The man I’m talking to tells me he has no name.

“Hey” is what he responds to, and he says he can be best described as a “travel agent,” a designation said with a sly smile to clearly indicate it’s code for something more illicit.

About eight of us are crammed with him into a tiny area tucked in the corner of a nightclub. Normally, perhaps, this is a make-up room, but tonight it’s a hideaway where he’ll feed us psychedelics (they’re just mints) to escape the brutalities of the world. It’s also loud, as the sounds of a rambunctious funk band next door work to penetrate the space.

”Close your eyes,” I’m told. I let the mint begin to melt while trying to pretend it’s a gateway to a dream state. The more that mint peddler talks, the more it becomes clear he’s suffering from PTSD from his days in Vietnam. But the mood isn’t somber. We don’t need any make-believe substances to catch his drift, particularly his belief that, even if music may not change the world, at least it can provide some much-needed comfort from it.

“Brassroots District: LA ’74” is part concert, part participatory theater and part experiment, attempting to intermix an evening of dancing and jubilation with high-stakes drama. How it plays out is up to each audience member. Follow the cast, and uncover war tales and visions of how the underground music scene became a refuge for the LGBTQ+ community. Watch the band, and witness a concert almost torn apart as a group on the verge of releasing its debut album weighs community versus cold commerce. Or ignore it all to play dress-up and get a groove on to the music that never stops.

Audience members are encouraged to partake in a “Soul Train”-style dance exhibition.

(Gabriella Angotti-Jones / For The Times)

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Now running at Catch One, “Brassroots District” aims to concoct a fantasy vision of 1974, but creators Ari Herstand and Andrew Leib aren’t after pure nostalgia. The fictional band at the heart of the show, for instance, is clearly a nod to Sly and the Family Stone, a group whose musical vision of unity and perseverance through social upheaval still feels ahead of its time. “Brassroots District” also directly taps into the history of Catch One, with a character modeled after the club’s pioneering founder Jewel Thais-Williams, a vital figure on the L.A. music scene who envisioned a sanctuary for Black queer women and men as well as trans, gay and musically adventurous revelers.

“This is the era of Watergate and Nixon and a corrupt president,” Herstand says, noting that the year of 1974 was chosen intentionally. “There’s very clear political parallels from the early ‘70s to 2026. We don’t want to smack anyone in the face over it, but we want to ask the questions about where we’ve come from.”

This isn’t the first time a version of “Brassroots District” has been staged. Herstand, a musician and author, and Leib, an artist manager, have been honing the concept for a decade. It began as an idea that came to Herstand while he spent time staying with extended family in New Orleans to work on his book, “How to Make it in the New Music Business.” And it initially started as just a band, and perhaps a way to create an excitement around a new group.

Ari Herstand as musician Copper Jones in an intimate moment with the audience.

(Gabriella Angotti-Jones / For The Times)

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Celeste Butler Clayton (Ursa Major), from left, Ari Herstand (Copper Jones), Bryan Daniel Porter (Donny) and Marqell Edward Clayton (Gil) in a tense moment.

(Gabriella Angotti-Jones/For The Times)

Yet as the pair became smitten with immersive theater — a term that typically implies some form of active involvement on the part of the audience, most often via interacting and improvising with actors — Brassroots District the band gradually became “Brassroots District” the show. Like many in the space, Herstand credits the long-running New York production “Sleep No More” with hipping him to the scene.

“It’s really about an alternative experience to a traditional proscenium show, giving the audience autonomy to explore,” Herstand says.

Eleven actors perform in the show, directed by DeMone Seraphin and written with input from L.A. immersive veterans Chris Porter (the Speakeasy Society) and Lauren Ludwig (Capital W). I interacted with only a handful of them, but “Brassroots District” builds to a participatory finale that aims to get the whole audience moving when the band jumps into the crowd for a group dance. The night is one of wish fulfillment for music fans, offering the promise of behind-the-stage action as well as an idealized vision of funk’s communal power.

Working in the favor of “Brassroots District” is that, ultimately, it is a concert. Brassroots District, the group, released its debut “Welcome to the Brassroots District” at the top of this year, and audience members who may not want to hunt down or chase actors can lean back and watch the show, likely still picking up on its broad storyline of a band weighing a new recording contract with a potentially sleazy record executive. Yet Herstand and Leib estimate that about half of those in attendance want to dig a little deeper.

At the show’s opening weekend this past Saturday, I may even wager it was higher than that. When a mid-concert split happens that forces the band’s two co-leaders — Herstand as Copper Jones and Celeste Butler Clayton as Ursa Major — to bolt from the stage, the audience immediately knew to follow them into the other room, even as the backing band played on. Leib, borrowing a term from the video game world, describes these as “side quests,” moments in which the audience can better get to know the performers, the club owner and the act’s manager.

“Brassroots District: LA ‘74” is wish fulfillment for music fans, providing, for instance, backstage-like access to artists. Here, Celeste Butler Clayton performs as musician Ursa Major and is surrounded by ticket-goers.

(Gabriella Angotti-Jones / For The Times)

An audience member’s costume.

(Gabriella Angotti-Jones / For The Times)

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Yet those who stay in the main stage will still get some show moments, as here is where a journalist will confront a record executive. Both will linger around the floor and chat with willing guests, perhaps even offering them a business card with a number to call after the show to further the storyline beyond the confines of the club. If all goes according to plan, the audience will start to feel like performers. In fact, the central drama of “Brassroots District” is often kicked off by an attendee finding some purposely left-behind props that allude to the group’s record label drama. Actors, say Herstand, will “loosely guide” players to the right spot, if need be.

“The point is,” says Leib, “that you as an audience member are also kind of putting on a character. You can stir the spot.” And with much of the crowd in their ‘70s best and smartphones strictly forbidden — they are placed in bags prior to the show beginning — you may need a moment to figure out who the actors are, but a microphone usually gives it away.

“They’re a heightened version of themselves,” Herstand says of the audience’s penchant to come in costumes to “Brassroots District,” although it is not necessary.

“Brassroots District,” which is about two hours in length, is currently slated to run through the end of March, but Herstand and Leib hope it becomes a long-running performance. Previous iterations with different storylines ran outdoors, as it was first staged in the months following the worst days of the pandemic. Inside, at places such as Catch One, was always the goal, the pair say, and the two leaned into the venue’s history.

“It’s in the bones of the building that this was a respite for queer men and the Black community,” Leib says. “There’s a bit of like, this is a safe space to be yourself. We’re baking in some of these themes in the show. It’s resistance through art and music.”

Such a message comes through in song. One of the band’s central tunes is “Together,” an allusion to Sly and the Family Stone’s “Everyday People.” It’s a light-stepping number built around finger snaps and the vision of a better world.

“We are stronger when we unite,” Herstand says. “That is the hook of the song, and what we’re really trying to do is bring people together. That is how we feel we actually can change society.”

And on this night, that’s exactly what progress looks like — an exuberant party that extends a hand for everyone to dance with a neighbor.

After less than a month of negotiations, the Writers Guild of America and the Alliance of Motion Picture and Television Producers announced their first steps toward a deal on Saturday.

“Today the WGA Negotiating Committee unanimously approved a four-year tentative agreement with the AMPTP for the 2026 Minimum Basic Agreement (MBA),” the union posted on its website. “Crucially, it protects our health plan and puts it on a sustainable path, with increased company contributions across many areas and long-needed increases to health contribution caps. The new contract also builds on gains from 2023 and helps address free work challenges.”

In 2023, the WGA went on a strike that lasted an entire summer and cramped production schedules for months.

The AMPTP said in its announcement that it looks forward to “building on this progress as we continue working toward agreements that support long-term industry stability.”

Word of the agreement arrived a few weeks before the expiration of the union’s current contract on May 1.

It also comes amid an ongoing dispute between the Writers Guild of America West and its own staff union. The staff union includes workers in fields such as legal and communications. Dozens of them in Los Angeles went on an independent strike in mid-February. The employees allege WGA West management was engaging in unfair labor practices, union-busting activities and bad faith bargaining. In a social media post last week, the staff union said striking members had lost health insurance coverage. NPR has reached out to the WGA for comment on the internal strike. The WGA canceled its annual West Coast award show in March as a result of the staff union strike.

The new four year contract between the WGA and Hollywood studios is expected to contain new rules around the use of artificial intelligence, such as licensing for AI training. According to a social media post from entertainment industry journalist Matthew Belloni, it will also include pension increases and extra compensation for streaming video on demand. The proposed deal, which is a year longer than the usual agreements between the union and studios, was greeted with relief online by a number of writers, performers and producers.

The AMPTP is currently hashing out a new set of agreements with unions that represent screen actors and directors.

The new writers’ contract still requires ratification by union members, which could come later this month, the WGA said.

Brent Poer is certain about one thing when it comes to interior design: Minimalism makes him uneasy.

“When I walk into a minimalist home, I always think, ‘Oh my God, have you been robbed?’” Poer says, standing in his living room underneath a Juliet balcony covered in ceramic plates. “But then, I’m sure a minimalist would feel the [opposite] way about our home.”

From the outside, the 1922 Normandy-style house Poer shares with his husband, Beau Quillian, looks traditional and calm, with steep-pitched roofs and arched windows.

But once you step inside, the Pasadena house feels completely different.

Poer says visitors are often surprised when they come inside the space. “It’s either a quick ‘Wow,’ which usually means they don’t like it, or a long, drawn-out ‘Wwwwoooooowwww.’”

Guests also tend to ask the couple about earthquakes.

“Our decorating style is a mix of two perspectives,” says Poer, a 58-year-old advertising executive. “We have similar tastes, but Beau’s style is a bit more Miss Havisham — he likes a hint of decay. What we share is that our [obsessive compulsive disorder] is in overdrive.”

Beau Quillian, left, and Brent Poer with their dogs Otis, Sister and Selene, sit in the stairway in front of a poster that reads “Keep Calm and Call Brent.”

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Many Californians avoid Mills Act homes because of strict preservation rules, but the couple enjoys the challenge of restoring and caring for their historic house.

“Thirty-six people toured the house the day I saw it, but no one made an offer because they didn’t want to deal with the government,” Poer says. “If you tell me I need a latch from 1922, I’ll find it. When we had to replace the roof, I brought nine different samples to the Mills Act office downtown — all meeting California code.”

“The house is special if not for the sole fact that the 24-foot ceiling in the living room was just the perfect forum for all of these things,” Poer says.

Inside, the couple has decorated just the way they want, filling nearly every inch of their three-bedroom home with lively collections. As Poer puts it, they enjoy “going down a rabbit hole” when they find something they like.

Their home is colorful and has a touch of “grandma chic,” since Poer’s grandmother, Gigi, left him the contents of her Atlanta home. It’s a playful take on British decor with Victorian-era Tartanware boxes and pre-World War I Black Forest antlers on carved wood plaques that were once used as hunting trophies. They also have English Staffordshire porcelain dog and giraffe figurines, vintage British and French Majolica plates, and lamps and rugs they found on Etsy, EBay and at auctions.

The couple’s kitchen is “great for parties,” Quillian says. It’s also the perfect setting for French artist Nathalie Lété‘s plate collection for Anthropologie.

The plates in the kitchen are “another example of us liking something and then going deep on that obsession,” Poer says.

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“We know it’s crazy,” says Quillian, 54, a freelance fashion editor and wardrobe stylist who has worked for Harper’s Bazaar and Marie Claire. “But we love searching for treasures.”

Curled up on a vintage sofa they found at a Long Island junk store and refurbished, the couple likes to reminisce about their favorite finds from their 22 years together. These include Hermès dog plates, found in Japan, and circus paintings by Denes de Holesch, whom Quillian calls the “Hungarian Picasso.”

“When the French artist Nathalie Lété created a plate collection for Anthropologie, of course, we went crazy,” Poer says of the wall-to-wall Lété plates in the kitchen, which he describes as “odd and humorous.”

“We choose art that speaks to us,” Poer says.

Artworks line the stairway to the second floor including a print that reads: “We will make it through this year if it kills us.”

When asked how they choose their art, which ranges from a cut paper collage by Los Angeles artist Emily Hoerdemann to street poster art in their bedroom, Poer says, “We purchase things that speak to us, which means we will love it forever.”

For example, when they saw a bird-shaped guerrilla art piece in a Silver Lake Junction store — the same one they had seen scattered throughout New York — the couple, both originally from New York, took it as a sign they were meant to be here.

Although their home sits in the peaceful Historic Highlands neighborhood of Pasadena, the couple has experienced plenty of drama in their space over the years. Once, they brought in a shaman to cleanse the house with sage and cedar during a full blood moon. “And we’re not woo-woo!” Quillian says.

After Poer’s father fell down the stairs, the couple converted their one-car garage into a stylish guest house.

The couple chose the color palette in the guest house because “we wanted the spaces to feel calm and a place that people would want to relax,” Poer says.

Three years ago, Poer’s father fell down the stairs and nearly died. Six months later, a massive oak branch dropped and pinned Quillian for 45 minutes, breaking his leg in four places and giving him double head trauma. Then, last January, the couple had to evacuate during the Eaton fire.

When they got the evacuation order, Poer packed his bags and started taking paintings off the wall, putting them in his truck. “I told Beau to take one last look,” Poer recalls. “‘Is there anything you’d be upset about losing? We have to accept that whatever is in the truck might be all we have left to start over.’”

“When we left, I thought, ‘The house is definitely going to burn because of the winds,’” Quillian says of the January 2025 fires that destroyed parts of Pasadena and Altadena.

In the guest room, the wallpaper matches the drapery fabric and upholstered furniture.

The next morning, their house was still standing just five blocks from the burn line, although looters had already been inside. The thieves didn’t take any of their art, which was a relief, since that’s what is most precious to them. “When we first got together in New York, we slowly started curating much of the art collection together,” Poer says.

Besides the art, each room in the home has its own unique feel. In the guest room, the couple paired the wallpaper with the drapes and the upholstered furniture. The first-floor bedroom is now a cozy den with dark navy blue walls, dog etchings by French artist Leon D’anchin and the Hermès dog plates, and an attached bathroom is decorated with Scalamandré’s famous prancing zebra pattern wallpaper.

In the kitchen, where the couple hosted more than 20 people for a Southern-style New Year’s Day party in January with black-eyed peas, ham and collard greens, they added new counter tops and painted the cabinets a shiny Benjamin Moore Marine Blue. Poer installed all the brass campaign hardware himself. “It just takes a steady hand and the willingness to drill a million little holes,” he says.

Poer fondly remembers the “amazing antique stores on Long Island” where they found their dining-room table for just $300. To which Quillian replies, “You make it sound so proper. Those were junk stores.”

Green and white floral wallpaper in the dining room meets up with prancing zebras in the adjacent bathroom.

Four years after buying the house in 2021, the couple transformed the garage into a stylish guest house with a bathroom, shower and a custom cat box for Mr. Kitty, or “MK,” who came with the house.

“Brent went from telling me ‘Don’t feed that cat’ to designing a custom cat box for him in the guest house,” Quillian says, laughing.

Like the den, the walls of the guest house are painted a warm green hue for a relaxing feel. The couple also installed IKEA Pax built-ins and closets and paired them with Billy bookcases with added trim to give them a custom look.

The couple turned the first-floor bedroom into a cozy den with dark blue walls and dog-related decor.

There’s a lot to look at, but the interiors of the home feel cohesive rather than chaotic thanks to the couple’s color choices and how well they work together. Poer likes to joke that he has to get rid of Quillian’s things when he isn’t looking or “he would climb into the trash can and pull things back out.” But their teamwork and shared love of British decor make the home feel sentimental and reflect their long history together living on both the East and West Coasts.

There’s a poster by Lété that Poer and Quillian bought at John Derian in New York when they didn’t have much money, portraits of them and their dogs by Carter Kustera, and at the top of the stairs, the ashes of their previous pets rest in custom-painted dog urns.

On one of their many gallery walls, Poer proudly displays their most prized possession: a recent drawing of him and their three dogs, Selene, Otis and Sister, by fashion illustrator Richard Haines, whom Poer contacted directly on Instagram. “Beau always says the dogs follow me around like a school of fish,” he says. “I gave it to him at Christmas, and he cried when he opened it. He said it’s his favorite thing I’ve ever given him.”

Their friend Georgia Archer says the couple’s home “feels polished without trying to win an argument, beautiful but very cozy and livable, and very much ‘them.’” She recently asked them to help remodel her and her husband Anthony Dominici’s Los Angeles home. “Brent is bolder, and Beau more restrained, which is why they work so well as a team.”

Black Forest antlers on carved wood plaques hang on a wall of the sunroom.

Sister, the couple’s English Springer Spaniel, rests on one of many armchairs available to her in the historic home.

When asked how many items they have in the house, Poer says he’d rather not know, “only because I want to believe there is room for more.”

And if there ever is a major earthquake, he says, they are prepared. Everything is installed on earthquake hangers, “so we aren’t showered in a downpour of porcelain.”