Not a studio. A noise foundry.
When the four‑coloured mohawks touched down at LAX, they didn’t head for the Sunset Strip or the polished glass towers of Hollywood. They drove east — past the neon temples of gentrification, past the billboards selling someone else’s dreams — until they found a hollow‑shell warehouse in an industrial pocket of Downtown. Bare concrete, leaking skylights, and the ghostly hum of transformers from the power lines above.
That became their west‑coast anchor.
Because a tour that spans from London to Stockholm, from Athens to Lisbon, needs a place to bleed between flights. A place to crack open the jet‑lagged silence and rebuild the noise from scratch. Here, the European grit meets Californian amplitude. The rain of Manchester dries under the LA sun, and the distortion pedals run hotter under the desert‑sharp voltage.
The space is raw, unpolished, and deliberately unfinished.
- Live room with 20‑foot ceilings — big enough for a full punk orchestra, small enough to feel the sweat drip.
- Control room built around a refurbished 1970s Neve console, side‑by‑side with a rack of boutique modular synths and a laptop running re‑amped field recordings from every city they’ve played.
- Writing lounge — a graffitied corner with thrift‑store sofas, a fridge full of cheap beer, and a wall map where every pin marks a show that already happened or one that’s about to.
- Backline arsenal — vintage Marshalls, Ampegs, and a collection of broken‑in Fenders, all tuned to the edge of feedback.
But the real equipment isn’t the gear. It’s the vinyl‑crate library of bootleg punk 45s, the stack of half‑filled notebooks, and the cassette recorder that never stops running — because the best riff often arrives at 3 a.m. when the city hums through the cracked window.
Why Los Angeles? Because it’s the city of second chances and first takes. Because you can record a blistering track in the morning and mix it while watching the Pacific turn orange in the evening. Because the same freeways that strand commuters also feed a 24‑hour creative current — session players, visual artists, filmmakers, poets — all drifting in and out of the hub’s open door.
The IT Model LA Hub isn’t a headquarters. It’s a pit stop for the noise pilgrimage. When the European tour goes quiet for a week, the band flies west to tear down what they built, rebuild it, and fly back with sharper teeth. They’ve already hosted impromptu collaborations with local punk legends, hip‑hop producers who wanted to sample their snare, and a noise artist who turned the loading bay into a resonant chamber.
This is where the next album is being carved — not polished, but chiselled. Where tour stories become songs, and where the “model” itself is constantly broken and remoulded.
Come by if you’re in the neighbourhood. The door code changes weekly (check their socials), but the vibe is constant: loud, unpretentious, and always ready for a riff that shouldn’t work — until it does.
IT Model LA Production Hub
