Welcome to Los Angeles: A Plastic Love Story
On a Sunday night in the unlikely locale of Glendale, California, Plastic Love Records is throwing a record release party for the label’s second issue, Before When It Was New by Michael Walsh. An emerging force in an already flourishing Los Angeles scene, Plastic Love represents a small faction that champions the music, how it’s released, and most of all, a point of view. This isn’t Saturday night superclub business—though they have DJed at all the big local spots with amazingly little compromise—nor is it part of any abstract online underground. Jimmy Maheras and Bas Elgharib are, at the beginning of their careers, defiantly doing things their own way. Call it the “slow music movement.”
“Ten to 15 years ago, there were DJs and there were producers. There were producers who couldn’t DJ for shit, and there were DJs who were shitty producers. But it didn’t matter, because you didn’t go see a DJ because he was a good producer.”
That there is a fun, well-attended party with excellent music being played on a Sunday night in a hamlet known more for its mall than for its ravers is a testament to something being done right by Plastic Love. Bas is Egyptian, tall and manic, a Los Angeles native. Jimmy is Mediterranean, also tall and laconic, a Brooklyn transplant. The club itself, Complex, reminds me of the clubs I would attend in Hollywood in the late ’90s—only cleaner, with the added bonus of effortless parking. It is a small, dark venue, and the DJ is elevated only because his space is most likely occupied by rock bands on Friday and Saturday. Bas and Michael take turns on the decks, and at 10:30 pm, something fairly banging jumps out of the speakers. Jimmy is at first concerned, then amused. He texts Bas from the bar: “Are you guys okay?” Programming a night, even something on a Sunday night, is important to him. Bas comes over and offers an explanation, something technical.
By 11pm, the vibe has picked up. People are out, and they are ready to have a good time. Before midnight, headliner Roman Flugel has taken the stage, and the party has landed. I corral the Plastic Love boys, and we take to a picnic table in the club’s patio—which looks like somebody’s backyard—where we are informed to “keep it down because of the neighbors.” So we proceed to talk, quietly, about what it’s like running a label in Los Angeles.
Jimmy Maheras and Bas Elgharib put together an all vinyl mix for us. Hope you enjoy…while reading our chat with the guys.
Where did the name Plastic Love come from?
Jimmy: It started when I was DJing on the Vanguard patio, around 2009. Then I met Bas at King King at [now defunct classic L.A. spot] Basic. We had similar tastes in music, so I invited him to play with me at Vanguard. Giant left Vanguard and went to Avalon, and we went with them.
Bas: The idea initially was that it’s gotta be the name of the party, the name of the label, a producer, clothing line, a radio show—a multi-outlet thing. I wanted to steal the name “Plastic People,” and Jimmy said it was a terrible idea.
Jimmy: You can’t just take a party’s name that just happened!
Bas: Jimmy said, “’Plastic Love Records’ sounds cool.” So did Plastic Love Radio.
Jimmy: That’s one of the stories; an alternate story involves Bas’ love for dolls.
Why the heavy focus on vinyl? Is it more “real” to you?
Bas: If someone takes the initiative, time and effort to put the vinyl out, it doesn’t necessarily make it more real, but they put more effort into it. It sticks to people a little better. It’s less disposable because it gives you time to think about it.
Jimmy: It’s definitely more real because it’s a tangible thing, as opposed to a digital file sitting on a hard drive. It has more of a lasting effect. You can touch it, you can look at the artwork, there’s a needle that plays off the groove.
Bas: The more time it takes to get the music, to get the remix, to get it out, at this point you’re looking at a three-month turnaround, so you need to think: Is this something I’m going to care about in a year? Two years? Longer?
“In terms of finding new music, digital is not really the way to go. When you go to a brick and mortar, they know you. They learn your tastes.”
Who makes the records?
Jimmy: Our distributor is Juno in the UK, but the actual pressing plant is MPO in France. It kind of makes more sense, because most records are selling in Europe.
Bas: We initially wanted to try and press it in L.A.
Thus far, there have been releases from Jimmy himself and Michael Walsh. Upcoming releases will be from Cazion—a collaboration between Jimmy and Eli Epstein, aka Photocall—and an EP from Jimmy. What is it you look for in a Plastic Love signing?
Jimmy: I’d say we’re biased towards hardware and analog gear. It’s not a requirement for us, but we’re definitely looking for more raw shit. Historically, stuff with the least amount of elements just does well. That’s why LFO stuff is bomb. Each element says what it has to say, as opposed to all this shit going on and you’re just distracted. You can easily tell when someone is working from a digital production. It’s too perfect. It’s something you pick up from DJing. I would hope anyone we sign as a producer is a legit DJ.
Bas: Ten to 15 years ago, there were DJs and there were producers. There were producers who couldn’t DJ for shit, and there were DJs who were shitty producers. But it didn’t matter, because you didn’t go see a DJ because he was a good producer; you went because he was a good DJ. You didn’t care about a certain producer because he was a good DJ; you just liked his records. And if you come to us, you gotta come correct, you know what I’m sayin’? We want to take what L.A. has now—a very thriving, vibrant underground dance scene—and nurture it. We really want people in the world to think that L.A. is a legit city.
Jimmy: The city has definitely moved forward. People are into more variety than they used to be.
Jimmy, you mentioned in another interview how Mount Analog and Amoeba Records are of greater influence than that of online behemoth Beatport. Explain.
Jimmy: I rarely browse on Beatport anymore. It’s not fun. When I go to Amoeba, I know what I’m looking for. At Mount Analog, you can listen to stuff. Beatport has no curation whatsoever; the floodgates are open. They’re like Amazon—they’re just going to sell everything, even if it’s garbage.
Bas: In terms of finding new music, digital is not really the way to go. When you go to a brick and mortar, they know you. They learn your tastes. Any time we go by, they’ll recommend stuff to us that hasn’t even been put out for the public yet.
Do you seek out artists to sign to the label, or do producers bring you music?
Bas: Initially, we always had the idea that we would be going out and finding stuff.
Jimmy: I’d rather have a personal relationship with the artist, anyways.
Bas: The game plan from the very beginning was quality over quantity. If it’s not right at all, then it’s not right.
Jimmy: When you listen to these labels that put out a lot of shit, it’s wack. A lot of it shouldn’t be put out. This is why it’s contributing to this phenomenon where producers think everything they make needs to be put out. I make a lot of shit that just gets thrown away.
Bas: Ultimately, that’s how you grow. You realize, “I’m stuck in a groove, and I’ve got eight things that sound the same. Two of them are good; I’ll trash the other six.”
What have been the best and worst things about running a label?
Bas: Best? Finding new music in our city. Worst? Finding new music in our city!
Jimmy: My favorite part is getting the actual record in. The worst part was the nervousness, wondering if we were doing the right thing. When we got the first remix of the first track in, though, I knew we were going to be okay.
The patio has become deserted except for us, and at 12:40 am, we all head back inside. Roman Flugel is really making it happen. Literally everyone is on the dancefloor—not a single soul at the bar. I think back to much earlier in the evening, noodling around on social media, getting a feel for what this particular Sunday night had in store. I announced my plans on Facebook, and I was informed by someone going to some club miles away in Hollywood that I was “going to the wrong party.”
They were incorrect.
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