by Wolfgang Mowrey, KUCR DJ

Hollywood is unquestionably the loneliest neighborhood in a city comprised of lonely neighborhoods – several dozen cramped blocks of tourist traps, manicured apartment complexes, and fast food chains, all packed with hopefuls and those who’ve lost hope alike. Pandemic notwithstanding, the arteries of Hollywood and Sunset are bustling, as one would expect on a Saturday night. A pack of teenagers giddily exit Amoeba Records holding hands, goldenrod bags in tow. Families on vacation take pictures next to a giant-sized Elvis movie poster, boldly emblazoned atop a tiny apartment until the next blockbuster takes its place. A young man, wiry, unshowered and unshaven, plays the theme from “The Godfather” on a trumpet outside the Pantages Theater as hoards of strangers pass by. 

I’ve been summoned here tonight to crawl into the Henry Fonda theater and write about the latest tour stop from beloved UK rockers The Zombies. Amid the burst of mid-60s British Invasion acts, none may have emulated the West Coast pop sound as eloquently, and enmeshed it with a distinct British-ness. A classic album, a handful of hit singles, and a trove of rarities and post-breakup trail that led to more unexpected success has endeared the Zombies with something more than the typical Boomer guitar worship, big riffs and all. Soft-psych whisperers who layered harmonies and brewed them with melancholy, the Zombies became an archetypal rock nerd band, known for their flashes with fame but beloved by legions of weird kids and bespectacled older men who hunt down 45s. 

After traveling to find nearby parking, I resort to slogging down to Santa Monica Boulevard, and make the 20 minute trek back to the surface on foot. Outside the box office, a middle-aged man in a baseball cap is asking passersby if they have a spare ticket, as his last-minute purchase has been deemed a fake. Having had no luck myself in wrangling any acquaintance to tag along as a plus one tonight, I offer it to the stranger. Elated, he video calls his mom and introduces me to a kind bed-ridden octogenarian all the way in Montreal. “How old are you?” she asks. “27”. “You look 15.” 

There is an unmistakable generational divide in the theater tonight – clusters of young women excitedly jump up and down while belting out the chorus to each tune from opening act Rooney, while someone who looks like their dad limps around with the same grating expression you would imagine they have at the DMV. I find Rooney’s music to be pleasant and unobtrusive. If one was staying at a hotel, it would make sense to have Rooney playing in the background, massaging guests’ brains with playful pick-me-ups. There are shades of Lin-Manuel Miranda, The Killers, and late-era, Mayor Pete-backing Panic! At the Disco throughout their setlist. This is not a good thing. You can almost pinpoint a direct correlation from their most saccharine moments to the outpouring of “stomp clap” acts that dominated the early part of the 2010s. 

Rooney are best known for the single “When Did Your Heart Go Missing?”, a bubbly power-pop belter which has a memorable needle drop in the 2000s classic TV series “Gossip Girl”. Frontman Robert Schwartzman, he of the Coppola Schwartzmans, was once part of the family business, appearing in cousin Sofia Coppola’s “The Virgin Suicides” and most notably, “The Princess Diaries” as the love interest for Anne Hathaway. Like the Zombies, Rooney are a melange of nostalgic loose ends of their decade – guitar rock revival, coming-of-age romance –

and their fans have come to tap into the well of Y2K nostalgia. Like the crowd for the Zombies, the most dedicated of Rooney’s fans are devotees, and are familiar with the entire catalog. Contrary to any male music fan arrogance, perhaps my own included, they are as legitimate Rock fans as anyone, and are clearly having more fun than the couple standing on the far side of stage right, decked out in the kind of outfit last spotted on a Guitar Hero avatar. 

The Zombies take the stage with their touring band, and break into an hour and a half of covers, hits, and fan favorites. At one point, keyboardist Rod Argent tells a story about Tom Petty covering an early forgotten B-Side, “I Want You Back Again”, solidifying their lineage as patron saints of the “Nuggets” crowd. Among the walls of the Fonda, decked out with scenes from Bosch’s “Garden of Earthly Delights”, the whimsical vignettes from their 1968 opus “Odessey and Oracle”, the making of which Argent and vocalist Colin Blunstone delightfully recall, feel at home. Certainly, someone’s night was made by hearing Argent share his recollection of going into Abbey Road studios to record “Oracle” and discovering that The Beatles had left their equipment there, leading Argent to record with John Lennon’s mellotron, one of the first of its kind. 

The Zombies’ biggest hit, “Time of The Season”, makes spiritualism feel as seductive as it might have 55 years prior. Hearing Argent’s keyboard riffs and Blunstone’s “ahs” while standing 20 feet apart, you understand why that became a chart juggernaut – like many great songs, it is a call to arms, but without the heart-beating urgency, instead oozing a laissez-faire cool. There is no rush to “Time of the Season”, because the season is for loving, and thus, it is always the time of the season. 

Closing out the setlist is “Hold Your Head Up”, a song written in 1972 for Argent’s band after the Zombies dissolved, the aptly named Argent. After disclosing another “Behind The Music” gem with the audience, that the chorus is in fact “Hold your head up, woman” and not “hold your head up, woah”. “There’s a lot of tough times right for women”, Argent says, eliciting scattered cheers but sadly comatose indifference from many. After running through the main verses, the band breaks into a fiery and inspired solo section, and then you truly understand what set the Zombies apart from so many imitators. The influence of Jazz is peppered throughout many of their tunes, be it the punching Soul of keyboard maestro Jimmy Smith or modal groove of Joe Zawinul. The steamy bounce of “She’s Not There” has traces of Southern Soul as well as much of the Bossa Nova that was filtering into Western pop. From “Odessey and Oracle” and beyond, the Zombies have been constantly curious, and such curiosity has indebted them to legions of musicians and obsessives. 

Exiting the Fonda, I bump into the guy from earlier. He profusely thanks me again, and tells me how much he loved the show. Outside, groups take pictures posing next to the marquee and street vendors prepare hot dogs, and I grab one for the long walk back to my car. Walking down El Centro, past successive blocks of permit-only parking and a slinking line to get into a nightclub that circumvents several tents, the grease of bacon and bell pepper lingers on my

tongue alongside the familiar neighborhood loneliness I think of the dedication it takes to not only make something as expansive and challenging as “Oddesey and Oracle”, but to continue performing it, to continue going out on the road sharing your past with strangers, night after night. Many artists struggle to capture whatever lightning in a bottle they once had, and falter to understand how to connect with listeners who discover them much later. The Zombies do not seem to have this problem, because they are as curious writers as their audience are curious listeners, totally locked in a mutual search for togetherness. I think that’s pretty special, and it makes Hollywood feel a little less alien tonight.