Outta my Head On Sunset Boulevard (My time in Hollywood)

I picked this school out of all the other music schools in the United States for the sake of LA. Before getting there I had expected LA to be warm, sunny, full of palm trees, like in the movies, and it really was just as I had envisioned it to be. I had signed up for the unofficial Mediterranean experience brought to me by Los Angeles, California. It was a cool experience, I’ve gotta say. Classes were only five days a week lasting up until noon. I had the whole day to myself after that.

Everyday I’d go on these long walks fueled by Hollywood’s constant Bizarreness, music in my ears, Guitar strapped on to my back and my favourite ahem ahem plant ahem. Hollywood is probably the only place in the world to have a systemised routine for structured intrinsically interesting chaos. Everyday was never the same, and also everyday was the same, you’ll probably know the full extent of what I’m saying once you get there and live and breathe the Hollywood air for six months like I did. Every walk I took felt straight out of a movie, not in the sense that I felt like a movie star, but in the sense that I literally was walking this scenery filled with mellow sunny evenings, rosy sunsets, palm trees scattered every which way, cool breeze, weird people like the guy with the yellow python around his neck, a whole array of people dressed as Spider-man, The Joker, Bat-Man. I swear to god there I once saw a half naked guy dressed as Tarzan or at least he claimed he was, he looked too clean to be Homeless. I can confidently assure you that during my stay I laid eyes on every existing Disney character in the streets of Hollywood, including every Marvel and Star Wars character. The costumes seemed very real, at one instance I came across a guy dressed as Chewbacca and I for one was very impressed with how accurate it looked and the guy wearing it was doing a spot on impersonation, which made me giggle uncontrollably. There was this tall guy dressed as Heath Ledger’s Joker, purple suit, green vest, makeup, the whole look, always leaning against his vintage car. He was impossible to miss. The list goes on.

The beauty about the bizarre things you experience as a pedestrian in the streets of Hollywood is that you could exaggerate and make stuff up about the things you’ve seen, and anyone would believe you. Everything I’ve said until now is true, especially the guy with the friendly and cute looking Yellow Python. The first time I saw this, my jaw dropped so hard to the floor, it dug a hole straight through Hollywood/Highland’s Underground Metro Station. I didn’t know what I felt about this new thing I had just seen, staring at it with visible disbelief, did I feel scared? Did I feel excited? Did I wanna go pet the Python? Did I wanna retrieve my jaw back from the hole it had dug all the way to China? We’ll never know. I could throw words and phrases like perplexed, dumbfounded, flabbergasted, scared the bejesus outta me, holy cow a python, to describe my experience, but no, I don’t think what I felt that moment could ever be described using any preexisting word. I once saw a homeless guy walk onto the middle of the sidewalk, drop his pants down and take a fly covered turd emoji right during the high hours of Hollywood Traffic, and no one blinked an eye. It was as if this was normal, the collective nonchalance displayed by the fine people of LA  surprised me. This is why I am convinced that you can’t exaggerate about the Hollywood Bizarreness, however you exaggerate, something even bizarre has already taken place topping your exaggeration,and chances are the exaggerated version has also happened at some point. 

Hollywood now feels like a second home to me. I’ve never stayed anywhere else for as long as six months, apart from the place I’ve lived my whole life. Back there, I lived in this apartment which was located at 6600 Yucca street. I had two roommates. I lived on the first floor of the building and had a whole balcony to myself, where I’d spend hours listening to nostalgic Tamil pop music gazing at the limited view the west of the building had to offer. It seemed interesting, the cluster of feelings that I felt during my brief stay. I’d cook myself, I mostly lived on Pasta, Granola Bars, Oranges, Milk and smoothies. I had this Ninja mixer that could turn anything healthy like strawberries, almonds, dates, apples, cashews into a smoothie. The machine never failed to make everything lusciously blended and perfectly smooth. In a way, it felt like I was tossing different shades of colour onto a high-tech canvas, one that would whirl those colours into a scrumptious, nutty, fruity, perfectly drinkable painting. It became a collaboration I looked forward to every day: me, the palette and taster, and Mr. Ninja, the painter. I wish I had brought him back with me to Chennai, I miss that guy, wonder where he is now.

It was December now, it had been four months in LA since my arrival. It was starting to get colder as the days progressed, winter was coming and I could feel it. All I had was a Bomber Jacket and a Gray Denim Jacket, the shivering cold felt like I needed something more for warmth, but I liked the cold weather. It rained now and then, I remember I’d go walk in the rain listening to 808s & Heartbreak and Graduation by Kanye West. I had a huge Kanye phase back in LA, it’s still going on, I love that guy. Streets would be kind of empty during rainy weekdays, I’d walk up to the Jimi Hendrix Walk Of Fame star and just stand there for as long as four songs while the rain poured. I’d just stare at it in awe and respect. 

It was my first day after arriving in Hollywood, I started at about afternoon and took a long walk trying to explore what was around, the route I took seemed to be a less than okayish route, puddles of water, multiple cracks on the sidewalk, garbage everywhere, there were quite a few of these tiny parks scattered across this road, every corner had a small park. These parks looked very sketchy and shady rather than seeming fun or a place kids would normally frequent. It suddenly occurred to me that this might be the kind of neighbourhood where drug deals happened, the walls and slides of these parks were covered in graffiti. “Interesting”, I thought to myself and kept on walking. It was surprising to me how downtrodden this particular route looked, it seemed almost neglected by the people in power, maybe the politicians were receiving a cut from the Drug Dealers, I quietly pondered. 

This sketchy street had now led me to a paradise of a place parallel to Hollywood Boulevard, allowing me to set foot on Sunset Blvd for the first time in my life. Once you take an evening walk here you instantly nod your head in agreement as to why it is called what it is. It was around 5PM already at this point, nearing sunset time and I unintentionally walked westward, I was listening to Outta my Head by Khalid (ft. John Mayer), it felt perfect, the song along with the view i was experiencing. I kept the song on repeat and it was finally sunset time, Pink Rosy skies creeped in. God had outdone himself, the images on google did no justice, nothing could capture such a picturesque sunset other than the human eye itself, Dopamine hit me instantly, I was enthralled and in bliss. Some by Steve Lacy started playing in my ears, my spotify somehow went to Autoplay and this had happened, and I wasn't complaining cause the song was only intensely amplifying my high. I was snapping my fingers and walking very subtly not trying to act like Tobey from Spider-Man 3, I found a better sophisticated street with what seemed like an ultra posh neighbourhood that led me back to Hollywood Blvd. I walked through, while the place darkened with the approaching night. A permanent memory.

I never trusted the tap water in LA, I somehow intuitively knew that it was tainted with all sorts of cleansing chemicals and that’s why I always preferred to buy packaged mineral water. There were a couple of seven-elevens near Yucca, but I chose to walk all across Hollywood Blvd to get my water in the nearest Target outlet, just because I wanted to kill time that way and also the carton of bottles there was cheaper. This Target stood right across from the Jimmy Kimmel Live studio. The door that looked like the Grand entrance wasn’t one at all, but it didn’t matter  walking past that spot always felt special. Knowing that many of my favorite celebrities had been somewhere inside that very building, the same place where I’d watched them on YouTube as a teenager growing up in Chennai. I realized that space had become part of my teenage experience, and walking past it always felt reminiscently soothing.

This Target was also located right above the Hollywood/Highland Metro station, which made a lot of sense considering every time a train passed by the whole place would shake like it was being trolled by a mini earthquake. The first time this happened I instantly fell into a state of acceptance, I stood in front of the Skin Essentials isle praying to the big guy upstairs, nothing happened and I wore a big smile on my face, I walked back home thinking about how prone to earthquakes the Coastline of California is and how lucky I had been escaping one. Just as I was passing the Hollywood Metro station the same thing happened, and I could also simultaneously hear a train coming. It came and it stood to a halt, and the quake ceased, and that’s when I pieced it together. I laughed to myself and went my way. 

One such evening after dark I was returning back home from Target, carrying as I always did, a very evidently heavy carton of Mineral water bottles, those classic 36 pack 12 oz bottles. I was passing by these huge Airvents/Ventilation shafts glued to the pavement that usually expel hot air out of the underground metro station, these vents are so huge that they occupy most of the spacious Hollywood Walk of Fame pavement. They happened to be open at the time and I moved away quickly to avoid the uncomfortable hot air, and so did everyone else present there. It was only evening so the Hollywood routine was still very on, people dancing to music, weird people wearing weirder costumes, struggling Black artists trying to promote their Demos, giving out CDs in plastic velcro covers, which honestly to me seemed very early 2000s, they’d basically hand you a CD, and if you accidentally accepted it or took it, you’d have to pay a sum not exceeding $10.I’d always swiftly avoid such incidents and walk away, as it was the right thing to do. I’d sometimes explain to them that I’m studying music myself and that too right down the street and that I need the money for sustenance and what not, and they’d in a very cool manner shake hands with me, tell me to take care and let me go. After many such incidents like this and just in general socialising with random Black dudes on the street, I came to conclude that they are a very cool set of people. They’ve got their own swag, their own lingo and accent, they are basically awesome.

As I walked past the hot metro air vents along Hollywood’s bustling sidewalk, this Black kid suddenly appeared out of nowhere and tried to shove the heavy carton of water bottles out of my hands. I was in disbelief, this kid was asking for trouble. When I say kid, he wasn't a toddler, he was probably two three years younger than me and I was 21 at the time, this individual was more muscular than I was. Thank god for my Spider-like reflexes, I caught the carton in time, only letting it leave my grasp for a split second. I expected him to try again, but this weirdo proceeded to walk away disappointed. My arms were killing me because of the sudden jerk my body had exerted, I had unleashed a full on reflex enabling me to rescue my beloved water from falling onto the not so clean Pavement. I felt glad, endured the pain, held the carton in my arms, partially shifted the weight of the water to the rest of my body and walked back home. I didn’t know what to make of this incident, but it was something I’ll definitely never forget.

On days when I felt jaded by my usual Target grocery run, I’d switch things up and head to a different store across town on Vine Street — Trader Joe’s. The first time I walked in, I felt a smaller, condensed version of the awe I’d felt when I first saw an L.A. sunset.

The place was simply adorable, from the hand baskets and cartoon-like trolleys to the neatly stacked aisles overflowing with colorful groceries and snacks. Trader Joe’s felt like a grocery-store heaven, a haven for fitness freaks, health junkies, moms, and anyone who only pretends to read the ingredients list. All around me were people who seemed just as happy as I was to be there, shopping for the rest of their week.

Trader Joe’s had everything. There was an entire snack aisle devoted to corn-puff-like munchies, a bread aisle filled with loaves of every shape and kind of baked flour imaginable, and then the cheese aisle. It was the biggest in the store, a dairy galaxy that seemed to contain every cheese ever invented: Blue Stilton, Blueberry Vanilla Chèvre, 1,000-Day Gouda, Goat Brie, Unexpected Cheddar, Italian Truffle Cheese, Grated Parmesan, the list goes on. These were the only names I could recall from memory. Never had I been intimidated by an aisle of cheese before. I’d grab the Parmesan and hurry away, too nervous to face that literal Milky Way of cheese. From a distance, I’d steal glances at those big cellophane-wrapped blocks, each one looking heavy enough to double as a dumbbell. It was, in its own way, a blissful phenomenon.

Next to the cheese was the wine aisle. Hundreds of bottles lined the shelves, but something caught my eye, something even more bizarre than Hollywood itself. The wine was cheaper than water, and I couldn’t help but glance around, half-expecting to spot a distinguished gentleman in white robes, long hair, and a flowing beard.

A long display table nearby was stacked with premade “Heat and Eat” meals, popular dishes from every corner of the world. They had Ethiopian, Middle Eastern, Korean, Chinese, Cuban, South American, Mexican, classic Mac & Cheese, and even Indian. Naturally, I darted straight to the Indian section: Palak Paneer with Naan, Mini Vegetable Samosas, Madras Lentils, and Vegetable Biryani. I’d grab one at random during every visit.

Trader Joe’s carried every kitchen essential imaginable, vibrant rows of vegetables and spices, all arranged with almost artistic precision. I loved this place; each visit rekindled the same quiet thrill I’d felt the very first time I walked in.

During my six-month stay, I managed to write three different songs, of which only one I truly like. I attended Musician’s Institute Hollywood (MI Hollywood) for two quarters, the Fall Quarter and the Winter Quarter, each lasting three months. During the Winter Quarter, I was enrolled in the Independent Artist Program, but during the Fall Quarter I was enrolled in the Guitar Performance Program.

By December, Hollywood no longer felt foreign. It felt familiar. It was around this time that things at school started becoming complicated.

This teacher and I weren’t particularly fond of each other. He seemed convinced that I was more interested in being in LA than being in school. One day after class, I approached him to clarify a few doubts. Instead of answering them, he brought up his suspicions. At one point he even told me he couldn’t understand why I had enrolled in the program and implied that I had found a loophole into the United States. I ignored it, hoping he’d eventually warm up to me, but musicians are flaky people, and this one happened to be a teacher.

To be completely honest, I had learned guitar my own way—using my ear, figuring out shapes and patterns through logic and muscle memory. In 2019, I had picked up my guitar, and by 2023 I had decided to go to music school. I had learned unconventionally, emulating and imitating my favorite players. I had come to understand that not everyone at that school—students and faculty included—had learned the way I had.

I knew my limitations. I couldn't sight-read. I had always felt intimidated by conventional players, so I was surprised by some of the reactions my background seemed to get. I had private lessons with another instructor every week. He was supposed to clarify doubts from that week's syllabus, but our conversations often drifted elsewhere because I rarely brought many questions. After a few weeks, I began to feel a little out of place in the Guitar Program. Something about the whole situation felt strange, though I couldn't quite put my finger on why.

The private lesson guy was surprised I couldn’t read guitar tablature.

“Are you serious?” he asked, eyes wide. “You’re telling me you don’t read tabs?”

I told him I understood how they worked, but I had never needed them.

“Then how did you learn all your scales around the fretboard?” he asked again.

I told him that I simply navigated through it every day in my own way until I understood it.

He sat quietly for a moment.

All I had was my guitar and my brain, and I had practiced a certain way.

I wanted to shift to a different program, and I had chosen the Independent Artist Program for the Winter Quarter starting in January. Because of these unfortunate developments, I was desperate and determined to shift to this other program. I also knew I wanted to be more than a guitar player—I wanted to be a singer songwriter, producer, and a multi instrumentalist. I should have applied for the Independent quarter initially itself instead of the Guitar one, I kept scolding myself.  

The program required an essay and two songs written by me. It was okay for them to be in demo form, but they had to be completed and submitted along with the application. So I was just fishing for ideas, going for long walks looking for inspiration. And then I received an idea. I wanted to write a song about something that had happened to me a month back. The idea felt unique, and I wanted the song to be very simple. It’s a two chord song and it’s about two and a half minutes long, so I’d say I succeeded at making it simple and succinct. I still don’t know if people would like it, but I genuinely do, and I really think it has potential—to be a good listenable and partially, if not fully relatable, song for people if they ever come to listen to it. I’m hopeful.  

It was December, and I was in class. I sat in the last bench that day. I took out my phone, opened the Notes app, and I wrote the song. Inspiration struck, and I had to do what I was doing. Travis noticed that I was on my phone, and he didn’t look particularly pleased. Even though I was jotting down lyrics, my ear was still keeping up with whatever he was teaching. I couldn’t exactly announce to the class that I was writing a song, so from the outside it probably looked as though I was being disrespectful, which I was willing to live with because I was still annoyed by the assumptions he had made about me. School ended, and I walked out happily, song in hand. I had the words now. The songwriting part was done, but I had to write the melody. I had to come up with the hook, make it simple. I didn’t know what I was going to do, but I kept reading the lyrics on my phone, trying to memorise what had come from me as I walked towards the Jimmy Kimmel Show Building.  

A lady dressed in a suit stopped me. She wore a Jimmy Kimmel ID-like thing on her pocket. She told me they were taking audition tapes on the street for potential people who could show up in the audience for the show the rest of the month, and she rushed me in front of the camera. I instantly became both nervous and excited. My tummy felt funny. I felt like a child again for a moment. It felt as if I was attending an examination in an amusement park, and I flunked it. I didn’t even look at her—I just walked away because I had realised that I had messed it up, and there was no Take 2. I had to preserve my dignity by walking away before being told to.  

I still felt on top of the world. I felt silly. I still had a song to focus on, so I walked on until my legs got tired, and then I came back home.  

In the evening, I cooked myself some pasta. There was this Chinese music producer who said he’d produce my song, and I was to go to his apartment that evening. Before going there, I ate my pasta. And before eating the pasta, I had spent some time with my favorite ahem ahem plant ahem.

I reached his place, waited outside the building, and called him to come get me. He came down, and we went upstairs to his apartment. He lived with his girlfriend, and he had a huge custom-built table for his monitors and music producer toys. I sat down next to him, took out my phone, went to the Voice Memos app, and pressed record. I wanted to record the whole session, and I did.  

For two and a half hours, we worked. I didn’t know anything about production back then. I didn’t know how to use a Digital Audio Workstation (DAW), I didn’t know anything—but I knew how to make a song. I could hear the melody in my head, I could hear the chords that were to be, I could hear the guitar I was about to lay on the track.  

It felt as though this person became an extension of me. I told him what sounds I needed, I told him what to do, I told him where to hit record, where to stop, what to record, what to cut, what to keep, what to add. I became kinda bossy—I was too into it. I wanted to see my idea come to life, and it kinda did, in demo form. I sang the lyrics and came up with the melody, the two-chord progression. I told him the kind of drums I needed, played guitar on it, and the session ended. I went back home very proud of myself that day.  I named the song Lazy Laundry Day after the lines of the Chorus.

The Chinese guy told me he’d complete the track and send me the final demo in three days. So I waited.  

Four days later, I received the track from him, and I was flabbergasted. I felt betrayed. Cause this piece of shit had the audacity to put his name under my song. And the song’s quality sucked. The elements I had added, he had removed, and he made it sound worse. He told me he’d refine it, but he did the complete opposite. The track was muddier, and honestly, I felt betrayed. I didn’t know what to say. I tried calling him, and he cut the call on me. 

Well, the song was still there. My voice was still there. The lyrics were still there. So I changed the artist name under the track to my own. I submitted the song along with another song I had written before this. This other song no one will ever find—I will show no one.

I got into the program. I liked this program better. The faculty were motivating and helpful. They really helped bring one’s potential to light, and it was the total polar opposite of the Guitar Program. The keyboard teacher often kept me back after class and showed me additional material. I never asked him to do it, but he always seemed happy to. I don’t remember his name, but he was too kind. He really motivated me, and he showed me the ropes on the keyboard. I loved that guy.  

My musicianship teacher was also like this—too kind, too nice to me. It was our first class, and he was teaching us how sight reading worked, what the G Clef and the F Clef were, and I suddenly noticed how middle C united both these concepts. I immediately commented, “Ah, so C is like the Equator of Music huhh?”  

He giggled while looking genuinely surprised. He took a moment to process what I had said, then announced to the class, “I've been teaching music for many years, and I've never heard anyone explain it like that before." Then he thanked me and continued the lesson.