Flannagan’s is a longstanding Dublin institution, situated for decades near the convergence of I-270 and Sawmill Road. Driving past, you pretty much can’t miss the volleyball nets strung atop the oceans of sand outside. Now that they’re fast approaching nearly 30 years of continuous operation – almost unheard of for a club like this in these parts – it’s a fitting time to take a look back at their history, as well as some memorable experiences here.
Opening its doors in March of 1996, Flannagan’s took the reins from former tenant Colorado Rose. On the surface its overarching concept, a live music/dance venue with bar food, perhaps doesn’t sound so amazing. But open faced subs are an additional intriguing option (although if pressed, in keeping with so many other bars, I must admit to never eating here), and they also offer what they are already referring to as “virtual reality games.” In a piece about its opening in the Dispatch, co-owner Allen Farst mentions Alpine Ski Racer as one such offering. More impressive still, believe it or not, this is the FIRST such business in Columbus to feature…an ATM machine. Yes. In 1996.
As is often the case with these event booking sites, their early days present an amusing hodgepodge. Really, the first scheduling of note that I can find is the Cincinnati Reds winter caravan, arriving on January 21, 1998. Even this is a sight shy of star-studded, however, for aside from the manager, hitting coach, and announcers, the roll call otherwise includes the likes of pinch hitting specialist Lenny Harris, reliever Jeff Shaw, slugger Dimitri “Da Meathook” Young, and young semi-phenom Scott Sullivan. Signing autographs, possibly, and mugging with the crowd. A few months later, the bar hosts a party airing the final Seinfeld episode, replete with a lookalike contest. And during this era BucksLine, an OSU football radio program airing on AM station 610 WTVN, broadcasts live from here, which is possibly their greatest score to date.
But it’s only as the calendar turns over to ’99 that we begin to see more of these expected musical acts, often cover bands with huge followings, that most would picture as Flannagan’s true forte: Shuckin’ Bubba, Snow Shoe Crabs. From here, their profile is a steadily rising one, aided in large part by those volleyball pits and accompanying beach vibes generated during the summer months. By December of 2001, they’re even booking platinum UK act Stereophonics. In another Dispatch article, covering this event, other co-owner David Straub says, “I deal with cover bands that are more uptight than these guys.”
Indie darlings Hot Hot Heat even played here once, which is incredibly trendy for a venue such as this. Still, though Straub and Farst would have presumably been fine with continued hipsterish bookings in that vein, they know their bread and their Irish butter, which is of course these mostly local, hit playing outfits. The assorted odd engagements will emerge now and then, but these crowd pleasing acts playing timeworn fan favorites continue to dominate the calendar.
II.
We arrive at the bar in a handful of separate vehicles, at slightly different times, but successfully reconvene once inside. Initially, this is feeling like somewhat of a drag, being here, because I wasn’t too sold on this destination to begin with, and this place is packed beyond belief. The seven of us (Alan, Damon, myself, Tawnya, Megan, Amber, Melissa) have somehow managed to cram ourselves into a tiny parcel of land in the middle of the floor, but movement is nearly impossible beyond this. To top it off, Alan’s in one of his rare sarcastic, combative moods (rare for him to project such at Tawnya, anyway), and so he and his woman are arguing mildly throughout, as she’s none too amused by his humor. And the night has only just begun.
At one point Alan drifts over to the bar, orders a Zima on her behalf. But then upon returning, discovers that he can’t find her – and so hands the drink off to some random stranger who just happens to be standing nearby! Naturally, Tawnya inquires about the status of the Zima, is not exactly pleased upon learning its current whereabouts. Cue another round of squabbling.
Glancing over at Damon and me with a grin, Alan observes, “guess I’m not getting any (whistle sound) (roughly translates as whee-whoo) tonight.”
My night is progressing in a similarly bumpy fashion. In the past, Amber’s presence would have felt like an unmitigated triumph, but now I’m not so sure – not sure I even want her here, much less where she and I stand. There’s been just too many conflicting signals, her saying one thing and doing something completely else. To which my typical reaction is to just back away entirely rather than attempt figuring it out. I’m feeling like I would prefer it were just the two of us out doing something, or else a clubbing entourage such as this without her, but not the combination of these elements. This is what I’m not really in the mood for.
Still, as The Menus take the stage, slightly more than half of our party decides they will brave the elements, and jostle their way up front for a better look. I’m not quite so ambitious tonight, figure I’ll remain alongside Damon and Melissa as we hold onto this meager scrap of land we’ve acquired. Flannagan’s is actually a somewhat small venue to be hosting the types of bands it does, at least during these winter months where not many will wish to take their drinks outside. Therefore with the sound and sight lines just fine from where we stand, we don’t want to press our luck trying to angle for a potentially better spot.
If so inclined, there are always endless ways to make oneself feel like the world’s biggest goober. Or else like a champion – it’s all about mindset. I guess what we should aim for is to view reality as accurately as possible, but barring that, which is difficult to ever prove anyway, if in doubt you should just choose to believe you are crushing it.
Like for example, we’re standing here and Damon gives an enthusiastic hello to some brunette chick he knows, who just happens to drift past. It soon emerges that this is that Maera girl, a friend of his whom I met a couple of years ago (I actually don’t recognize her at first, nor she apparently me.) And subsequently obtained her phone number that night, then attempted asking her out about a week later – no dice. Nothing was apparently happening on that front. While it’s true maybe I gave up too soon, I’ve also never been one to continue beating a dead horse. I took my shot, then moved on.
Whatever the case, this is about as awkward as it gets. And therefore it’s all too easy to stand here and feel like a major dork. If one will let oneself, which I initially do. But then after she walked away, I started to think, hold up a second. She’s a really nice looking woman that I hit it off with, for one night anyway, and at least I asked her out. Who cares if it didn’t transpire – well, I do care, but the point is still made. It was I think Tommy Lasorda who said that the second best thing to winning the World Series…is losing the World Series.
And it’s not only that, but I’ve got Amber here elsewhere in the building. Following a blazing hot start, it’s been rockier, more of a zigzag pattern, yet we are still hanging in here somehow. The key issues are that she can’t seem to make up her mind about what she really wants in life, and meanwhile I have some sort of clinical inability to actually chase after someone. So we run hot and cold, though it’s certainly nothing I should beat myself up about. And should this fail…well, Melissa is “joking” around about resuming activities from last summer. Like for example she’s talking about trying to sneak me into her room at the sorority house. But then Melissa also asks what’s going on with Amber and me, I joke about having exceeded my typical two week stint with someone. In actuality I have no idea, though.
So we’re hanging out by the soundboard, in the middle of the room, alongside some sturdy railing. Watching the entire set in this manner, after countless beers, riding a wave on this suddenly sunnier outlook. At some point I feel someone elbowing me in the ribs, and it’s Amber, smiling at me as she and I finally have a spare moment to talk. We discuss going out on a nice actual date for once, instead of just clubbing and kicking it around the house like we have been, and maybe even catching a Blue Jackets game next week. Meanwhile Damon, who’s been on somewhat of a hot streak lately with the outrageous antics, for unknown reasons decides to lift a cymbal from the wall and stuff it inside his coat.
I’m apparently the only other person aware that he’s done this. Thus even our own crew is giving us weird, puzzled looks when we launch into this outlandish comedic scene – me pummeling the crap out of his stomach, rapid fire, with both fists, while he just stands there and laughs. “Man! Have you been working out? These abs are rock solid!” I crow. To this he simply smiles and shrugs, as if with false modesty.
From here, it’s only natural that I begin explaining to everyone else how Damon almost got us kicked out of the Kid Rock concert. With visual reenactments. Then the next thing you know, The Menus have stopped playing for the night, and Flannagan’s begins to thin out somewhat. The band drifts by in their travels, and we’re talking with Tim, their lead singer, for a minute. Some of us saw them play last summer up at Put-In-Bay, and discuss this with him momentarily.
III.
The above visit transpired in 2001. Although other trips will follow, those eventually dried up, and a good twenty years will probably pass until my most recent voyage here. It’s a Friday afternoon and the place is not yet crowded, though swiftly filling up. Outside, at the edge of the fence surrounding this property, a woman working the door asked me if I was entering the line dance competition, and appears to be collecting money for such. When I informed her that no, I only came here for a beer, she said that was fine and waved me on in. Considering that there’s a huge metal building where most of the parking lot once stood, I parked behind Safelite, and ask her if this is okay. There’s no signage up advising otherwise, but it never hurts to be sure. She says they are a relatively new tenant, and she gets the feeling they’re not crazy about the overflow parking, but haven’t formally complained thus far. And with this, I’m feeling confident enough to continue.
Though the essential layout inside has not changed, about half of the interior decor has. That horse trough looking corrugated metal lining the bottom of the bar is the same, and so is some of this neon lighting, as well as the stage. These hardwood floors look new to me, though, and I’m also certain that some or all of those rolling garage doors lining the south wall must have come along in more recent years – if only because, if memory serves, it’s from this wall that Damon stole that cymbal. As for the item in question, though I was hoping this artifact might survive from that bygone era, he regretfully informs me, “I think we used it ’til it broke.” So much for that.
I order a draft IPA and chill out against one of those garage doors, near the side entrance, surveying the scene. The line dancing contest has not begun proper, though this does not prevent stray patrons from practicing their moves in isolation, here and there, or as a small cluster. One particularly eye opening lass, a tall brunette, parades around in black tank top, tight jean shorts, and black cowgirl boots, hair in a ponytail, and I am indeed quite impressed by her moves.
Though there’s no evidence of this outside any longer, but there was a short lived swimming pool on site here. The only clues you have are where the building has been painted a nautical blue, and the name Elly Bay is festooned prominently upon its backside. In the picture below, you can see the lighter colored concrete in the middle, where this pool enjoyed its relatively brief existence. Someone also recently mentioned to me that Elly Bay is a place in Ireland, which makes sense as a similar “locale” of the Flannagan’s compound. As for that metal building, this is known as the Fieldhouse, which houses still more volleyball action, during those brutal winter months and beyond. All in all, I would say they’ve done a slick job here of updating and modernizing slightly to fit these modern times, while still managing to remain essentially the same.
2001 Events Calendar:
January 21: Cincinnati Reds Winter Caravan ’01
January 26: The Menus
February 3: Jonesi. I was at this show but couldn’t really tell you much about it.
October 11: Clark and Tim (of Hat Trick)
October 12: Conspiracy
October 13: The Reaganomics
October 25: Hat Trick
October 26: The Menus
October 27: The Websters
December 14: Stereophonics.
