Chicano Art & Culture of the Riverside Art Museum opened to the public in June 2022.

Rauw Alejandro, meanwhile, has innovated the Latin music scene with his experimental albums, such as 2022’s techno-infused psychedelic album, “Saturno”; his beachy follow-up, “Playa Saturno,” in 2023; and his 2024 ode to the 1970s New York City salsa scene, “Cosa Nuestra.”

Cheech Marin accepts the Arts Award onstage during the 38th Hispanic Heritage Awards.

(Paul Morigi / Getty Images for Hispanic Heritage Foundation)

Rosie Perez made a name for herself as a dancer on the TV show “In Living Color” and with starring roles in Spike Lee films before being nominated for an Oscar for 1993‘s “Fearless.”

Gloria Trevi is one of the most successful Latina artists of her time. She has garnered over 30 million sold albums and 7 billion combined streams, along with several top-selling albums and an induction into the Latin Music Songwriters Hall of Fame.

As the Rizos Curls co-founder and CEO, Prado is being honored, per the HHF, for “her personal journey of self-discovery into a nationally celebrated, multi-million-dollar business specializing in textured hair care.”

Gloria Trevi performs onstage at the 38th Hispanic Heritage Awards.

(Paul Morigi / Getty Images for Hispanic Heritage Foundation)

The ceremony was hosted by actor and writer Mayan Lopez, and viewers will be able to take in performances by Trevi, along with artists Daymé Arocena, DannyLux, Lisa Lisa and RaiNao.

The awards show was established in 1988 by the White House to honor cultural visionaries within the Latino community. Previous awardees include Bad Bunny, Anthony Quinn, Sonia Sotomayor, Linda Ronstadt, Los Tigres Del Norte, Gloria Estefan and Tito Puente, among others.

For many, Omara Portuondo is best known for her participation in the Buena Vista Social Club; but the nonagenarian has lived many lives before and after the formation of the internationally recognized Cuban group. The new PBS documentary, “Omara: Cuba’s Legendary Diva,” looks to reexamine and capture the beauty and the chaos of these other many lives.

Directed by Hugo Perez, the feature — which premieres Sept. 26 on your local PBS channel — tells Portuondo’s personal history not only through the lens of her Afro-Cuban heritage but also through the prism of a woman confronting the realities of Cuba’s longstanding political strife.

“It immediately occurred to me that I was being given a once-in-a-lifetime chance to work with a great artist in the twilight of their career — imagine taking a time machine and going back in time to work with Ella Fitzgerald or Billie Holiday in their later years,” Perez said in a press release.

“When we began, Omara was in her late eighties, and still touring extensively around the world. Yet despite the fact that she was still selling out venues across the globe, she was confronting ageism from promoters and journalists who only wanted to write about her ‘final tour.’ I felt that there was an opportunity not just to create a portrait of an iconic artist but to document how she responded to age bias with verve and panache and not just a little sauciness. Never count a Cuban woman down and out.”

Born into a mixed-race family in Havana on Oct. 29, 1930, at a time when such relationships were considered taboo, Portuondo began gracing the stage at age 17 by joining the dance group of the famed Tropicana Club. As a member of Cuarteto d’Aida in the 1950s, she sang alongside Nat King Cole and toured the U.S. while also recording albums. From the late 1960s through the 1980s, Portuondo found continued success as a solo act and even ventured into the world of film and television.

Ever involved in the political events of the moment, she never shied away from performing songs dedicated to revolutionaries like Che Guevara. In 1974, the singer recorded an album dedicated to the U.S.-ousted Chilean socialist president Salvador Allende.

In the mid-1990s, Portuondo began traveling the world with the renowned Cuban musical ensemble, the Buena Vista Social Club. The band’s fame skyrocketed in 1999 after German filmmaker Wim Wenders made a documentary about the musicians titled “Buena Vista Social Club” that received numerous awards and was nominated for an Academy Award. At the heart of the film were moments when Portuondo’s talents jumped off the screen and worldwide audiences could see the power and history behind her artistry.

The story of the Buena Vista Social Club was turned into an eponymous musical in 2023, with Portuondo featured as one of the main characters. After the musical hit Broadway in 2025, Natalie Venetia Belcon — who portrayed Portuondo as part of the show’s original Broadway cast — won the Tony for featured actress in a musical at this year’s awards.

While, for many, Portuondo’s impact and star power emanates from all things Buena Vista Social Club, the new documentary spotlights how Portuondo has not slowed down her hustle at her advanced age as she continues touring worldwide. Included in the movie are interviews with musicians from across the globe, like Diego el Cigala, Roberto Fonseca and Arturo O’Farrill.

The film also captures some of Portuondo’s more recent performances, which reveal new depths of the singer’s soulfulness and power.

“I also wanted to make a film that would show her in performance today, spotlighting songs that would help carry us through the story of her life,” the movie’s director said. “When she sings about love, Omara plumbs the depths of heartbreak, and I could not imagine telling her story without seeing her singing these great songs.”

Sonny Curtis, a vintage rock ‘n’ roller who wrote the raw classic “I Fought the Law” and posed the enduring question “Who can turn the world on with her smile?” as the writer-crooner of the theme song to “The Mary Tyler Moore Show,” has died at 88.

Curtis, inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame as a member of The Crickets in 2012, died Friday, his wife of more than a half-century, Louise Curtis, confirmed to The Associated Press. His daughter, Sarah Curtis, wrote on his Facebook page that he had been suddenly ill.

Curtis wrote or co-wrote hundreds of songs, from Keith Whitley’s country smash “I’m No Stranger to the Rain” to the Everly Brothers’ “Walk Right Back,” a personal favorite Curtis completed while in Army basic training. Bing Crosby, Glen Campbell, Bruce Springsteen and the Grateful Dead were among other artists who covered his work.

Born during the Great Depression to cotton farmers outside of Meadow, Texas, Curtis was a childhood friend of Buddy Holly’s and an active musician in the formative years of rock, whether jamming on guitar with Holly in the mid-1950s or opening for Elvis Presley when Elvis was still a regional act. Curtis’ songwriting touch also soon emerged: Before he turned 20, he had written the hit “Someday” for Webb Pierce and “Rock Around With Ollie Vee” for Holly.

Curtis had left Holly’s group, the Crickets, before Holly became a major star. But he returned after Holly died in a plane crash in 1959 and he was featured the following year on the album “In Style with the Crickets,” which included “I Fought the Law” (dashed off in a single afternoon, according to Curtis, who would say he had no direct inspiration for the song) and the Jerry Allison collaboration “More Than I Can Say,” a hit for Bobby Vee, and later for Leo Sayer.

Meanwhile, it took until 1966 for “I Fought the Law” and its now-immortal refrain “I fought the law — and the law won” to catch on: The Texas-based Bobby Fuller Four made it a Top 10 song. Over the following decades, it was covered by dozens of artists, from punk (the Clash) to country (Johnny Cash, Nanci Griffith) to Springsteen, Tom Petty and other mainstream rock stars.

“It’s my most important copyright,” Curtis told The Tennessean in 2014.

Curtis’ other signature song was as uplifting as “I Fought the Law” was resigned. In 1970, he was writing commercial jingles when he came up with the theme for a new CBS sitcom starring Moore as a single woman hired as a TV producer in Minneapolis. He called the song “Love is All Around,” and used a smooth melody to eventually serve up lyrics as indelible as any in television history:

“Who can turn the world on with her smile? / Who can take a nothing day, and suddenly make it all seem worthwhile? / Well it’s you girl, and you should know it / With each glance and every little movement you show it.”

The song’s endurance was sealed by the images it was heard over, especially Moore’s triumphant toss of her hat as Curtis proclaims, “You’re going to make it after all.” In tribute, other artists began recording it, including Sammy Davis Jr., Joan Jett and the Blackhearts and Minnesota’s Hüsker Dü. A commercial release featuring Curtis came out in 1980 and was a modest success, peaking at No. 29 on Billboard’s country chart.

Curtis would recall being commissioned by his friend Doug Gilmore, a music industry road manager who had heard the sitcom’s developers were looking for an opening song.

“Naturally I said yes, and later that morning, he dropped off a four-page format — you know ‘Girl from the Midwest, moves to Minneapolis, gets a job in a newsroom, can’t afford her apartment etc.,’ which gave me the flavor of what it was all about,” said Curtis, who soon met with show co-creator (and later Oscar-winning filmmaker) James L. Brooks.

“[He] came into this huge empty room, no furniture apart from a phone lying on the floor, and at first, I thought he was rather cold and sort of distant, and he said ‘We’re not at the stage of picking a song yet, but I’ll listen anyway,’” Curtis recalled. “So I played the song, just me and my guitar, and next thing, he started phoning people, and the room filled up, and then he sent out for a tape recorder.”

Curtis would eventually write two versions: the first used in Season 1, the second and better known for the remaining six seasons. The original words were more tentative, opening with “How will you make it on your own?” and ending with “You might just make it after all.” By Season 2, the show was a hit and the lyrics were reworked. The producers had wanted Andy Williams to sing the theme song, but he turned it down and Curtis’ easygoing baritone was heard instead.

Curtis made a handful of solo albums, including “Sonny Curtis” and “Spectrum,” and hit the country Top 20 with the 1981 single “Good Ol’ Girls.” In later years, he continued to play with Allison and other members of the Crickets. The band released several albums, among them “The Crickets and Their Buddies,” featuring appearances by Eric Clapton, Graham Nash and Phil Everly. One of Curtis’ more notable songs was “The Real Buddy Holly Story,” a rebuke to the 1978 biopic “The Buddy Holly Story,” which starred Gary Busey.

Curtis settled in Nashville in the mid-1970s and lived there with his wife, Louise. He was inducted into the Nashville Songwriters Hall of Fame in 1991 and, as part of the Crickets, into Nashville’s Musicians Hall of Fame and Museum in 2007. Five years later, he and the Crickets were inducted into the Rock Hall, praised as “the blueprint for rock and roll bands (that) inspired thousands of kids to start up garage bands around the world.”

Italie writes for the Associated Press. Associated Press journalist Mallika Sen contributed reporting.

The accordionist commands the stage, his eyes staring off as if in a trance, his fingers trilling out the opening notes of a tune. It’s a long, sinuous riff, one so intoxicating that the audience in front of him can’t help but to two-step across the crowded dance floor.

He and his singing partner unfurl a sad story that seemingly clashes with the rhythms that back it. An undocumented immigrant has arrived in San Antonio from Laredo to marry his girlfriend, Chencha. But the lights on his car aren’t working and he has no driver’s license, so the cops throw him in jail. Upon being released, the song’s protagonist finds a fate worse than deportation: His beloved is now dating the white guy who issues driver’s licenses.

“Those gabachos are abusive,” the singer-accordionist sighs in Spanish in his closing line. “I lost my car, and they took away my Chencha.”

The above scene is from “Chulas Fronteras,” a 1976 documentary about life on the United States-Mexico border and the accordion-driven conjuntos that served as the soundtrack to the region. The song is “Un Mojado Sin Licencia” — “A Wetback Without a License.” The musician is Tex-Mex legend Flaco Jiménez, who died last week at 86.

Born in San Antonio, the son and grandson of accordionists became famous as the face of Tex-Mex music and as a favorite session player whenever rock and country gods needed some borderlands flair. He appeared alongside everyone from the Rolling Stones to Bob Dylan, Buck Owens and Dwight Yoakam on “The Streets of Bakersfield” to Willie Nelson for a rousing version of “Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain.” With Doug Sahm, Augie Meyers and fellow Tejano chingón Freddy Fender, Jiménez formed the Texas Tornadoes, whose oeuvre blasts at every third-rate barbecue joint from the Texas Hill Country to Southern California.

Jiménez was a titan of American music, something his obits understood. One important thing they missed, however, was his politics.

He unleashed his Hohner accordion not just at concerts but for benefits ranging from student scholarships to the successful campaign of L.A. County Superior Court Judge David B. Finkel to Lawyers’ Committee, a nonprofit formed during the civil rights era to combat structural racism in the American legal system. Jiménez and the Texas Tornadoes performed at Bill Clinton’s 1992 inauguration ball; “Chulas Fronteras,” captured Jiménez as the headliner at a fundraiser for John Treviño Jr., who would go on to become Austin’s first Mexican American council member.

It’s a testament to Jiménez’s heart and humor that the song he performed for it was “Un Mojado Sin Licencia,” which remains one of my favorite film concert appearances, an ideal all Latino musicians should aspire to during this long deportation summer.

The title is impolite but reflected the times: Some undocumented immigrants in the 1970s wore mojado not as a slur but a badge of honor (to this day, that’s what my dad proudly calls himself even though he became a U.S. citizen decades ago). Jiménez’s mastery of the squeezebox, his fingers speeding up and down the rows of button notes for each solo like a reporter on deadline, is as complex and gripping as any Clapton or Prince guitar showcase.

What was most thrilling about Jiménez’s performance, however, was how he refused to lose himself to the pathos of illegal immigration, something too many people understandably do. “Un Mojado Sin Licencia,” which Jiménez originally recorded in 1964, is no dirge but rather a rollicking revolt against American xenophobia.

The cameraman captures his gold teeth gleaming as Jiménez grins throughout his thrilling three minutes. He’s happy because he has to be: the American government can rob Mexicans of a better life, “Un Mojado Sin Licencia” implicitly argues, but it’s truly over when they take away our joy.

“Un Mojado Sin Licencia” is in the same jaunty vein as other Mexican classics about illegal immigration such as Vicente Fernández’s “Los Mandados,” “El Corrido de Los Mojados” by Los Alegres de Terán and “El Muro” by rock en español dinosaurs El Tri. There is no pity for undocumented immigrants in any of those tracks, only pride at their resilience and glee in how la migra can never truly defeat them. In “Los Mandados,” Fernández sings of how la migra beats up an immigrant who summarily sues them; “El Corrido de Los Mojados” plainly asks Americans, “If the mojados were to disappear/Who would you depend on?”

Even more defiant is “El Muro,” which starts as an overwrought metal anthem but reveals that its hero not only came into the United States, he used the titular border wall as a toilet (trust me, it sounds far funnier in the Mexico City lingo of gravelly lead singer Alex Lora). These songs tap into the bottomless well that Mexicans have for gallows humor. And their authors knew what satirists from Charlie Chaplin to Stephen Colbert knew: When life throws tyranny at you, you have to scoff and push back.

There are great somber songs about illegal immigration, from La Santa Cecilia’s haunting bossa nova “El Hielo (ICE)” to Woody Guthrie’s “Deportee (Plane Wreck at Los Gatos),” which has been recorded by everyone from the Byrds to Dolly Parton to Jiménez when he was a member of Los Super Seven. But the ones people hum are the funny ones, the ones you can polka or waltz or mosh to, the ones that pep you up. In the face of terror, you need to sway and smile to take a break from the weeping and the gnashing of teeth that’s the rest of the day.

I saw “Chulas Fronteras” as a college student fighting anti-immigrant goons in Orange County and immediately loved the film but especially “Un Mojado Sin Licencia.” Too many of my fellow travelers back then felt that to party even for a song was to betray the revolution. Thankfully, that’s not the thinking among pro-immigrant activists these days, who have incorporated music and dancing into their strategy as much as lawsuits and neighborhood patrols.

The sidewalks outside the Metropolitan Detention Center in downtown L.A., where hundreds of immigrants are detained in conditions better suited for a decrepit dog pound, have transformed into a makeshift concert hall that has hosted classical Arabic musicians and Los Jornaleros del Norte, the house band of the National Day Laborer Organizing Network. Down the 5 Freeway, the OC Rapid Response Network holds regular fundraisers in bars around downtown Santa Ana featuring everything from rockabilly quartets to female DJs spinning cumbias. While some music festivals have been canceled or postponed for fear of migra raids, others have gone on as planned lest ICE win.

Musicians like Pepe Aguilar, who dropped a treacly cover of Calibre 50’s “Corrido de Juanito” a few weeks ago, are rushing to meet the moment with benefit concerts and pledges to support nonprofits. That’s great, but I urge them to keep “Un Mojado Sin Licencia” on a loop as they’re jotting down lyrics or laying down beats. There’s enough sadness in the fight against la migra. Be like Flaco: Make us laugh. Make us dance. Keep us from slipping into the abyss. Give us hope.

Famed Tejano singer-songwriter and master accordionist Leonardo “Flaco” Jiménez has died. He was 86.

Jiménez’s family shared the news of the musician’s death on his official Facebook page Thursday night. A cause of death was not disclosed.

“It is with great sadness that we share tonight the loss of our father, Flaco Jiménez. He was surrounded by his loved ones and will be missed immensely,” his family wrote. “Thank you to all of his fans and friends — those who cherished his music. And a big thank you for all of the memories. His legacy will live on through his music and all of his fans. The family requests privacy during this time of sadness and grievance.”

Over his more than seven decades in the music industry, the San Antonio native garnered six Grammy Awards, received a National Medal of Arts from President Biden and established himself as a pioneering accordion virtuoso who helped nationalize the popularity of Tejano and conjunto music in the U.S.

Jiménez is perhaps best known for his work with the Tejano music supergroup Texas Tornados, which included the talents of Freddy Fender, Doug Sahm and Augie Meyers. Texas Tornados won the Mexican/Mexican-American Performance Grammy in 1990 for their song “Soy de San Luis.” The band’s Spanglish style is on full display in their most popular track “(Hey Baby) Que Pasó?”

In 2022, the Congressional Hispanic Caucus, led by Texas Rep. Joaquin Castro, included the 1989 hit in its list of nominees to Library of Congress’ National Recording Registry, in an effort to increase Latino representation in the U.S.

Castro, a San Antonio native, shared a statement on Facebook regarding Jiménez’s death.

“I am saddened by the passing of San Antonio music legend Leonardo ‘Flaco’ Jiménez,” he wrote. “He was a pioneer in conjunto music — receiving a Lifetime Achievement Grammy, National Medal of Arts, and a place in the National Recording Registry for his work. Texas is proud of his legacy. May he rest in peace.”

Jiménez’s 1992 album, “Partners,” was inducted into the National Recording Registry in 2020.

“People used to regard my music as cantina music, just no respect,” Jiménez told the Library of Congress. “The accordion was considered something like a party joke … I really give respect to everyone who helped me out on this record, and I’m flattered by this recognition.”

His skills on the “party joke” of an instrument were so well recognized that the famed German musical instrument manufacturer Hohner collaborated with Jiménez in 2009 to create a signature line of accordions.

“The music world has lost a true legend. Flaco Jimenez was a global ambassador for Tex-Mex Conjunto music, bringing its vibrant sound to audiences around the world,” Hohner wrote in a social media post following Jiménez’s death. “His passion and virtuosity on the three-row button accordion inspired generations of musicians across cultures and continents. Since 1976, Flaco was a proud partner of Hohner, a relationship built on mutual respect and a shared love for music. It was an incredible honor to work alongside such a talented, humble, and gracious artist.”

Jiménez was born on March 11, 1939, in San Antonio to a family with a storied musical background. He first began performing at age 7 with his father, Santiago Jiménez, who himself was a pioneering figure in the conjunto movement. At 15, Flaco appeared in his first recording with the musical group Los Caporales.

He went from local fame to modest international recognition on the folk scene when musicologist Chris Strachwitz recorded him for his Arhoolie label, and after being featured in a 1974 Les Blank film on Texas-Mexican border music.

Then in 1976, Ry Cooder tapped him to be a member of his Chicken Skin Revue. Jimenez worked with Cooder on several projects, including the soundtrack to the 1982 film “The Border,” which starred Jack Nicholson.

He won the first of his three Grammy Awards for best Mexican-American performance in 1986 for his album “Ay Te Dejo en San Antonio” and his last in the category in 1999 for his work with the supergroup Los Super Seven. He also won Grammys for his solo albums “Flaco Jiménez” in 1994 and “Said and Done” in 1999, as well as a Grammy Lifetime Achievement Award in 2015.

The list of artists with whom Jiménez collaborated is as long as it is distinguished and includes Bob Dylan, Carlos Santana, Dwight Yoakam and Linda Ronstadt.

Jiménez played the accordion on the Rolling Stones’ “Sweethearts Together,” a Tex-Mex-infused ballad off of their 1994 album, “Voodoo Lounge.”

Jiménez’s success and recognition far surpassed anything he could have imagined for himself, he told The Times in 1994.

“I thought that it was always just going to be a local thing. I’d only hear my dad and other groups in San Antonio, or even here just in the barrio,” he said. “I think that audience started changing when I began to ‘bilingual’ a lot of stuff and started playing rock ‘n’ roll and with a little country to it. Then the reaction of the people, not just the Chicanos but the Anglos, was stronger.”

Speaking with The Times in 1996, Jiménez said he was delighted that crossover with country had helped to bring the distinctive sound of accordion-based Tejano music to a wider audience.

“It’s more respected and more listened to than ever before. I’m satisfied. At the level Tejano or conjunto music is now, we can communicate with the mainstream,” he said.

Reflecting on how far the reach of conjunto had come, Jiménez recalled one of his earliest and most impactful memories introducing the genre across the globe.

“Conjunto or Tex-Mex music was not known at all. We went on tour to Switzerland, and when I got to the concert hall there was just one microphone and one chair. They thought I was going to give a concert with pura acordeon — just the accordion,” he said.

“I said, ‘Hey, where’s the rest of the amps and whatever?’ And they managed to get a drum set so we did our thing. Then the audience noticed, ‘Hey, this is fun!’ And it got really wild. Because when I play, I’m really just having a party with the audience.”

Times staff writer Fidel Martinez contributed to this report.

The trailblazing artist, son of legendary Fairuz and composer Assi Rahbani, was also a playwright, pianist and political provocateur.

Lebanese musician and composer Ziad Rahbani, son of the iconic singer Fairuz and a pioneer of fusion jazz, has died at the age of 69 of a heart attack.

“On Saturday at 9:00am, the heart of the great artist and creator Ziad Rahbani stopped beating,” said a statement from the hospital where he was being treated in the capital, Beirut, on Saturday.

Rahbani influenced generations of Lebanese people with his songs and especially his plays, whose lines are known by heart by both young and old.

He was the son of Fairuz, the last living legend of Arabic song – and one of the most famous Arab women worldwide – and composer Assi Rahbani, who, along with his brother Mansour, modernised Arabic song by blending classical Western, Russian, and Latin American pieces with Middle Eastern rhythms.

“I admire the music of composers like Charlie Parker, Stan Getz and Dizzy Gillespie,” Rahbani once said. “But my music is not Western, it’s Lebanese, with a different way of expression.”

Fairouz also became an icon for young people when Rahbani composed songs for her influenced by jazz rhythms – he called it “oriental jazz”.

Lebanon’s leaders paid a heartfelt tribute to the Lebanese composer, who was also a playwright, pianist and political provocateur.

President Joseph Aoun called Rahbani “a living conscience, a voice that rebelled against injustice, and a sincere mirror of the oppressed and marginalised”.

“Lebanon has lost an exceptional and creative artist, a free voice that remained faithful to the values of justice and dignity” and who said “what many did not dare to say”, said Prime Minister Nawaf Salam.

Rahbani’s works reflected the hybrid heritage of Lebanon, which, until the civil war erupted in 1975, was a cultural melting pot. It also reflected the ensuing sectarian strife, which involved bloody street battles between rival militias and three years of violent Israeli occupation after the 1982 invasion.

While Fairuz transcended the powerful sectarian divides in the country, her son chose to be resolutely left-wing and secular, denouncing Lebanon’s longstanding divisions. His breakout play, Nazl el-Sourour (Happiness Hotel), premiered in 1974 when he was only 17, portrayed a society disfigured by class inequality and repression.

The play follows a group of workers who take over a restaurant to demand their rights, only to be dismissed by the political elite.

In another play, Bennesbeh Labokra Chou? (What About Tomorrow?), he plays a jaded bar pianist in post-civil war Beirut. The work features some of Rahbani’s most poignant music and biting commentary, including the famous line, “They say tomorrow will be better, but what about today?”

Rahbani was also a composer of staggering range. He infused traditional Arabic melodies with jazz, funk and classical influences, creating a hybrid sound that became instantly recognisable. His live performances were legendary, when he often played piano in smoky clubs in Hamra, one of Beirut’s major commercial districts.

In recent years, Rahbani appeared less in the public eye, but younger generations rediscovered his plays online and sampled his music in protest movements. He continued to compose and write, speaking often of his frustration with Lebanon’s political stagnation and decaying public life.

“I feel like everything is over, I feel like Lebanon has become empty,” wrote Lebanese actress Carmen Lebbos, his former partner, on X.

Rahbani is survived by his mother, now 90, his sister Reema and brother Hali.

Jonathan Singletary is almost ready to go live on Instagram. He scans his short-sleeve button-up — it’s clean and different from the one he wore last time. He takes a few deep breaths. He throws up a quick thank-you to God, opens Instagram, hits the white circle and goes live at 5:30 p.m. People from across the country begin to tune in for improvised music in a welcoming spiritual space. It’s time for “Piano & Prayer.”

The late afternoon Los Angeles sunlight shines through gauzy curtains behind Singletary, who sits at his piano with fingers poised over the keys. The music starts. On Instagram, members of the “Piano & Prayer” community greet one another and share where they are listening from: Atlanta, Pittsburgh, Houston, New York City, Maine, Rhode Island, New Jersey and even Chile.

Jonathan Singletary connects with new people and longtimers during his “Piano & Prayer” sessions.

(Amanda Villarosa / For The Times)

Singletary riffs with the confidence of a musician who began playing a toy piano at the age of 5 in his family home in Nashua, New Hampshire. Now, a 38-year-old father of two, he starts vocalizing as he plays, sometimes forming words, but always in a soothing harmony.

During the early days of the pandemic, from his living room in New York, Singletary started “Piano & Prayer,” a weekly spiritual, but not necessarily religious gathering, for people to connect and share. For him, it was the perfect antidote to the isolation he was feeling.

“Hello, hello, welcome to ‘Piano & Prayer.’ Happy Monday,” Singletary says. He stops playing and turns toward the camera with a warm, welcoming smile.

Singletary’s eyes light up. “Jaden, good to see you, my mom’s in here, so many familiar faces, Hannah, good to see you, Aunt Jeanette, good to see you. I missed y’all, I missed this.” Singletary and his family had been on vacation for a couple of weeks, and he’s excited to be back. “Debra, good to see you.”

Debra Mazer, a “Piano & Prayer” original, is watching from Atlanta. “ I had Jonathan’s sessions on my pandemic roster . I had a schedule for myself that I put in the calendar because the Zoom groups were very important to my mental health and well-being,” Mazer says. She discovered this gathering by following Singletary’s then-financée, now wife, Elaine Welteroth, former editor in chief of Teen Vogue.

It was a tough time to be a professional musician in April 2020. “ I made music. I’ve done a lot of shows,  but all of that was shut down,” Singletary says. He credits Welteroth with encouraging him to combine social media with music. He remembers her saying, “ Go on in there and just play, just play some music.”

Jonathan Singletary played music at New York venues before the pandemic, but once stay-at-home orders were in place, he needed another outlet: Enter “Piano & Prayer.”

(Amanda Villarosa / For The Times)

Singletary confesses it was a bumpy start. The first iteration was him playing acoustic versions of his songs: “I t didn’t fully resonate with me.” So he returned to his first instrument, the piano. “Piano & Prayer” wasn’t set up to be a moneymaking endeavor at first, but Singletary recently launched a Patreon, which allows creators to collect money directly from fans.

“ I was always playing piano for fun. I would go into the chapel at my Catholic high school, and I would play piano, and my friends would come in and lie on the floor and just zen out while I played,” he remembers. “This thing [“Piano & Prayer”] has existed for a while.”

Fast forward to 2020, instead of a chapel floor, isolated people from across the country carved out 45 minutes to connect. Mazer notes that while the world has moved on from COVID, “Piano & Prayer” is one of the online activities she started during the pandemic that she still attends regularly.

Jonathan Singletary riffs while playing during his Instagram sessions, sometimes just vocalizing as viewers share their prayers in the comments.

(Amanda Villarosa / For The Times)

The Monday evening sessions are a blend of gentle piano music, meditation, prayer and community. During a recent livestream, 40 people gathered — those who want to share what they are thinking and feeling in the chat, offering prayers for themselves and others.

“For those affected by the flooding in TX,” one person shares.

“Praying for my students that they make up their work this summer session and pass to graduate,” someone types.

“Praying for the families in Texas. Lord, have mercy,” pops up.

Jonathan Singletary plays the piano in a corner of his home.

(Amanda Villarosa / For The Times)

Singletary adopts a friendly approach, meeting people where they are with their religiosity or spirituality. Never preachy or too churchy — sometimes God is never mentioned. He was raised in a churchgoing family. “The church was a huge part. Has been a huge part of my life for as long as I can remember.”

For Singletary, the idea of going to church every Sunday changed during the pandemic. He didn’t feel safe, and then he moved to a new city and finding a new church was hard with social distancing.

On the other side of the country, it’s 8:30 p.m. and Bobby Brown’s four children, ages 5 to 12, are in bed. “Piano & Prayer” plays on his phone while Brown and his wife are hanging out in the humid night air. “ It’s just like a romantic thing in the background while we’re talking,” Brown explains.

“Then he [Singletary] throws out some prayers. We pause and take some deep breaths, because he tells us to and he reminds us to.”

Jonathan Singletary, with his children.

(Amanda Villarosa / For The Times)

Before relocating to Atlanta, Brown lived in Inglewood. He runs a nonprofit group called Donuts For Dads, a supportive community for fathers. This is where he and Singletary first connected. Brown says he didn’t realize his friend had this growing online community.

“ He doesn’t even promote it. It was just like, ‘Hey, I’m going live, ’” Brown laughs. “Whenever I see any of my friends go live, I just click to support them. Even if I can only hop on for a couple of minutes, try to throw some hearts in there.”

Both Mazer and Brown could be considered part of a larger trend of individuals who identify as spiritual rather than religious. A 2023 Pew Research Center survey found that 41% of U.S. adults report having grown more spiritual throughout their lifetime, compared with only 13% who say they have become less spiritual.

This data makes sense to Sarah Wilkins-Laflamme, an associate professor in social studies and legal studies at the University of Waterloo in Ontario, Canada, where her area of  expertise is the sociology of religion.

“ It’s like, no, religion’s not for me. But I like spirituality. All these shifts have happened across generations, especially amongst younger cohorts, the term religion itself now has almost a negative connotation in some contexts, but spirituality doesn’t.”

Singletary, who has about 25,000 followers, publishes the Instagram Lives on his grid and says the views on each “Piano & Prayer” session are usually around 1,000, but have reached as high as 5,000.

“This isn’t about people watching me do a thing. The most touching to me and maybe validating as well, is that I see people engaging with each other and encouraging each other and praying for one another and responding to each other’s prayer requests.”

For the moment, if it’s a Monday at 5:30 p.m., you can find Singletary at his black lacquered piano ready to welcome anyone who needs it into the “Piano & Prayer” family.

Singer Ray Stevens has shared his first update since being admitted to the hospital on July 4 for surgery.

According to his Instagram, the 86-year-old has been moved out of intensive care and is continuing to recover.

“Ray is out of ICU and beginning to walk the halls as therapy with a nurse’s assistance as he is working towards recovering from this surgery,” the post from Wednesday reads. “Ray is very grateful for all of the cards and get-well messages. Everything is Still Beautiful!!!!”

The last line is a reference to one of Stevens’ best-known songs, the Grammy Award-winning “Everything Is Beautiful.”

In a previous statement provided to People magazine, representatives of Stevens said he was recovering after a “minimally invasive heart surgery” on Monday. On July 4, he went to a Nashville hospital after experiencing chest pain.

Following a heart catheterization, Stevens was informed that he had suffered a minor heart attack. A subsequent surgery was carried out successfully.

Though the two-time Grammy winner’s upcoming performances at his CabaRay Showroom in Nashville have been canceled, fans are just happy to hear he is OK.

“This is the good news I was waiting for,” one Instagram user commented under the update. Another rejoiced, saying it was “great news in a world of such sadness and loss recently.”

Stevens has had a successful music career, cutting his first top 10 pop hit, “Ahab the Arab,” in 1962. The singer has recorded 45 albums, according to his website, won two Grammy Awards, and was inducted into the Country Music Hall of Fame in 2019.

Following the induction, Stevens was asked whether he would be retiring anytime soon.

“I feel fine; I’ll probably keel over after I hang up the phone,” he joked.

In 2024, he announced he would be hanging up his boots — only to change his mind a year later with the release of a new album, “Say Whut?”

“Although I said earlier that last year was going to be my final year at the CabaRay … I’m kind of going back on that because I want to promote this album,” he told NewsChannel 5 Nashville.

The Skirball Cultural Center, an institution dedicated to exploring the shared ideals of American democracy and Jewish heritage, will kick off its 28th annual free Sunset Concerts series on July 17 with Latin music.

The courtyard stage will host the music of singer-songwriter Rodrigo Amarante from Brazil and the electronic sounds of Ecuadorian American musician Helado Negro.

“These [musicians] that we have invited to participate … present a return to tradition and elements of hope and discovery and creating new opportunities that reflect the American democratic ideals grounded in pluralism,” said Marlene Braga, vice president of public programming.

“Many diverse artists coming together from different parts of the world to celebrate the great [American] experiment and looking to create a more perfect union through lifting their voices and their identities through music,” she added.

The Skirball Cultural Center will kick off its free 28th annual Sunset Concerts series on July 17 with musical performances in its courtyard from Rodrigo Amarante and Helado Negro.

(Skirball Cultural Center)

In previous years, the series staged other Latinx artists like the Marías and were a stop during the U.S. debut tour of the Cuban son conjunto Chappottín y sus Estrellas.

Amarante, who has been a member of bands Los Hermanos, Orquestra Imperial and Little Joy, and who wrote and performs the theme song to Netflix’s critically acclaimed series “Narcos,” will open the series with his rock tunes infused with bossa nova and folk. His latest project, “Drama,” was released in 2021. On the 11-track album, Amarante sings both in his native language Portuguese and in English.

“[Music] is one of the most powerful political acts,” Brazilian singer-songwriter Rodrigo Amarante told The Times.

(Courtesy of Rodrigo Amarante)

“[Music] is one of the most powerful political acts,” Amarante told The Times. “Because when you are dancing … you’re opening up and moving your body and pretty much loving everyone that’s around you.”

Playing on the same bill will be the musician Roberto Carlos Lange, the artist better known as Helado Negro. Known for songs like “Gemini and Leo” and “Lotta Love,” Helado Negro released the critically acclaimed LP “Phasor” in early 2024.

Helado Negro, known for songs like “Gemini and Leo” and “Lotta Love,” released the critically acclaimed LP “Phasor” in early 2024.

(Sadie Culberson Studio / Sadie Culberson)

The first show of the series will also include a special DJ performance from KCRW’s DJ Jason Bentley.

The series will continue every Thursday through Aug. 17, and its lineup includes Latin musicians like La Perla, Frente Cumbiero and Mula.

“The general public was admitted to new Los Angeles County Museum of Art for the first time on Friday night — not to look at art but to listen to music,” wrote Times music critic Albert Goldberg in 1965. Exactly 70 years and three months later, history repeated itself.

Thursday night was the first time the public was allowed into LACMA’s David Geffen Galleries. The occasion was a massive sonic event led by jazz saxophonist Kamasi Washington. More than a hundred musicians spread out in nine groups along 900-foot serpentine route of Peter Zumthor’s new building, still empty of art.

The celebration, which drew arts and civic leaders for the first of three preview nights, was far grander than the concert on March 26,1965, that opened LACMA’s Leo S. Bing Theatre the night before the doors opened to the museum’s original galleries. That occasion, a program by the legendary Monday Evening Concerts in which Pierre Boulez conducted the premiere of his “Éclat,” helped symbolize an exuberant L.A. coming of age, with the Music Center having opened three months earlier.

Monday Evening Concerts had been a true L.A. event drawing local musical celebrities including Igor Stravinsky and showing off L.A.’s exceptional musicians. The mandolinist in “Éclat,” for instance, was Sol Babitz, the father of the late, quintessential L.A. writer Eve Babitz. Boulez, an explosive composer, eventually turned the 10-minute “‘Éclat,’ for 15 instruments” into a 25-minute orchestral masterpiece, “Éclat/Multiples,” and left unfinished sketches behind to extend that to a full hour.

Kamasi Washington performing Thursday night.

(Allen J. Schaben / Los Angeles Times)

Washington turned out to be the ideal radical expansionist to follow in Boulez’s footsteps for the new LACMA, with a resplendent enlargement of his 2018 half-hour EP, “Harmony of Difference.” The short tracks — “Desire,” “Knowledge,” “Perspective,” “Humility,” “Integrity” and “Truth” — employ nearly three dozen musicians in bursts of effusive wonder.

For LACMA, Washington tripled the number of musicians and the length. What some critics thought were bursts of bluster, however enthralling, became outright splendor. Introducing the program, LACMA Director Michael Govan called it an event that has never happened before and may never happen again. I got little sense of what this building will be like as a museum with art on the walls, but it’s a great space for thinking big musically and, in the process, for finding hope in an L.A. this year beset by fires and fear-inducing troops on our streets.

Washington is one of our rare musicians who thrives on excess. He has long been encouraged to aim toward concision, especially in his longer numbers, in which his untiring improvisations can become exhausting in their many climaxes. But that misses the point. I’ve never heard him play anything, short or long, that couldn’t have been three times longer. His vision is vast, and he needs space.

In the David Geffen Galleries, he got it. The nine ensembles included a large mixed band that he headed, along with ensembles of strings, brass, woodwinds and choruses. Each played unique arrangements of the songs, not quite synchronized, but if you ambled the long walkways, you heard the material in different contexts as though this were sonic surrealism.

A crowd gathers to watch Washington on Thursday.

(Allen J. Schaben / Los Angeles Times)

Acoustically, the Geffen is a weird combination. The large glass windows and angled concrete walls reflect sound in very different ways. Dozens of spaces vary in shape, size and acoustical properties. During a media tour earlier in the day, I found less echo than might be expected, though each space had its own peculiarities.

Washington’s ensembles were all carefully amplified and sounded surprisingly liquid, which made walking a delight as the sounds of different ensembles came in and out of focus. A chorus’ effusiveness gradually morphed into an ecstatic Washington saxophone solo down the way that then became a woodwind choir that had an organ-like quality. The whole building felt alive.

There was also the visual element. The concert took place at sunset, the light through the large windows ever changing, the “Harmony of Difference” becoming the differences of the bubbling tar pits nearby or the street life on Wilshire or LACMA’s Pavilion for Japanese Art, which looks lovely from the new galleries.

Govan’s vision is of a place where art of all kinds from all over comes together, turning the galleries into a promenade of discovery.

LACMA Director Michael Govan addressing the crowd Thursday night before Kamasi Washington performs.

(Allen J. Schaben / Los Angeles Times)

Musically, this falls more in line with John Cage’s “Musicircus,” in which any number of musical ensembles perform at chance-derived times as a carnival of musical difference — something for which the Geffen Galleries is all but tailor-made. Nevertheless, Washington brilliantly demonstrated the new building’s potential for dance, opera, even theater.

The museum may not have made performance a priority in recent years, but Washington also reminded us that the premiere of Boulez’ “Éclat” put music in LACMA’s DNA. Seven decades on, Zumthor, whether he intended it or not, now challenges LACMA to become LACMAP: Los Angeles County Museum of Art and Performance.

Grammy-winning R&B star Chris Brown has pleaded not guilty to one charge connected to his alleged beating of a music producer in a London nightclub in 2023.

The “Kiss Kiss” singer, 36, appeared Friday in London’s Southwark Crown Court for his arraignment where he pleaded not guilty to one count of attempting to unlawfully and maliciously cause grievous bodily harm with intent. “Not guilty ma’am,” he responded when asked how he pleaded to the count.

Prosecutors accuse Brown of attacking music producer Amadou “Abe” Diaw with a bottle of tequila at Tape London, a nightclub, in February 2023. The accusations against Brown echo allegations from a civil lawsuit Diaw filed in Los Angeles against the musician in October 2023. He sued Brown for assault and battery and intentional infliction of emotional distress, claiming in court documents that the singer “brutally assaulted” him by “beating him over the head” and that he “continued to ruthlessly stomp” on him as he lay unconscious on the nightclub floor after the bottle attack.

London police arrested Brown in May on suspicion of the single bodily harm charge, but in a subsequent indictment, prosecutors added charges for assault causing actual bodily harm and having an offensive weapon, a bottle. Brown did not enter pleas on those additional counts but is due back in court in July.

The “Under the Influence” artist was released from police custody in mid-May after posting $6.7 million bail. His arrest initially posed a threat to his Breezy Bowl tour, which kicked off June 8 in Amsterdam. In an Instagram story shared after his release, Brown informed fans he would be going from “cage to stage.”

The singer’s trial is set for Oct. 26, 2026. A representative for Brown did not immediately respond to The Times’ request for comment.

Musician and Brown friend Omololu Akinlolu ((who performs as HoodyBaby), 39, was charged with causing grievous bodily harm for his alleged involvement in the 2023 incident and pleaded not guilty during Friday’s hearing.

The Associated Press contributed to this report.

Brian Wilson, the musical savant who scripted a defining Southern California soundtrack with the Beach Boys before being pulled down by despair and depression in full public view, has died. He was 82.

Wilson’s family announced his death Wednesday morning on Facebook. “We are at a loss for words right now,” the post said.

“Please respect our privacy at this time as our family is grieving. We realize we are sharing our grief with the world,” said the statement, which was also shared on Instagram and the musician’s website.

The statement didn’t reveal a cause of death. Wilson died more than a year after it was revealed he was diagnosed with dementia and placed under a conservatorship in May 2024. For decades, Wilson battled mental health issues and drug addiction.

“The world mourns a genius today, and we grieve for the loss of our cousin, our friend, and our partner in a great musical adventure,” the Beach Boys said in a statement on Wednesday. “Brian Wilson wasn’t just the heart of The Beach Boys — he was the soul of our sound. The melodies he dreamed up and the emotions he poured into every note changed the course of music forever. “

The group added: “Together, we gave the world the American dream of optimism, joy, and a sense of freedom — music that made people feel good, made them believe in summer and endless possibilities. We are heartbroken by his passing.”

Elton John, the Rolling Stones’ Keith Richards and Ronnie Wood, Mick Fleetwood and Nancy Sinatra were among the artists who remembered Wilson on social media. Universal Music Group chairman and CEO Lucian Grainge and California Gov. Gavin Newsom also paid tribute to Wilson and his contributions to music.

“Wilson fundamentally changed modern music, helping make the Beach Boys not only the defining American band of their era, but also the California band to this day,” Newsom said in a statement. “He captured the mystique and magic of California, carrying it around the world and across generations.”

Roundly regarded as a genius in the music studio, Wilson wrote more than three dozen Top 40 hits, bright summertime singalongs that were radio candy in the early 1960s, anthems to the surf, sun and souped-up cars.

In an era when rock groups were typically force-fed material written by established musicians and seasoned songwriters, Wilson broke the mold by writing, arranging and producing a stream of hits that seemed to flow effortlessly from the studio.

Riding the crest of peppy, radio-friendly songs like “Surfer Girl,” “California Girls” and “Don’t Worry Baby,” Capital Records gave Wilson almost unchecked control over the group’s output. The label came to hold Wilson in such high regard that it even allowed him to record where he wished rather than use the cavernous Capitol studios in Hollywood that the Beach Boy leader felt were suitable only for orchestras.

“There are points where he did 37 takes of the same song,” said William McKeen, who taught a rock ‘n’ roll history course at the University of Florida. “One track will be someone singing ‘doo, doo, doo’ and the next will be ‘da, da, da.’ Then you hear them all together and, my God, it’s a complex piece of music.

“And he heard it all along.”

In many ways, the studio became Wilson’s primary instrument, just as it had been Phil Spector’s. As his confidence grew, Wilson’s compositions became more majestic and complex as he pieced together a far-reaching catalog of music while his bandmates toured the world without him — just as he preferred.

When the group returned from a tour in Asia in 1966, they discovered that Wilson had created an entire album during their absence. He had written the songs — many with guest lyricist Tony Asher, used the highly regarded Wrecking Crew session musicians to record with him and regarded the product as essentially a solo album. All his bandmates needed to do, he explained, was add their voices.

Brian Wilson, second to right, performs with the Beach Boys in California circa 1964.

(Michael Ochs Archives / Getty Images)

The songs on “Pet Sounds” were achingly beautiful and introspective. Some were melancholy, wistful, and brimming with nostalgia. Gone were the waves, the sunshine and the blond-haired girls that populated his earlier work. They were replaced with interlocking songs that seemed to form a single piece of music.

His bandmates were dumbstruck. Mike Love, his cousin and lead singer of the group, told him the album would have been better had he had a bigger hand in its creation. “Stop f— with the formula,” he reportedly snapped. Other band members agreed that the songs seemed foreign compared with surefire crowd pleasers like “Surfin’ U.S.A” and “Dance, Dance, Dance.” But they relented, and the album was released.

Love, in a lengthy 2012 L.A. Times op-ed about his brittle relationship with Wilson, told the story far differently, however. He said he was an early champion of the album, wrote some of the songs, came up with the title and helped convince Capitol to get behind the record when the label dragged its feet.

Though “Pet Sounds” was the first Beach Boys recording not to go gold — at least not immediately — it was a virtual narcotic to critics and admirers. Paul McCartney said it was “the classic of the century” and, as the story goes, rallied the rest of the Beatles to record “Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band” in response. Classical composer Leonard Bernstein declared Wilson a genius and one of America’s “most important musicians.”

As the years passed, the album became a treasured gem, saluted as one of the finest of the rock era and preserved in the National Recording Registry by the Library of Congress. Fifty years after it was released, it was still ranked as the second-best album of all time by both Rolling Stone and Pitchfork, topped only by “Sgt. Pepper’s.”

“Part of Brian Wilson’s genius was his ability to express great complexity within the frame of great simplicity,” wrote Anthony DeCurtis, an author and former Rolling Stone editor.

Then things fell apart.

For months, Wilson tinkered in the studio on an album with the working title “Smile” as anticipation built for what it might be and in what direction it might take rock, already shifting quickly in the dawn of the psychedelic era — music, drugs, lifestyle and all. Wilson said the album would be a “teenage symphony to God,” a piece of music so audacious it would unlock the straitjacket he felt was keeping pop music bland and predictable.

The first window into the album was “Good Vibrations,” a 3-minute, 35-second song that featured dramatic shifts in tone and mood with Wilson’s distinctive falsetto soaring above it all. It was an immediate commercial and critical success.

But it was also a disturbing sign of the madcap world Wilson now inhabited. Recordings for “Good Vibrations” stretched over seven months, the sonic blips and beeps he was trying to stitch together consumed 90 hours of tape and costs soared to nearly $75,000 — roughly $740,000 in 2025 valuation. All the while, musicians — some bandmates, others hired guns — filed in and out of four different studios as he searched for perfection.

Not everyone thought it was worth the effort for a single song.

“You had to play it about 90 bloody times to even hear what they were singing about,” complained Pete Townshend, the guitarist and songwriter for the Who. Spector — Wilson’s idol — said it felt “overproduced.” McCartney said it lacked the magic of “Pet Sounds.”

Wilson felt otherwise. When he finished the final mix on “Good Vibrations,” he said it left him with a feeling he’d never experienced.

“It was a feeling of exaltation. Artistic beauty. It was everything.”

The band toured again as Wilson continued work on “Smile,” an increasingly troubled project. He ordered members of a studio orchestra to wear fire gear and reportedly built a fire in the studio during a recording of “Mrs. O’Leary’s Cow,” which was to be the album’s opening number. He turned to veteran recording artist Van Dyke Parks for help with the lyrics rather than wait for his bandmates to return.

When Love listened to the still-under-construction album, he dismissed it as “a whole album of Brian’s madness,” according to the Guardian. Parks, an admired lyricist with his own career to worry about, eventually walked away from the project, spooked by Wilson’s erratic behavior and what he saw as Love’s uncomfortable tendency to bully his cousin.

David Marks, from left, Al Jardine, Brian Wilson, Blondie Chaplin, Mike Love and Bruce Johnston at the 2024 world premiere of the Disney+ documentary “The Beach Boys” in Hollywood.

(Alberto E. Rodriguez / Getty Images)

Whether it was the hostile reaction from his bandmates or the hopelessness of navigating the maze of half-finished songs and sonic fragments he’d created, Wilson put the whole thing aside. It would be decades before he revisited it.

“When we didn’t finish the album, a part of me was unfinished also, you know?” Wilson wrote in his 2016 memoir “I am Brian Wilson.” “Can you imagine leaving your masterpiece locked up in a drawer for almost 40 years?”

Love, who sued Wilson repeatedly through the years to get songwriting credit for dozens of songs he claimed he helped write, bristled at the suggestion that he had upended his cousin’s masterwork.

“What did I do? Why am I the villain?” Love wondered aloud in a lengthy 2016 profile in Rolling Stone. “How did it get to this?

Wilson’s psyche had been fragile for years. He was reclusive at times, spending days alone in a bedroom at his Malibu mansion, where he had a baby grand piano installed in a sandbox and a teepee erected in the living room. He admitted that he suffered from auditory hallucinations, which caused him to hear voices.

And he took drugs by the bucketful.

He was public about his demons. He was mentally ill, he said, consumed with such depression that he couldn’t get out of bed for days at a time. He smoked pot, experimented with LSD and got through the day with a steady lineup of amphetamines, cocaine and sometimes heroin. A tall man, Wilson’s weight ballooned to more than 300 pounds, and when he did surface in public, he seemed withdrawn and distracted.

“I lost interest in writing songs,” he told The Times in a 1988 interview. “I lost the inspiration. I was too concerned with getting drugs to write songs.”

It all started in Hawthorne, where Wilson was born on June 20, 1942. The eldest of three boys, he grew up in suburban comfort not far from the beaches that would inspire so many of his early songs.

His father, Murry, was a musician and a machinist; his mother, Audree, a homemaker. Wilson went to Hawthorne High, where he played football and baseball. He earned an F for a composition he submitted in his music class, though decades later the school changed his grade to an A when administrators discovered the composition had become the Beach Boys’ first hit song, “Surfing.” School officials invited him to campus to accept their apology.

At home, he played the piano obsessively. He recalled hearing George Gershwin’s “Rhapsody in Blue” when he was 4, lying on the floor of his grandmother’s house, mesmerized that the composer had captured both a city and an entire era in a single piece of music. He took accordion lessons but set the instrument aside after six weeks. His father, though, noticed his son had the ability to quickly repeat melodies on the piano.

“He was very clever and quick. I just fell in love with him,” Murry Wilson says in Peter Carlin’s “Catch a Wave: The Rise, Fall and Redemption of the Beach Boys’ Brian Wilson.”

In 1961, with his parents on vacation, Wilson, his brothers, Love and their friend Al Jardine rented guitars, a bass, drums and an amplifier with the food money their parents had left behind and staged a concert for their friends. When Murry Wilson returned home, he was more pleased than angered and encouraged the fledgling musicians to continue. Armed with a handful of songs, the Pendletones — named for the then-popular flannel shirts — began to play at school dances and parties. When they went into the studio to record, a producer changed the group’s name to the Beach Boys and never bothered to tell them.

If it all sounded sunny and carefree, Wilson didn’t remember it that way. He said his father was abusive and seemed to delight in humiliating him, typically in public. It was possible, he said, that his hearing problems stemmed from one of the times his father smacked him in the head.

“I was constantly afraid,” he told The Times in 2002. “That’s what I remember most: being nervous and afraid.”

When the Beach Boys became successful, Murry took over as their manager and increasingly took charge of their business affairs. When money was needed, he overrode his sons’ objections and sold off the band’s publishing company, believing the group had peaked. When the group went on the road, he went with them and fined his sons if they broke his rules — no booze, no profanity, no fraternizing with women. Finally, in 1964, Wilson and his brothers essentially fired their father. Never fully reconciled with his sons, Murry died of a heart attack in 1973.

To some observers, the riddle of Brian Wilson could not be fully explained by the drugs he took, the voices he heard or the depression that smothered him like a blanket. It was more than that.

“My own theory is that he was never able, never quite allowed, to become an adult — and that this, more than anything else, has been the story of his life, and of his band,” wrote Andrew Romano in a lengthy 2012 Newsweek article.

An abusive father, a cousin he regarded as a bully and ultimately a psychologist who sought to control his every move, his every thought — all appeared to have a hand in making Wilson who he was.

And then there was Eugene Landy, a colorful character by any measurement. He wore orange sunglasses, drove a Maserati with a license plate reading “HEADDOC,” sported a Rod Stewart-style haircut and practiced a brand of pop psychology that was regarded by some as revolutionary. Others, though, saw Landy as a Svengali-like figure, a man who could make Wilson appear to be on the road to recovery while bleeding him of every resource he had.

Hired by Wilson’s first wife, Marilyn, in 1976, Landy had his first meeting with his new client in Wilson’s bedroom closet, the only place where the musician said he felt safe. Landy gradually won Wilson’s trust and, believing in 24-hour therapy, moved in with the musician.

The results were immediate. Wilson shed weight, quit taking street drugs and rejoined the Beach Boys on stage for the group’s 15th anniversary. For a man who was so paranoid that he reportedly refused to brush his teeth or shower for fear that blood would gush from the faucet, it was a night-and-day change.

But it was short-lived, and Landy was fired when the Beach Boys’ management balked at his fees, which hovered around $35,000 a month — around $345,000 in 2025 valuation.

Without Landy, Wilson quickly regressed — back on drugs, overeating, retreating to his bedroom. He separated from his wife and grew apart from his daughters, Carnie and Wendy. Then with a flourish, Landy returned and — armed with a full team of nutritionists, assistants and caregivers — doubled down on his around-the-clock therapy.

Landy concluded Wilson suffered from a schizoid personality with manic depressive features — introverted, painfully shy, unable to show emotion. Left untreated, Landy said, Wilson would inevitably swing freely between delusional highs and nearly suicidal lows. He loaded Wilson up on medications — lithium, Xanax, Halcion, among others.

So involved was Landy in Wilson’s every move that in 1988 when the musician released “Brian Wilson” — his first solo album and his best effort in years — Landy was listed as the executive producer and given co-writing credit on five of the 11 songs. Landy’s girlfriend was given co-writing credit on three other songs. Landy became Wilson’s manager, formed a business interest with the musician to share in any profits from recordings, films and books and tried to become executor of Wilson’s estate.

Landy was ousted for good when the state attorney general’s office opened an investigation into his relationship with Wilson, probing accusations that he had prescribed drugs without a medical license and had financially exploited his famous client.

Gary Usher, a songwriter who worked with Landy, told state investigators that Wilson was a virtual captive, manipulated by a man who frightened and intimidated him.

In 1989, Landy pleaded guilty to a single charge of unlawfully prescribing drugs, surrendered his license and moved to Hawaii, where he died of lung cancer in 2006.

Wilson, who rarely said anything negative about anyone, could find little kind to say about Landy in a 2015 interview with Rolling Stone. “I thought he was my friend, but he was a very f— up man.”

Despite the tumult, Wilson kept recording and performing, sometimes showing glimpses of his former self, yet always doomed to comparisons with his earlier work.

In 2017, Times rock critic Randy Lewis observed that Wilson seemed chipper and content during a leg of the “Pet Sounds Live” tour at the Pantages Theatre in Hollywood. His voice, once shriveled by years of smoking and other abuses, was “assertive and confident,” Lewis wrote.

Two years later, though, Wilson postponed a leg of his “Greatest Hits” tour to focus on his mental health.

“It is no secret that I have been living with mental illness for many decades,” he wrote in a tender apology to ticketholders. “I’ve been struggling with stuff in my head and saying things I don’t mean, and I don’t know why.”

Through it all, the unfinished concept album he had put aside hung like a cloud.

A few snippets of the album had been used on “Smiley Smile,” a hurry-up recording in 1967 that the Beach Boys recorded to meet contractual demands, and “Surf’s Up,” a 1971 album built around a song of the same name that Wilson wrote for “Smile.”

Nearly 30 years later, an L.A. musician named Darian Sahanaja asked Wilson whether he’d be interested in revisiting “Smile.” The two had come to know each other on the road when Wilson sat in with Sahanaja’s group, the Wondermints.

The master tapes were unlocked, and Sahanaja said he downloaded the tracks and unconnected song fragments, aware that he was handling the very material that had nearly driven its author mad.

As the two worked on a laptop, the harmonies and unwritten connective tissue seemed to return to Wilson, Sahanaja said. They smoothed out transitions, changed tempos to help connect songs and phoned Parks when they were unable to make out lyrics. If he couldn’t remember a passage, Parks came up with substitute language.

In February 2004, Wilson’s version of “Smile” finally premiered at London’s Royal Festival Hall. With Wilson on stage, seated at a piano, and Parks in the audience, the crowd roared thunderously as a song cycle that had become nearly mythical in its absence was finally unveiled.

“I’m at peace with it,” Wilson said later, smiling.

Wilson is survived by six children, including daughters Carnie and Wendy, who made up two-thirds of the Grammy-nominated pop vocal group Wilson Philips. He is preceded in death by his wife, Melinda, who died in January 2024. His brother Dennis drowned in 1983 while diving in Marina Del Rey, and Carl, his other brother, died of lung cancer in 1998.

Times staff writer Alexandra Del Rosario contributed to this report.

There was something in the air at Punk Rock Bowling in Las Vegas last weekend.

No, it wasn’t the sound of distorted guitars, punk rockers puking or Nazis getting punched in the face. Though there was plenty of all of that.

It was the buzz surrounding FLAG, the most talked about band at the annual bowling tournament and music festival, now in its 25th year.

FLAG is the hardcore supergroup composed of four former members of Black Flag — Keith Morris, Chuck Dukowski, Dez Cadena, and Bill Stevenson — and Stephen Egerton, Stevenson’s longtime bandmate in the Descendents.

It had been six years since the last FLAG gig, which was also at Punk Rock Bowling. But this was more than a reunion show. It felt like history in the making.

It started Saturday with a panel discussion led by Fat Mike of NOFX at the Punk Rock Museum. Surrounded by photos of their younger selves taken by the late Naomi Petersen, all five members answered questions from Fat Mike, who introduced FLAG as “the best version of Black Flag I’ve ever seen.”

Fat Mike asked each participant to name their favorite album or song, which became something of a referendum on the band’s volatility on and off the stage, with musicians cycling in and out of the band. For instance, Henry Rollins, the band’s best-known vocalist, was Black Flag’s fourth singer.

“When people say, ‘Oh, Henry is my favorite. Ron [Reyes] was my favorite,’” Cadena said, “usually, that’s the first gig that they saw.”

“Why is it a contest?” Morris asked. “Each one of us contributed in the way we contributed. We each had our own personality.”

Keith Morris and Stephen Egerton of FLAG speaking about the band at the Punk Rock Museum.

(Rob Coons)

That those personalities frequently clashed with the band’s enigmatic guitarist and songwriter Greg Ginn is the story of Black Flag. Extreme music attracts extreme people. What’s unusual about these clashes is that they continued long after Ginn pulled the plug on his own band in 1986.

For instance, in June 2003, Rollins and Morris played Black Flag songs together — just not at the same time, Morris clarified during the panel — to raise money and awareness for the West Memphis 3.

It’s probably not a coincidence that later that summer, Ginn put together a Black Flag reunion of sorts at the Hollywood Palladium. The problem?

It featured musicians who’d never been in the band and they played along to prerecorded bass tracks. The shambolic set wasn’t well-received. These shows were also a benefit — for cats — launching a veritable cottage industry of CAT FLAG T-shirts.

Keith Morris, from left, Stephen Egerton, Bill Stevenson, Fat Mike, Dez Cadena and Chuck Dukowski gather to discuss FLAG’s reunion at the Punk Rock Museum over Memorial Day weekend prior to their set at the Punk Rock Bowling festival.

(Rob Coons)

In December 2011, Morris, Dukowski, Stevenson and Egerton played together for the first time at the Goldenvoice 30th anniversary show at the Santa Monica Civic Auditorium, where they were introduced as “Black Flag.”

The old friends had such a blast playing together, they decided to keep it going. Cadena was added to the mix and they played Black Flag songs under the banner of FLAG. The coming-out party for this lineup was an incendiary set at the Moose Lodge in Redondo Beach in April 2012.

Again, it’s probably not a coincidence that Ginn subsequently “reunited” Black Flag and initiated all kinds of legal activity against his former bandmates. At the heart of the issue was who could use the names FLAG and Black Flag. At the end of the day, the courts ruled that FLAG could continue.

Mike Magrann, vocalist and guitarist for L.A. punk band Channel 3, saw both bands play that year.

“It was puzzling,” Magrann said of Black Flag’s set, “because they weren’t honoring their legacy. When FLAG played, they played those songs the way they sounded back then. It brought back that feeling of being a kid on the side of the pit. The real threat of violence is right there. It was unbelievable!”

That ineffable feeling of danger is what drew so many people to FLAG’s Memorial Day performance. Fans came from all over the world just to see the show. Joey Cape of Lagwagon wrapped up a solo tour in Japan and flew directly to Punk Rock Bowling.

Like Cape and Magrann, some of the most hardcore fans were musicians who’d been inspired by Black Flag when they were young. David O. Jones of Carnage Asada drove in from L.A. with Martin Wong, who organized Save Music in Chinatown, and Martin’s daughter, Eloise Wong of the Linda Lindas. They returned to L.A. immediately after the show because Eloise, who is a junior in high school, had a physics test the following morning.

FLAG made it worth the trip. The band ripped through 22 songs, starting with “Revenge” and mixing crowd favorites like “My War” with deep cuts such as “Clocked-In.” Morris held the microphone with both hands like he was blowing on a bugle and urging the crowd to charge.

It was easily the rowdiest pit of the festival, and it swelled to nearly the length of the stage with a steady stream of crowd surfers being passed over the barricade: old men, young women and even small children. During songs like “Gimme Gimme Gimme,” “Wasted” and “Nervous Breakdown,” the roar from the crowd was almost as loud as the band.

There wasn’t any banter from the usually loquacious Morris. Toward the end of the show, he simply said, “Thank you for your participation,” and launched into the next song.

FLAG performs at the 25th Annual Punk Rock Bowling and Music Festival in Las Vegas on May 26, 2025.

(Courtney Ware)

After the obligatory performance of “Louie Louie” at the end of the set, the players took their instruments off the stage and were gone. Fans young and old looked at each other in disbelief, their lives changed, their DNA forever altered by punk rock.

FLAG had done it again. They played the songs the way they were meant to be played. They honored their legacy.

It will be a tough act for Black Flag to follow. In recent years, Black Flag has been much more active. Inevitably, that means more changes to the lineup. Earlier in May, Ginn announced Black Flag will be touring Europe this summer with three new members: all of them young musicians, including a young woman named Max Zanelly as the new vocalist.

Once again, the internet flooded with Black Flag memes keying on the considerable age gap between Ginn, who is 70, and his new bandmates who look many decades, if not generations, younger. Wong, who knows something about the power of young musicians to change the world, is hopeful.

“Everyone wins when there’s more good music in the world,” Wong said. “In a perfect world, the new Black Flag lineup will get Ginn stoked on music and push him forward. But if that doesn’t happen, we get FLAG, the best Black Flag lineup that never happened.”

While Black Flag prepares for its new chapter, is this the end of the road for FLAG?

“I don’t know,” Stevenson said after the panel at the Punk Rock Museum. “We always have fun when we get together. You can tell we love each other. I’m sure we’ll do more. At some point, one of us will be too old to do it, but so far that’s not the case.”

Jim Ruland is the author of the L.A. Times bestselling book “Corporate Rock Sucks: The Rise & Fall of SST Records” and a weekly Substack about books, music, and books about music called Message from the Underworld.