“The cars crawl past all stuffed with eyes. Streetlights share their hollow glow . . . Turn me out, and I’ll wander, baby, stumbling in the neon groves!”
It’s a balmy Friday night in February, and I’m rolling down the Sunset Strip, with The Doors’ “Soul Kitchen” on my car stereo. I don’t know if Jim Morrison had the Strip in mind when he wrote the lyrics some 60 years ago, but I like to imagine he did. He certainly spent a good chunk of his short life “stumbling in the neon groves,” along this not-quite-two-mile stretch of Sunset Boulevard in West Hollywood.
To my right, I can see his old stomping ground: Chateau Marmont. It was here, in 1970, that he performed his self-styled “Tarzan act” from a high balcony, barely escaping with his life. I picture him in leather pants and a flouncy silk shirt, but he just as likely might have been naked. Romance and mystery color these episodes because they were never posted on social media.
As Shawn Levy writes in his ode to the chateau, The Castle on Sunset (2019), “For more than 80 years, the phrase Sunset Strip has been a global shorthand for a certain blend of decadence, fashion, music, sex, secrecy, and freedom.” In the ’60s, Morrison embodied all those things. But he wasn’t the first musician to get loose on the Strip.
The Sunset Strip is home to a plethora of venues, from the old (Whiskey a Go Go, left) to the new (Puzzle, right, where DJ Princess Cyberspace plays).
Photos by Sinna Nasseri
These fabled 15 blocks (extending just beyond Chateau Marmont in the East, to Beverly Hills in the West) have a long, often lurid, musical history. There were the mafia-owned jazz and burlesque clubs of the ’40s and ’50s, not to mention the tuned-in, spaced-out rock venues of the ’60s and ’70s. In more recent years, a slew of music spots has sprung up as the Strip continues to reinvent itself. A handful of legendary venues survives, including Whisky a Go Go (where The Doors cut their teeth as a live band in 1966); The Viper Room (where River Phoenix died, after partying with John Frusciante of the Red Hot Chili Peppers, in 1993); and The Roxy (where Neil Young wowed crowds in 1973 and 2023).
Pitch-perfect evenings
I had an entire weekend to lap up the sounds of the Strip. My Friday night was dedicated to some of its oldest venues; my Saturday night to some of its very newest. I began by checking into the Sunset Marquis (opened in 1963), where I met with the general manager, Rob Gruendyke. We settled down by the mixing desk in the hotel’s on-site recording facility, Nightbird Studios. Rob recited a list of past guests (John Lennon, Bob Marley, and Debbie Harry, to name a few) before launching into a series of rapid-fire anecdotes. He told me how, in this very room, he had enjoyed a 2 a.m. jam with Jimmy Page, Rod Stewart, and Herbie Hancock. How he once witnessed Keith Richards on a treadmill—a whiskey in one hand, a joint in the other. And how, during U2’s Zoo TV Tour, the band booked the entire hotel for themselves, their extended family—and, of course, their priest.
Sadly, there was no room on the schedule for Bono-style butler service at my private garden villa. It was time to vacate these plush digs and head out onto Sunset Boulevard. Tonight, I intended to stay out as late as my middle-aged bones could bear.
The evening started with dinner and jazz at Sunset Tower Hotel (opened in 1929), an art deco stunner five minutes’ walk from the Sunset Marquis. I inhaled a plate of roast chicken and a cucumber mojito whilst a legion of twentysomethings made languid conversation and a mustachioed musician played sinuous saxophone. The Sunset Tower’s music lore rivals that of the Sunset Marquis. This is where, according to Truman Capote, “every scandal that ever happened, happened.” Diana Ross (allegedly) held wild parties in the penthouse. And Iggy Pop (supposedly) tried, and failed, to dive into the pool from his balcony. Apocryphal? Possibly. Either way, it’s a fabulous spot for live music.
Next up, The Viper Room (opened in 1993). As I walked in, Devon Thompson strapped on a black Gibson SG and played a flawless set of Siouxsie-inspired goth rock. I last visited the club about 20 years ago, and it was exactly as I remembered it. I snuck a look into the two-way-mirrored green room where the club’s owner, Johnny Depp, used to hunker down unobserved, in the dim and distant ’90s. Then I made my way downstairs to the tiny bar room where mafia boss Mickey Cohen conducted shady business deals in the ’40s and Tobey Maguire played $100,000 poker games in the early 2000s. Neither of these stories is easy to substantiate. Which, of course, makes them even more intriguing.
One staff member told me that the club is to be torn down and replaced with an upscale 11-story hotel. The plans include a shiny new Viper Room; a pale imitation of its seedy self. Which begs the question: Doesn’t history count for anything in Los Angeles? And, honestly, do we really need another luxury hotel in West Hollywood?
The Roxy is owned by Lou Adler, who produced The Mamas & The Papas, Carole King, and others, and his son Nic.
Photo by Sinna Nasseri
West Hollywood City Council has granted “landmark status” to The Roxy, Whisky a Go Go, and the Rainbow Bar & Grill (the scene of John Lennon’s infamous Lost Weekend). So these three long-standing venues are now protected from hungry developers—but The Viper Room is not. In 2024, the club was deemed ineligible for landmark status because, according to the council, the building had been “irrevocably altered over the years.”
Earlier that day, I spoke to the co-owner of The Roxy (opened in 1973), Nic Adler. “The Strip is constantly evolving,” he told me when I asked about the Viper. “But whatever happens, it will always be somebody’s greatest night ever. When a kid’s favorite artist looks them in the eye and sweats all over them in the front row, they’ll tell their kids about that experience. Just like people did when Sinatra was playing here.”
Back at The Sunset Marquis on Saturday morning, I stayed in bed until the afternoon. Lounging around in my pajamas felt authentically grunge (Kurt Cobain and Courtney Love were regulars here), but I had to get my head back into the 21st century. That night I’d be visiting three of the Strip’s most recently opened venues.
The evening got off to a flying start with a performance by Theo Croker’s jazz quartet. They were playing at The Sun Rose (opened in 2022), a swank little club in the basement of the five-star Pendry West Hollywood. In the past three years, it’s seen appearances from Beck, Dave Grohl, and Stevie Wonder. Upcoming shows include Brazilian singer-songwriter Caro Pierotto and American harpist Brandee Younger.
Directly opposite the Pendry stands the notorious Riot House Bar (now Andaz West Hollywood) where Led Zeppelin and the Rolling Stones snorted and cavorted in the ’60s and ’70s. “Times have changed,” program director Sharyn Goldyn laughed as we sat together at a high table by the stage. “These days, most musicians ask for green tea and $50 honey. The Sun Rose is kind of a sexy, grown-up venue,” she continued. “People come to hang out in this beautiful hotel. They stay for a drink or two, and they’re home by midnight.”
Keys Nightclub (left) and Puzzle (right) are two of the brand-new venues keeping the Sunset Strip’s musical heritage alive.
Photos by Sinna Nasseri
My inner Jagger hated to admit it, but I did end up having “kind of a sexy, grown-up” experience. I nursed white wine, listened to cool, improvisational jazz (drummer Miguel Marcel Russell was a force of nature), and retired upstairs to the Michelin-starred rooftop restaurant, Merois, by 9 p.m. No chemicals were consumed in the bathroom stalls. Not a single item of furniture was jettisoned from the pool deck.
Next on the schedule was Puzzle (opened in 2024), a burlesque-supper-club-cum-disco. Inside the diminutive dining room, a lady in a black goat mask and matching lingerie writhed on the floor while a man in mirrored sunglasses sang George Michael’s “Father Figure.” It was a David Lynch moment. I wasn’t quite sure what to make of it. That is, until the talented French chef Kevin Dray served up seared tuna (“shipped from Japan this morning”) and multiple glasses of bordeaux (“the chateau belongs to the owner”). Pretty soon, I was reveling in the strangeness of it all.
Clubbers at Keys embrace the Los Angeles Lakers’ winning streak.
Photo by Sinna Nasseri
The night ended with an eclectic set of hip-hop and EDM, courtesy of DJ Tay James. He was playing at Keys (opened in 2024), a three-story nightclub attracting such clientele as Wiz Khalifa, Leon Bridges, and Zack Bia. I was instantly ushered past the velvet rope onto a gargantuan dance floor. Dodging a gaggle of high-heeled hostesses with a prerequisite champagne jeroboam, I was escorted to a seat behind the DJ booth. This VIP treatment is available through the h.wood Rolodex membership ($2,500 annual fee). For an all-too-brief moment, I felt like Leo DiCaprio. I even attempted what can loosely be described as “a dance”—which is when I realized I’d had enough to drink, and it was high time I called it quits. It had been a thrilling evening. But that bed of mine was calling again.
Keys is open from 11 p.m. to 2 a.m. Thursday to Sunday.
Photos by Sinna Nasseri
By Sunday morning on the Sunset Strip, there was no escaping the wail of West Hollywood: the rumble of Harley Davidsons; the shudder of police helicopters; the blast of bass-heavy hip-hop from the guts of a Porsche convertible. Still, I had one last item on the agenda before I headed home.
John D’Amico’s Walking Tour of the Sunset Strip turned out to be a weekend highlight. My guide—a former Guns N’ Roses stage manager—showed me the scuzzy-looking apartment near Whiskey A Go Go where Axl Rose lived, back in the band’s early days. He pointed out Ice-T’s palatial home in the Hollywood Hills. And, perhaps best of all, he took me to the rehearsal studio where The Doors recorded their last album, L.A. Woman (1970). The building is now an unassuming hot dog joint, but the bathroom where Morrison recorded his vocals is still standing. I had no idea their final masterpiece was literally recorded in a toilet.
Finally, up a flight of low-lit stairs, we arrived at The Lucky Tiki (opened in 2024) a reservations-only cocktail lounge that was once The Doors’ office. “They had the mixing desk up here,” John told me, as the barman prepared a gargantuan, rum-based concoction: The Ghost of Jim Morrison ($20). I sipped politely. But the party was well and truly over. It was time to scurry home and nurse a hangover in front of Oliver Stone’s film The Doors (1991). “L.A. Woman” was jangling on the car stereo as I made my way back past Chateau Marmont, veered left onto Laurel Canyon, and retreated to my quiet house in reassuringly boring suburbia.
“L.A. Woman, Sunday afternoon. Drive through your suburbs . . . into your blues!”
