After a string of dark, sweaty, late-night shows, I was ready for a nice Sunday afternoon concert in the park. I hadn't been up to Barnsdall, but looking out over all of Hollywood, I was glad it was one of those rare days in LA when you didn't feel like
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I guess the Arctic Monkeys didn't like us. After a surprising loud (punk!) set, they stormed off the stage without even considering an encore. It was immediate: last note played, house lights came on. Usually I can tell when the band is pissed at the crowd, but Alex Turner's Yorkshire
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