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idontreallyknowhowtocook · 5 years

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There is a man in east hollywood and he lives in a yurt

He’s wearing a jacket that’s a cross between a Matador and some kind of intergalactic space dandy. The black fabric is carved up by shimmering beads and patches of gold lace and give way to his bare chest similarly glimmering with sweat in the swirling stage light. The shoulder pads give the impression that the originally intended wearer was neither of this decade, nor of this gender, but by some miracle he’s making it work. If the packed room at The Echo Theater on this Monday night is any indication… he’s definitely making it work.

This is Eric. He lives in a yurt in East Hollywood.

It’s not a new aged-hippie yurt. It’s hidden behind an unassuming three bedroom house near the corner of Melrose and Western. If you were to look in the backyard, all you would see was a group of trees and bushes. It’s enough the break up the sight line and hide the truth of what’s behind.

If you were to press through, you’d find a strange world. Massive hanging mobile-art pieces hanging from the canopy above. An easel, with a half finished painting in one corner and a small pile of rocks and bricks with prop-human bones and skulls mixed in and poking out from under the rubble.

There’s a small table with three mismatched antique wooden chairs and an orange area rug underneath. The whole place feels like the camp of an Edwardian era anthropologist who has gone mad while exploring the deepest jungles of the Congo. The only difference is that this jungle is just six blocks from Los Angeles City College.

Ok so, just to start out, who are you and where are you from?

“My Name is Eric Peana. I’m from Austin, Texas originally, but I’ve lived in L.A for about three years now.”

How long of that has been in a tent?

“It’s a yurt. I’m coming up on three years of yurt-life”

Apologies. So why do you live in a yurt?

“Frankly I was tired of paying rent. I pay very little to live out there and for me it’s worth it. I still get to use the house to shower and use the bathroom and stuff. Effectively I’m still roommates with everyone who lives here I just don’t live in the house.”

Has it been easy to live outside? I’d imagine dealing with the elements can be a challenge…

“Oh yeah,” he said, throwing his head back in laughter, “It definitely floods when it rains, and there’s no ventilation so when it’s hot it’s pretty unbearable. Luckily I have this outside area so i spend most of my time out here.”

I see you have a little studio setup. Would you consider yourself an artist?

“I think that’s a hard question to answer because you sound like an asshole no matter which way you respond. I make art, I paint, I design my own clothes, I’m in a band, but am I an artist? I guess so, but it doesn’t always feel like I’m comfortable defining myself that way. I just am who I am.

Tell me about the band.

“Umm… we’re called CAPYAC. It’s a like, funk-pop house music dance party with a live saxophone player. My bandmate Delwin plays the keyboard and produces most of the music and I sing and play guitar. Our sax player is named Papa Mongoose. It’s a really fun show. You were at The Echo last night, right?”

The show in question was the final night of their month long residency at The Echo. The show started with chimes and the sound of blowing wind. Dancers filled the stage and trailed white ribbons all around while the deep droning chanting of men in white hooded cloaks began to fill the room. A person dressed as a cloud walked onto stage and started spinning in a circle while one of the druids produced a skull and a massive glowing crystal from beneath his robes. He shouted “Make way! Make way! The time is fast approaching!”

Before anyone could make sense of it, another group of druids made their way through the crowd, led by who I would later learn was a self proclaimed “time traveler” dressed in ragged robes and talking though an autotune vocoder. The druids were carrying Delwin on a flat plank of wood as if he were dead.

Delwin was wearing a white tuxedo jacket with a billowing quinceanera dress underneath. The druids hoisted Delwin onto the stage where he knelt down in front of the twirling cloud person and waited while they lifted a crystal bottle into the air. A booming voice came in over the speakers and silenced the chanting, saying, “Thee time has come. To harness. The power. OF THE WIND!” Delwin drank from the bottle, harnessed the power of the wind, and blasted off directly to Planet Funk with Eric as his co-pilot.

Yeah that was pretty wild. Would you say that is pretty typical of your shows?

“We always do some kind of wacky stage show, but last night we felt like going all out. Next month we’re playing a massive show back home in Austin and we’re trying to figure if we can end the show by leaving in a hot air balloon.”

Wow. That sounds incredible. Where do these ideas come from?

“Usually we all just sit in a room and riff. Most of the time we start with ideas that are completely insane and out of our budget then we whittle it down to something that’s more doable. But the show last night was pretty much exactly what we set out to do! We sat around drinking coffee on Saturday morning and were just like ‘haha wouldn’t this be funny’ and we just went out and did it.”

That kind of freedom to just be silly must be nice.

“I mean yeah, I live in a fucking yurt in East Hollywood. Clearly I’m interested in living a silly life. Or at least a life on my own terms. I make my own clothes, I make my own music, I live outside. I don’t think i could survive if I had to be serious all the time. This is all too much fun.”

It’s a relief to know that there are still real and true freaks in the world. People who are contributing positively to the arts and culture. Who participate in the act of shameless self actualization and live self styled alongside the rest of us. Eric is one of those rare souls who marches entirely to the beat of one of those insane one-man-band instruments.

To play one, you need to stomp your feet and bang the drum with one hand while playing the keyboard with the other. You have to blow into a harmonica while shaking your butt to play the maracas. Between breaths you need to sing. The whole thing is exhausting and janky and silly, but there’s something honest and comforting about the sound it makes. A familiar song heard in a new way. Like a man, making his home in a yurt, in East Hollywood.

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