In the more than two decades since Crazy Louie’s went bust, a number of businesses have given this location (6136 Busch Blvd) a whirl. Spain Nightclub and a second Rush Creek outpost are among those that immediately pop to mind, on that prime, front corner location of what once was the burgeoning Continent shopping center. Spain Nightclub may have in fact lasted longer than Crazy Louie’s (that’s actually a picture of their exterior up top, though I’ve cropped out the sign). But in my estimation – and trust me, it’s painful to say this – nothing has quite enjoyed as much success in this spot as Crazy Louie’s, a popping though often quite maddening dance club that had a spirited 4 year run, from 1997 to 2001.
A restaurant called Montana Mining Co. even had free rent in its wake, yet only lasted from January to July of 2002, which tells you pretty much all you need to know about the Continent at that point. Still, it would be remiss to pin Crazy Louie’s going bust upon the decline of this former bustling French Market destination. Based upon what we saw first hand, as well as insider info dispensed by those who worked there, all signs seem to indicate that the owners ran a good thing into the ground themselves.
A 14 day suspension in August of 2000 for serving minors is the last piece of news I can find concerning Crazy Louie’s (itself on the heels of a 5 day penalty in July), although I know some of us continued going there into 2001, meaning they at least survived beyond that slap on the wrist. Why we would still patronize the place is a fair enough question, however, considering no other establishment ever gave us more trouble than this one. We did have plenty of pleasant experiences here, yes, which is the only explanation for continually giving it another chance. In fact my last ever visit, as far as I can recall, was in early 2001, I was dating Amber and this still felt like an exciting enough destination, one worthy of showing her. But one reason that suspension for serving minors seems so hilarious to me is that, years earlier, I and a few of the fellas were booted from this place because…I dared to drink Pepsi without proper credentials.
The facts of the case are such: I was totally just drinking Pepsi. This point was never in dispute. I only ever claimed to be drinking Pepsi, and the bouncer tossing us freely acknowledged that the beverage in question was nothing more than a Pepsi. The problem as he saw it, however, was that he did not care for the manner in which I was drinking the Pepsi. Therefore, we had to leave.
Well, that’s a mighty condensed and flippant take on the incident, sure, though the facts are all there. The incident in quesiton transpires on an otherwise chill night when a handful of us were kicking back at a table, high up on one of the elevated metal balconies. As the designated driver this evening, I had dispensed with the neon bracelet they strap onto the wrists of all 21 and over imbibers. Considering there are reams of 18 to 20 year olds within the building also hanging out sans bracelet, I never give the matter another thought. Then some bouncer arrives at our table and announces he’s escorting us to the door.
“I’m drinking a Pepsi!” I howl.
“Doesn’t matter,” he says, “you have to wear a bracelet.”
“But there are all kinds of underage kids here without a bracelet,” I point out, and wave at the floor below us, “what difference does it make?”
“You still have to have a bracelet.”
“So let me get this straight: if you’re under 21, you can drink a Pepsi with no bracelet, but if you’re over 21, you can’t drink a Pepsi without a bracelet?”
“That’s right.”
So, yes, we are whisked downstairs and out the door. If I’m not mistaken he also enlisted some help for this mission. During which time, the other guys I’m with, Damon, Alan, and Paul, are making jokes about how they can give their bracelet to me, if that would help. And what makes this especially hilarious to me, I guess, beyond the surface absurdity, is that on another occasion, when we brought Cary and Virginia and some others here for their second visit, underage kids all, they actually flashed their IDs at the door like proper upstanding citizens, and the doorman – having apparently skipped his elementary math classes – gave them all wristbands anyway. Thus they were able to drink all night unfettered. Speaking of grade school, Paul has his own theory, as we’re hiking through the parking lot back to my car, about what just transpired in there with that bouncer.
“Somebody took his lunch money one time in the third grade,” he retorts, with this trademark deadpan ability to perfectly summarize a situation, “now he’s gotta prove what a badass he is.”
A couple of weeks later, another party of ours is tossed from here, this time as a result of the Scooby-Doo ballcap Paul dares to flagrantly display atop his dome. The doorman does not consider the Scooby-Doo ballcap a threat, thus gaining entry is not a problem. However, some other lunkhead bouncer, an altogether different beefcake buffoon than the last one to throw us out on our ears, cites some “gang paraphernalia” clause with what appears to be a straight face, referencing said Scooby-Doo ballcap. And so it’s a quick exit from Crazy Louie’s yet again.
“I’ve never been thrown out of a bar in my life!” Damon protests, “we’ve been tossed out of here twice in the first month? Something’s wrong with this picture!”
Whether or not each bouncer here indeed had his lunch money stolen in third grade, as Paul asserts, these clowns definitely have some large masses resting atop their shoulders. Are these muscles, or are they chips the size of boulders? ‘Roid rage could play a part, true, but one is left with the sinking suspicion that these guys are pissed off when a bunch of dudes show up with some nice looking girls…and they are also pissed off when a bunch of dudes show up with no girls whatsoever.
II.
I still recall our maiden voyage to Crazy Louie’s, from the fall of ’97. For this occasion it’s mostly a bunch of my coworkers, along with both roommates and a couple other random characters. Standing in line outside the incredibly happening night club, we advance in five minutes’ time to the indoors foyer, where the first of many musclebound bouncers checks our progress. Encased behind a glass kiosk he checks ID, one after another, though as expected Virginia hits a snag in trying to gain admission. Seized by a sudden jag of doubt she flashes him her proper New York ID, and while as luck would have it he too hails from the Empire State and they strike up a quick rapport, she pushes her luck trying to spring Danielle’s bogus driver’s license as an afterthought.
“Sorry,” he laughs, amused by her effort, “if you’d have had the guts to show me that first, I’d have let you get by.”
Instead he marks both hands with giant black magic marker Xs, while the rest of us, over the legal drinking age, receive neon colored wristbands as if gaining entrance to an exclusive country club. Of course Virginia and I already have plans for combating this unfavorable turn of events, but for now we’ve got to bide by this charade to make it past another pair of bouncers, guarding the double front doors to the club proper, their snarling faces dripping venom. Once past them, however, she dashes off to the ladies room to scrub away the Xs before they adhere, while I’m working the wristband off of my arm, where it grates against the flesh and bone structure but eventually comes off.
“Here, I don’t need this,” I tell Virginia, upon return, “you use it.”
“Jay…..are you sure?” she hesitates.
“Yeah,” I insist, “I’m not drinking.”
The club is stacked a mile high and just as deep with bodies, flailing around on a dance floor that basically never ends, because there is none, it snakes instead through every spare nook of space available. Aside from one small, pointless balcony at the far wall which accommodates exactly one table, there’s an elevated platform with a thatched room in the middle and four bars scattered throughout and that’s it, everything else is fair game for these gyrating bodies because the rest of the room is level.
Unique for a dance club the lighting here is mostly an ordinary white, of a sufficient wattage to allow visibility from one end to the other, and as such the balcony becomes a highly sought after vantage point for the horny male contingent. For everyone else, however, enough would be strippers climb atop the bar to showcase their talents, and a rotating track mounted on the ceiling boasts so many pairs of panties and bras that it’s obvious these Crazy Louie’s patrons have a long history of flinging off their clothes.
Alan and Leigh miraculously manage to secure an abandoned table, an oasis near the throbbing heart of traffic. Damon and I stand alongside the northernmost bar, weighing our options, with the remainder of our party in various configurations upon the dance floor. Frank and Lauren are dirty dancing over in a remote corner but a stone’s throw away from us, in the magnetic center of this utopian universe, Virginia sways to the beat with no less than five male bodies surrounding her, motionless themselves, drooling over her every move. John H and L, Mehlman and Mill Run and Sean, they’re trying to look as casual as possible standing there, a feat some manage more than others, but any way you slice it I see no reason to join them.
“Fuck that,” I tell Damon, “our best bet is to hang back.”
“I agree,” he says, as we join Alan and Leigh at their table.
We’ve no sooner sat there and the other three are ordering shots of 151 proof high octane rum, mother of god. In knocking his back Alan lets a few loose drips slip from his shot glass to the table, and after setting the empty slug aside he produces a lighter from his pocket, sets those wasted drops aflame. They smolder momentarily, an engrossing display that scars the table with black char marks when it’s finished.
Panting so hard his chest is about to cave in, John H appears at our table, announcing a change of scenery. “J Dog, Damon, we’re heading next door to the Yucatan,” he grins, not so much bored with all the fabulous treats this place has to offer as he is curious with what the other might hold in store, “you guys wanna come along?”
“Yeah, sure,” I tell him.
“Why not,” Damon says, half blasted already, “I wouldn’t mind checking it out.”
Alan and Leigh decline our proposal, preferring to sit where they are, and as we’re waiting for John to rustle up everyone else Damon and I bide our time by the exit, enjoying one last look. Mehlman’s standing there with us as well, looking either bored or pissed off, I can’t tell which.
“Heading over to the Yucatan with us?” I ask.
“Nah,” he says, citing his preference for country bars, “this isn’t really my kind of place.”
John L rides off into the night with him, too, but the rest of us slip outside, trudging across the spacious parking lot which owes its entire crowd to these twin towers of nightclubbing. The salad years for this once bustling French market are long gone, and apart from a popular restaurant named Houlihan’s, or this outdated movie theater, there’s little left. From here there is nothing else to do but move around the corner to the only remaining highlight, Yucatan Liquor Stand, and see what brand of mayhem they may have on tap.
III.
Damon, Jill, and I head out in my car, bound for Crazy Louie’s. Ryan is supposed to meet us there, with some other people, and along the way we stop to pick up Damon’s coworker Sara. She lives in the Wake Forest apartments on Red Robin, just around the corner from Tamarack. Looks to be in her mid 30s, and is somewhat attractive though also sort of plain. Brown straight hair, white shirt underneath jean overalls. We make a pit stop at an ATM for cash, and then continue onward to the Continent.
It’s only moderately packed when we show up, the hour still being a bit too early for most of this city’s clubgoers. This crappy cover band called Milkbone Eddie is playing out on the back patio – which is about the size of a postage stamp – and the four of us walk out here to have a seat and watch.
Oh, the band is okay, I suppose. But having electric drums doesn’t help, nor does the lack of a bass player. Their sound does seem to come across as a fairly full, I admit, for having only a singer, acoustic guitarist, and drummer. The songs they play are quality ones as well – American Pie, She Talks to Angels, etc. But they’re a tad too preppy, too cheesy and bland (though admittedly better than the Snow Shoe Crabs) for my tastes.
We move inside after a couple of beers and roughly one full set from the band. Grabbing a wall table by the back (northeast) bar, the four of us spend most of the night in this location, drinking and jabbering.
Ryan does indeed show up, standing around the central bar with a few of his friends. He introduces me to them, some people he’d gone to school with. Yet little do I know that sitting in between all of them, somehow, is a girl Damon had dated briefly back in our hometown. One of life’s weird coincidences. I sit back down at our table, and Damon fills me in – it’s a story I’ve heard before, but never actually seen the girl myself. Yet as Damon’s turning around to point over his shoulder at her, I see that Ryan is at this same moment talking to that same girl. He and all his friends have been. I start cracking up, but Damon’s never met Ryan before, he wouldn’t appreciate how bizarre this is even if I explained it to him. So I don’t bother. She’s a blonde with a tight body, but she turned out to be a prostitute, somehow.
Sometime after midnight but well before closing, we get bored and leave. Drop Sarah off.
IV.
So by the summer of 2001, this place was somehow toast, even though extremely happening still as of my last foray a handful of months prior. Go back even a year before then, however, and they were a big enough deal to even occasionally host random semi-major touring artists such as Montell Jordan, or All Saints before that. As of 1998, they were hosting hot bodies contests at least some of the time, on Thursday nights. According to one former employee I spoke to in the early 2000s, though, management just simply didn’t know what they were doing and were in over their heads trying to run a club that size. And this could be the case, it’s hard to say without more evidence.
Dance clubs are almost never long for this world, for whatever reason, and it could just be the half life for this particular experiment had simply arrived. Based upon my own experiences working in the service industry, and our first hand dealings with some of the morons who were employed at Crazy Louie’s, I think all of these concepts converge at a central point which helps explain its demise: opening a bar/restaurant is about one of the dumbest things you can possibly do, generally speaking, unless you truly are not the least bit sentimental about setting your money on fire; and yet, as anyone who has merely watched Bar Rescue or something similar can probably grasp in an instant, for some reason this industry attracts nimrods like no other business ever has, people who are convinced they would be great at running such a place (I think a lot of childish fantasies are in play about, like, hanging out and being chummy with everyone as you always have, possibly even at the same bar you used to frequent, possibly even continuing to drink here on the job, too, while nonetheless raking in a ton of dough and having the patrons look up to you like some kind of god); the bottom barrel bouncers and doormen also did this place no favors; on top of everything else, the Continent continued to decline, alongside this region as a whole; but yes, even in the best case scenario, last generation’s dance club is typically of no interest to the next, and by “generation” you might actually be talking about only five years.
All of this makes one wonder why anybody bothers opening a bar or restaurant business, a dance club most of all – but we are certainly thankful for those intrepid souls who give it a shot. Or at least the ones who treat us well and know what they are doing. There have definitely been a ton of great owners all over this city, many of which have kept their places afloat for decades. But those who had the keys to Crazy Louie’s would not be found among them. So let’s raise our lighters now to their brief, flickering ghost of a memory…and if you have any 151 on hand, maybe pour a little on the table, then set that puddle on fire as your last little tribute.
