Columbus – Page 2 – Love Letter To Columbus

Posted on by Jason McGathey — 2 Comments

1997

As the year begins, on the northeast rim of town, miles of cornfield are being systematically bulldozed, clearing way for a giant shopping mall our cash heavy denizens apparently need. City leaders are pushing for a brand new arena downtown, to host our Columbus Crew soccer team, possibly, now enjoying their inaugural season with home games at Ohio Stadium. A half mile east of our house, near the 17th Avenue exit of I-71, in an eroded oasis of factories and the state fairground, the Ohio Historical Museum and the ghetto Linden neighborhood, neglected train tracks and graffiti caked convenience stores, minor league hockey squad the Chill toils in 5700 seat Coliseum obscurity, but they too might gain a new address should this measure pass.

At the corner of Spring and Neil, blocks away from this arena’s projected home, the contaminated, environmentally hazardous site of the Ohio Penitentiary, host decades earlier to this state’s death row, meets its own demise, as gorgeous, sweeping wings of Victorian architecture are razed into a pile of rubble. Throughout Franklin County, unemployment hovers at a paltry three percent. Police chief James Jackson has been barred for months from entering his own office.

January 2 – local radio listeners are delighted that Howard Stern is now an option. His nationally syndicated program finally debuts here this morning, on 99.7 WBZX (“The Blitz”).

January 3 – a free rally for the Rose Bowl champion Buckeyes is held at St. John Arena. Approximately 10,000 people with nothing better to do will attend. The team flew in via a Lane Aviation charter to avoid being mobbed at the main airport terminal. The unseasonably warm weather hits a high of 60 degrees today.

January 4 – A high of 67 degrees!

January 5 – Back down to a mere 65.

January 6 – A Monday, and classes begin at OSU.

Febuary 10 – OSU police officer Michael Blankenship is shot to death at the Wexner Center For The Arts. He is responding to a call on a break-in at the center, and the shooter, Mark Edgerton, manages to escape the scene unscathed. Ironically enough, Blankenship had been teaching a class on safety right before responding to this call. Though moving into swift action attempting to apprehend the culprit, with at least one helicopter circling the skies, beaming its spotlight upon campus, police never do arrest the shooter, as he evades their grasp. It’s only days later, when Edgerton kills himself, that he is eventually linked to the crime. Damon and I happen to be strolling about campus at the time of the shooting, and notice the helicopter above us with the spotlight, as we then backtrack and attempt to figure out what they’re looking for. You could definitely say we’re lucky not to have found it.

March 18

A small time pot dealer, Kyle Schaulin, is shot to death on East 11th Avenue, two doors down from my associate Amanda’s apartment. Her address was 83, his 75. Oddly enough despite Schaulin having three roommates present – one of whom even saw the suspects (three strange men had entered the apartment) – and this crime occuring in the middle of the day, no progress has ever been made on this case.

April 25-26 – Treasured local rock club Stache’s last weekend. On 4/27 they will host an auction.

May 6 – the big vote for Issue #1, to fund what will become Nationwide Arena. What’s curious about this is that the city hasn’t even actually been approved for an NHL team yet.

May 24 – U2 hit Ohio Stadium during their PopMart tour. 44K tickets sold, and thousands more loiter, camping, carousing, able to clearly hear if not see, in this field behind the action, the empty expanse of land between an OSU library and the Lincoln and Morrill Towers. Another merry swarm, collegiate and younger, mostly, rules the campus streets, too, centering upon Lane and High, but fanning both outward and inward across virtually every spare scrap of land. This may not equal, quite, the open container free zone of a Saturday morning tailgate bonanza, which the cops have given up on policing entirely and close off the surrounding streets to accommodate, but it comes close. Between here and there I encounter a dozen front porches sagging with keg party saturation, densely packed and chirping above random U2 albums, cranked full tilt, or a local radio station broadcasting the same. Local band Silo the Huskie works the parked car cabal, meanwhile, sliding flyers beneath windshield wiper blades, advertising an after concert show they’re playing at the Short North venue Chelsie’s.

Home, bored, attempting to write something for hours in my disheartening dustbunnied bedroom, soundproof but for the muffled tv drone escaping Alan’s now closed door, I evacuate for round two, as the clock reads half past two. Discover that, without exception, the same houses reveling the last time around continue to do so, if sloppily, louder, but that High Street itself, stretching from roughly Hudson Avenue clear down into the Short North, is an absolute madhouse, wilder than any Thursday night, even in dreams. The Chelsie’s afterhours canceled, given up on by its queued hopefuls after an extended wait, so that by midnight, when the drunken owner staggers up with keys, only the furious Silo foursome remain outside, though stick around no longer than it takes to grab their equipment. No shortage of alternative venues await this howling horde, however, whereby even this all night convenience store I’m raiding for ice cream bears a shoulder to shoulder parking lot congregation, assembled for no discernible purpose, and with no other entertainment, unless their skateboards and boomboxes count, their rosy reenactments, across the street shout outs, one hit bowls and forties.

May 25

A liftoff celebration for Short North rock club Little Brothers, starring R.L. Burnside.

May 31 – Hempfest ’97 at Mirror Lake runs from 12 to 12. Triggahappy and Uncle Sam’s Dream Machine are among the performers, and there’s even a little bit of comedy gracing the stage.

June 16 – Paul is the master at finding ways to meet famous musicians. With Ozzy Osbourne slated to perform tomorrow, Paul works the phone lines and receives some solid information that the Prince Of Darkness might be staying up at the Worthington area Holiday Inn. If nothing else, it seems certain that Rush (who are playing a show at Polaris tonight) and Pantera, part of tomorrow’s Ozzfest bill, certainly are.

Paul, Damon, Alan and I cruise up to that Holiday Inn and hang out in the hotel bar. But then after just a few minutes sitting here, watching baseball highlights with the sound off, the bartender announces that they are closing for the night and we have to finish our drinks.

We move to the lobby and sit on some fancy furniture near an even more impressive fountain display. Trying our best to look inconspicuous, though only a handful of minutes pass and it probably doesn’t matter anyway, before this big burly figure enters the front doors with an incredible looking babe on each arm.

“Look, it’s some groupies!” Damon whispers. This is exactly what it looks like, too, a bouncer having secured fresh candidates for a conjugal visit, for whatever band’s employing him.

“Fuck, dude, let’s follow them,” Paul suggests.

So we get up and casually tail this trio, trying to not be too obvious about it. Except they get on an elevator, and, figuring this might be our only chance to find out where they’re going, we speed walk our way over to hop on the same car with them.

They’ve pushed in the button for the 4th floor, so we act like that’s a pleasant coincidence and pretend we’re getting off there as well. But as the bell rings and doors open, those three hang back to see what we’re up to, because we surely completely transparent and – if our hunches are correct – these seasoned pros have seen these moves before. So we have no choice but to exit the elevator, hanging a left, pretending as if our room lies this way down the hall. As we continually sneak peeks behind us, however, we notice that the others have gone in the opposite direction, before ducking into a nearby room.

Instantly, we reverse tracks and beat a hasty path down the hall, to observe the number, 424, they’ve slipped behind. Then regroup at the elevators and discuss our next plan of attack. Damon suggests that we just knock on the door and see if anyone answers. I dismiss this notion on the grounds that there’s no way Geddy Lee or Phil from Pantera or whomever would answer, even if there were a rock star in that room.

“No, but maybe you could see past the bouncer or whatever to who is in the room with him,” Paul suggests, while Alan continues smirking but not saying a whole lot.

Somehow it’s decided that I’m going to be the one to knock, while the other three snicker just out of sight. Though knowing damn well there are at least three people in this room, nobody answers, and why would they? Assuming anyone even bothered coming to the door to peer through that fish eyed lens, they’ve already glimpsed us idiots clowning around on the elevator.

So this wouldn’t rate as one of Paul’s more successful missions. All is not lost, however. As we climb aboard the elevator and descend to the ground floor once more, someone passes us in the hall, a tall figure wearing a black ball cap with an O on it and a minus sign struck through it. It’s not until the following day that we realize this was someone connected with Type O Negative, who are also on the Ozzfest bill.

June 17 – Ozzfest at Polaris which devolves into a riot. In slightly less controversial news, the NHL announces today that Columbus is indeed getting an expansion team, which will begin play in 2000.

June 27-29 – This year’s Community Festival, a.k.a. Comfest. 6 stages of music, an arts tent with live theater, et cetera.

July 1 – It almost feels like getting two concerts for the price of one. Though bummed at the time, if not actually rioting ourselves, it’s kind of cool in some weird way that the pair of headliners from June 17 are finally getting around to honoring their obligation only now. For tonight is the Ozzy Osbourne/Black Sabbath makeup show, free to anyone holding a ticket from the Ozzfest debacle.

This time around, just six of us ride over together: Alan, Paul, Mandy, Damon and his girlfriend Shannon, and me. Many original attendees of the Ozzfest can’t make it and probably, rightfully, consider this rescheduled show as total horseshit, but there are some positives. Among these are that hardcore metal fanatics like Mandy, who couldn’t make the original date, are able to score tickets to this one in a free handoff. But also, and while I’m aware this sentiment sounds like granting a hall pass to wastoid rock star shenanigans, we have no doubts that Ozzy Osbourne sounds better tonight than he ever possibly would that day of the riot.

You might lump an opening act who weren’t on the original Ozzfest bill, Neurosis, into that “added benefit” category, although this is probably a matter of taste. Some of us are of the opinion that any free entertainment amounts to a bonus, while others are less charitable. I would never claim that Neurosis are the best opening act I’ve ever seen and certainly not that paying money to see them as headliners sounds like a swell idea. But they do have this pair of guitar players who also pound on floor toms during select intervals, which at least produces a unique sound. Paul, however, is flipping through a concert program and scoffing at this entire enterprise.

“Man, why couldn’t they at least get somebody like Pantera or something,” he grouses.

And right then, as if not only on cue but actually hearing Paul’s comment, the lead singer lets out a blood curdling wail.

“That’s the sound he’s gonna make when I come down there and beat his ass,” Paul adds.

We sit in silence for a while before Paul asks, “you remember me telling you that Korn was the worst band I ever saw live?”

“Yeah?” I say.

“Well, not any more,” he concludes.

Alan and I are on record as kind of liking Neurosis, though the other four members of our party think they suck mightily. But all is forgotten anyway as soon as Ozzy takes the stage, or for that matter before the band even appears in person. As an introduction, a short film flashes on the big screen, depicting Osbourne spliced into numerous famous music videos, replacing the original members. The best of these shows Ozzy in that iconic car from Alanis Morrissette’s Ironic clip, reenacting some scenes precisely, although also leveling down to a segment where he has her panties on his head.

I don’t know if this makes any of his current music relevant. Then again, he has landed major mainstream hits as recently as 1995, which is a mind-boggling accomplishment for a hippie era burnout who was left for dead by Sabbath nearly twenty years ago. And while it’s a strange, possibly inconsequential take on his continued popularity, I think that his hilarious and surely off the cuff Ironic riffage does demonstrate that he’s more dialed in to today than most of his contemporaries, which might explain why people perceive Ozzy as being, however flawed, more real than most of his fellow moldering rock stars, and why we still expect him to deliver the goods.

Prior to Osbourne’s arrival, Damon, Paul and I decide to see if we can gate crash the pavilion with our lawn seats. This turns out to be no challenge whatsoever, as nobody is checking ticket stubs, and we are able to slide into three open seats unopposed. And soon enough, Ozzy takes the stage with his current solo band.

His voice doesn’t sound the greatest, and personally, I don’t care much for the fretburner on guitar. But in an unexpected twist, he does have Faith No More’s drummer, Mike Bordin, playing with him now, and this is fine by me – he has an odd style, though one I’ve always liked.

Ozzy opens with I Don’t Know and the crowd goes absolutely berserk for this one. Again, it’s difficult to think of too many classic rock dudes who would have their post-getting-kicked-out-of-the-major-famous-band hits received in such fashion, much less start a show with them. From here, he rips through all his solo classics, with an obligatory encore thrown into the mix. Then, following a short break, he’s back out on the stage again, with the band that made him famous, Black Sabbath.

“Well, I still don’t feel too fucking great, but I’m here,” Ozzy cracks in a break between songs, his thick British accent only decipherable after years spent doing so.

Two of the other three original members are also present, Tony Iommi and Geezer Butler, with only drummer Bill Ward absent this time around. I ask the resident expert, Paul, who probably knows more than 99.999% of those present, band and their flunkies included, about the current situation. Except it seems even he isn’t quite appraised of current Black Sabbath intrigue, and is forced to speculate.

“Bill Ward was the one who kicked Ozzy out of the band the first time,” he theorizes, “so I’ll bet when it came time to do a reunion, he decided to leave Bill out.”

They play most of their hits, of course, the best being signature tune Black Sabbath, during which Ozzy makes a bunch of ominous faces and delivers the most demonic laughs we’ve ever heard. And of course, he’s balancing this out with that weird little hop of his, where he gets on all fours and bounces around here and there. That, and occasionally he throws buckets of water out on the crowd, in fact they’ve laid carpet onstage to accommodate such a thing.

Geezer’s fingers seem to be flying a hundred miles an hour on the bass, although if you stop to listen, what he’s actually playing doesn’t sound that fast. We can’t figure out what the hell he’s doing up there, only that it looks mighty strange – but sounds just as it should, which is all that matters. Ozzy’s voice is a little ragged throughout, though he pulls it off, and it’s nothing but smiles all around for the band between one another, which is probably the real cue you are looking for.

After playing a full set, Sabbath comes back out for a two song encore, including crowd pleaser Paranoid. By now, Damon, Paul and I have trooped back up the hill, where Alan and Mandy have dedicated their day to drinking as much as possible and Shannon seems a little less than pleased at being left in charge of them. For entertainment, while strolling back to my car, we take our sweet time cataloging the state of the current fence, where obvious pieces have been slotted in to replace those destroyed by the riot. Mandy, who alone among us wasn’t even present for that completely insane day, can’t stop laughing about this and other signs of carnage, even after we’re in the car and I’ve started driving. Then again, I guess it is pretty hilarious, all things considered.

July 25-30 – Garth Brooks sells out 6 straight shows at Cooper Stadium.

July 26 – Something called the 3rd Annual U.S. Open Of Music is held at Ruby Tuesday: MK Ultra, Big Foot Nixon, and a bunch of other bands who aren’t worried about this Garth Brooks character will perform.

August 2 – Hideki Irabu pitches 7 shutout innings for the Clippers against Rochester. George Steinbrenner flies into Columbus to watch the game.

August 6 – Irabu takes the mound again, also at home, pitching 8 innings and striking out 11 Richmond Braves.

August 15 – OSU holds a farewell ceremony for the Big Ear telescope, which is being retired in favor of a golf course. Though actually located at the Perkins Observatory up in Delaware (more proof, in case you needed it, of how far OSU property reaches), it was this telescope which famously received, to date, the only intelligent transmission ever recorded from outer space, the infamous Wow! signal of 1977. Lasting 72 seconds, it was captured 20 years ago on this date, and is still unexplained as of this writing.

August 21 – MadLab opens a makeshift theatre in a Brewery Station warehouse.

September 19 – Watershed play at Chelsie’s

September 21 – Dub Narcotic Sound System play this curious gig at a house on East 12th Avenue – 115 E 12th, to be precise, at the corner of Indianola. Word of mouth had been circulating for weeks, but there are also plenty of flyers to be found around campus, too. Flyers which come in handy night of the show when I’m walking to it from my house, but can’t remember the exact address now, and wander aimlessly until spotting and grabbing one.

As it turns out, I show up a mite earlier than anyone else I know. Admission is a scant five dollars, and then I find myself temporarily standing alone in your standard old unfinished basement with just a handful of strangers when the opening act, T Tauri (stylized lowercase on the poster, t tauri, in case this matters), plug in and start playing. They’re bad, like Velvet Underground as junior high school students or something, and yet I dig them anyway.

After they are finished, there’s a short break, during which time a bunch of my friends finally start filtering in. Dan and Travis, Steve and Dave, Kevin and Vanessa, and some redheaded girl who turns out to be Andy Thomas’s older sister. Jeremy’s sitting along one wall, conversing with some tall, dark haired dude, and I walk over to say to say a quick hello before walking off. Except Jeremy smirks, and says to his colleague, “I’ll bet he doesn’t recognize you.”

“No, I don’t,” I admit, “should I?”

Jeremy explains that this is Jack Edinger, whom I haven’t seen since high school. Even he would admit he was more than a little on the jolly round side back then, but is now looking slim and sort of debonair. His hair is even darker and if I’m not mistaken he might even be taller.

“Don’t feel bad,” he laughs, “I didn’t recognize you, either.”

The second band now occupies the corner which passes for a stage. They’re called Foxfire and are like some creepy outfit from the 1970s. But they also happen to rock. Most songs, they’d start off slow and the singer would belt it to his heart’s content, then the musicians would fade out with a long instrumental jam.

A third offering coalesces in pieces. When complete it’s a trio called D Plus but to start with there’s just one guy, plunking on a bass and singing. Halfway through this song, another guy with a beard strolls onto the scene, sits down and puts forth some percussion. But then starting with the next song and continuing through the end of their set, the original singer moves to drums, the bearded guy picks up the bass, and some final dude appears to handle vocals and guitar. They play simple little songs with funny lyrics and are vaguely catchy. The drummer likes to pretend he’s sleeping but then awaken to rip off a sudden drum roll. It’s awesome. He even plays some overhead basement pipes during one of their cuts. And his kit consists of kick, snare, one tom, and a ride cymbal, that’s it, which are arranged from the center and fanning out to his right – there’s nothing to the left whatsoever.

During the next intermission, Dan Bandman and I and a couple other people are hanging out, chatting with this black dude, Larry Butler. He’s pretty funny and while Dan was obviously aware of this, having just strolled up out the blue, I wasn’t aware that Larry would soon be climbing behind the kit himself. He’s the drummer for Dub Narcotic Sound System and chatting with him might be the highlight of the night.

Let it be said that I really don’t care much one way or the other about these headliners. In fact, I’ve never heard a note before tonight. However, I am quite familiar with their leader, Calvin Johnson, a semi-legendary indie dude who kind of helped get that whole Seattle thing off the ground in the late 80s and early 90s. I’ve read a great deal about him, seen him interviewed in at least one documentary, heard a smattering of his fairly decent other, earlier bands. But as for this current project, Travis is correct when he jokes, “you could fast forward a tape of theirs to any spot and it would sound the same…Dub Narcotic Sound System…bzzz-zzzew-zzzzt…Dub Narcotic Sound System…”

They play what I guess you’d call a plastic form of funk, and are okay, but about as repetitive and tedious as this wisecrack would imply. Calvin has a baby face yet sings in basically the lowest register detectable by human ears, and yes, most of the tunes do seem to revolve around him just chanting their name over and over again at some point. I feel like this has be some kind of ironic art piece, an in-joke, because there’s no way they are this intentionally robotic and one-note, but whatever the case I don’t think this act is going to take off anytime soon.

The best part of their set, in fact, occurs between songs when from somewhere in the crowd behind me, a very drunk Dave Kemp asks somebody, with complete seriousness, “is Calvin here?” loud enough that the entire room can hear him.

After the show, everyone wants to meet Calvin. He has a peculiar attitude to say the least. Though if as seriously pissed off about being here as he is acting, you would think he would just leave the scene, instead he leans against the side of the house with his hoodie pulled up and snarls at anyone who attempts talking to him. I feel like a complete dork telling him they sounded good and even flashing a thumbs up which I immediately regret, to which he says, “okay…,” as though this were the most awkward comment ever. And yet even so, I come off relatively unscathed. Kevin tries a real conversation with him, returns to our little circle in the lawn reporting that he was extremely rude. The next casualty is Dan. While we again approached Larry Butler and found him as affable as before, and the ever networking Bandman even handed Larry a Superstar Rookie cassette, when Dan returns from his own Calvin encounter, I ask if he was cool and Bandman replies, “no, not at all.”

Then again, even we are howling as Dan relates to us how his own aborted discussion went. Attempting to make it a bit more personal, beyond the standard ass-kissing fan worship fare, he observes that Calvin “has a baby face but a deep voice, like Rick Astley.” Upon which he takes it one step further, pantomiming that he is holding a microphone as he sways side to side and croons the chorus to Never Gonna Give You Up. To say that Calvin came unglued at this display is an understatement.

So we’re all standing around, attempting to pool our notes and determine why, exactly, Johnson here is such a dick. Leave it to a quiet, uninvolved Jack, however, to piece together the clues and figure it out for us.

“He’s a WEIRDO, guys,” Jack butts in to explain, “keep this under your hats, okay, but the guy’s a little weird.”

September 27 – The Rolling Stones are at Ohio Stadium. My friend Miles attends this show, getting so drunk he tumbles down a number of seating rows and gives up drinking for months thereafter. Elsewhere in the crowd, Damon and Paul are also paying customers. Prior to the show, Paul openly scoffs at the fact that Mick and company based their decision on how many tickets to sell upon U2’s numbers here in May.

October 4 – Lisa and Maria attend a Buckeye football game at the Horseshoe. Will wind up at the impound lot after to retrieve an illegally parked car. I had suggested to Lisa before the game that she should park near my house on Summit, which she refused, saying, “no, it’ll probably get towed!” Okay then. OSU does clobber Iowa 23-7, however. Go Bucks!

October 11 – Adrian Belew of King Crimson plays a free 7pm show at some arts festival in the Short North, near 4th Avenue and High. I only find out about it and attend by pure happenstance. My ex-girlfriend Heather and I were supposed to go out for the first time in almost two years, but then she calls at the last minute to cancel. “Life goes on,” I tell her before hanging up, then walk down to Flying Tomato alone for pizza. Am flipping through The Other Paper looking for something to do when I spot this offering.

The show transpires in an open plot of lawn between two buildings on the west side of High. A local guy I’ve not yet heard of, Harold “Happy” Chichester, is set to open. Later I will learn he was a member of Howlin’ Maggie, a modestly successful local band. Happy’s playing alone, just himself and a keyboard, and the first song is his highwater mark – it’s something called I’m A Slut, the chorus of which is stuck in my head forevermore after just this one listen. Years later I will bother to track down the album version, but really kind of prefer the performance I heard this evening, and am saddened that (as far as I know) no recordings exist.

I like some of this other stuff, but the stripped down arrangement here does grow a little boring after a while. He has a strong voice and can play the piano skillfully enough, yet there’s just not enough variety with this format to sustain a lengthy set. Fortunately, after a very short break, Belew drifts upon the scene.

After cutting his teeth a session musician and live performer with the likes of Frank Zappa, David Bowie, and the Talking Heads, Belew joined King Crimson in 1981. Tonight he mixes in familiar Crimson offerings such as Three Of A Perfect Pair and the newer One Time, with stuff from a side group called The Bears whom I’ve never heard. It’s just him on acoustic for the most part, although he does pipe in sound effects like birds chirping, rain, and trains barreling through the P.A. He also breaks out a steel guitar for exactly two songs. Explaining that, however cliched, his two greatest influences were McCartney and Lennon, he proceeds to cover a song from each – Blackbird and Across The Universe, respectively.

And yet despite all this, the highlight of the evening, or at least one of the highlights, might be when he stops playing midway through his set and allows the audience to shout out questions. This is about the closest I’ve ever stood to a household name musician, at least up to this point, and I can’t think of anything nor work up the nerve to ask anything myself.

Someone does ask Adrian about the weirdest thing Zappa ever made him do, and he says, “oh, wear a dress for a Halloween show in NYC.”

“Mothers are allowed to wear dresses!” another guy in the crowd shouts out, inducing a laugh from the audience and Belew himself.

“What about Bowie?” someone else questions, right on the heels of this inquiry.

Belew offers a wry grin and says, “I can’t tell you that, but it was part of the audition.”

He closes with another newer cut, Dinosaur, one of my favorites, before returning for a two song encore. After he leaves, in keeping with this whole art festival vibe, film footage of some sort is projected against the side of the nearest building, which I watch for a couple of minutes before splitting. Another highly regarded local band, Nude, is set to play later, and while interested in checking them out, I’ve already committed to another Superstar Rookie show later at the Northberg Tavern.

October 13 – It rains for the first time in forever, closing out a ten day stretch of unusually warm weather. Thanks to one of those El Nino storms off the coast of California, beginning on the 3rd, we’ve experienced near record highs ranging from the low 70s clear up to 86 degrees on the 5th.

October 15 – An independent film tour called Fuel rolls into the Drexel.

October 24-26 – The Real Witches’ Ball. Occupies two blocks in the Short North. Bands, authors, Middle Eastern dancers, workshops, readings, and, of course, a costume contest.

October 31 – Sarah McLachlan plays Veterans Memorial. My friend Paul takes a girl he’d once dated, Jennifer, in hopes of rekindling the flame. I’m not sure if he was successful but all parties report it a great show.

November 2 – Tonic is at the Newport, with Jeremy Toback opening.

November 7 – The Newport Music Hall hosts an event called Arts for the Cure.

November 8 – George Clinton & The P-Funk All Stars are at the Newport.

November 9 – Gov’t Mule play Ludlow’s.

November 11 – Big Head Todd & The Monsters are at the Newport, which would imply that some people are still into this band. Abra Moore opens.

November 12 – KMFDM hit the Newport, with Pig as their opening act.

November 13 – David Byrne takes the tiny stage of Alrosa Villa.

November 15 – Running back Pepe Pearson is player of the game as OSU annihilates Illinois, 41-6.

November 16 – Exactly 10 years to the minute after his firing as OSU football head coach, Earle Bruce calls Rick Bay, so they can reminisce about that awesome time.

Jars Of Clay play Veterans Memorial.

November 20 – Lords Of Acid perform at the Newport.

November 21 – Fabulous Johnson Brothers play the Newport, followed by John Mullins.

November 22 – The Newport hosts “A Tribute To SRV,” featuring the Frank Harrison Group.

November 25 – semi-religious grungemeisters Creed hit the Newport, with Cellophane opening.

December 5 – The Fabulous Thunderbirds are at the Newport.

December 9 – Quite the action packed night. Damon and I catch The Mark Wehrling Trio play a gig at Sugar Shack, then scoot across campus for amateur comedy night at Northberg Tavern.

December 17 – The Northberg is on a sudden, unexpected roll. This Swabby character sets up shop on Wednesdays and Thursdays out of nowhere, and becomes what is, to date, the most well-received bar musician I’ve ever seen. I’m not sure when the residency began, but this is my first taste of it. And actually this initial performance is only so-so, which makes me think he’d only just started his run at the Northberg. My coworkers were absolutely raving about the guy, but I didn’t see it on this particular outing. The next night I catch him again, however, and he’s blowing the doors off the place from this point onward. I actually witness more than one show where dudes are ripping ceiling tiles out and throwing them onto the ground. Girls flashing the singer (and anyone else fortunate enough to sit nearby) is pretty much de rigueur, audience singalongs nonstop all night.

Posted on by Jason McGathey — 2 Comments

Superstar Rookie

The first ever Superstar Rookie show arrives the same night as a torrential downpour, easily the worst rain seen all summer. Even so, I walk up to Café Bourbon Street from our house, hopping over puddles because Alan’s at work and I’m not sure who else would give me a lift right this minute.

I spotted a couple different flyers of theirs on High Street earlier that same day. The one above, featuring some sweet looking though possibly copyright protected superheroes, is more in keeping with their sound and band name. But this Screech number shown below isn’t without its charms – particularly as I must have picked it up off the sidewalk or something, as shoe prints are visible on my original copy:

poster from Superstar Rookie debut performance, Cafe Bourbon Street — poster from first ever Superstar Rookie show

When I arrive, Dan hands me a pair of official band stickers. They’re black and white, with the band name in lowercase block letters, and an image of two kids pointing up at the sky. Bandman’s got on a 3-piece suit and below that, a Superstar Rookie tee shirt, a little bit of additional advertising. These are available for purchase for the low, low price of $10, and you have to hand it to Bandman and company, they really did their homework promoting every angle of this puppy. Beyond all that, though, Dan’s mania knows no bounds, and this is great to see, someone with this much genuine enthusiasm for playing music.

I’ve always told him he should put together an act called Dan Bandman’s One Man Band, but based upon that instrumental demo he played for us a few weeks ago, these Superstar Rookies will rise above the novelty status of my tongue in cheek suggestion. Since the night we met for drinks at Café Bourbon Street they’ve formally agreed upon Brandon Tuber as their singer, have crafted lyrics and vocal melodies for their songs. Brandon never sang in any capacity before this but Dan always felt Tuber was the right person for the job, and eventually convinced him to accept it.

So they also manage to convince the old man who owns this place to host his first ever rock show. Though initially unsure it would pan out financially, as he paces around tonight behind the bar, I swear I can spot dollar signs floating around in the pupils of his eyes. The bar is wall to wall people, all of them having paid three bucks apiece for admission, most dropping untold wads of cash for drinks.

He’s jacked the house lights up to a more sensible level for the show, subduing the creepy, murky green and orange glow his tavern usually bathes in. The piano’s gone, too, making room for more tables, never to return. Though no live music has ever saturated these walls before it’s clear there will be plenty of it in the near future, as many nights a week as the old man thinks he can turn a buck. It must seem like a grand epiphany to him, this occasion, the registers overflowing with cash.

Customarily almost a middle aged dive bar, the clientele has reconfigured itself as a hip, happening hot spot. A sea of eighteen to twenty five year olds flying from one table to the next, everyone knows everyone here, we’re all friends from back home coming to root our local boys on. Though alive with activity, I somehow manage to pin down one booth unoccupied in the center of the room and slide my body into it. A perfect vantage point to track the who’s who of everyone in attendance, as I kick back and take a look around the room.

Ben Kick, now a hardcore heroin addict, nods off at a table in the corner. Despite his troubles he’s doing better than many of us are in some respects, for somehow the seedier fringe of any society attracts a certain element of gorgeous females. This explains how he’s landed Tiffany Miller as his girlfriend, a megawatt babe these days, tattooed and streetwise sexy. She sits beside her man, kicking him underneath the table whenever he drifts asleep, though each time his eyes snap open for only a moment before he nods off again.

Dan’s roommate Norman and his brother Jose Flores are here, pleasant Filipino kids I worked with at a fast food restaurant in Mansfield about five years ago. Ron Fry and Jeremy Wendling, two more casual acquaintances from my high school days, are among the paid attendance as well. Steve Simmers is accounted for, too, another chum from back home. He is also covered in tattoos, and sports a wild mane of shaggy black hair, but despite his appearance and occasional zany comments, he’s the most genuine and harmless character you could ever hope to meet.

Superstar-Rookie-business-card — Superstar Rookie business card

Dan’s making his rounds, glad-handling his constituency, and in so doing slides into my booth. This is the point at which he slides me the stickers, in fact. I mention having spotted a couple of their flyers earlier today while goofing around on High Street.

“Yeah, we made up four different kinds,” he says, nodding his head.

“Hey, I dig the three piece,” I tell him, when he stands to move on to the next party, kiss some babies or something. He flashes me the patented Dan Bandman smile, all squinty eyes and white teeth, laughs and tells me thanks.

My eyes drift repeatedly to Seresa, behind the bar tonight and assuredly netting a small fortune in tips. Looking just as lovely as the first time I met her, attired in tight, sparkling clothing that accentuates her impressive frame. She floats through the room with a deftness bordering on astounding, cataloging each drink order and delivering it without flaw, never mind the oceans of bodies she’s squeezing through.

“Why aren’t you drinking?” she asks in passing my table.

“Running low on funds,” I tell her with a grin.

Minutes later, she wordlessly sets a beer down in front of me and walks away without breaking stride.

“Thanks!” I call out behind her.

“No problem,” she turns around and smiles.

Secret Of Flight are the opening act, another – you guessed – group of former cronies from the Mansfield region. Some of them I think still live up there and have driven down just for the show. Dave Kemp, on bass, I know recently made the move to Columbus, but I’m not sure about Chris Hostetler and Jamie Ferguson, the vocalist and guitarist respectively, whereas I don’t even know the drummer at all.

Running into all these familiar faces is cool and everything, but it feels like a frantic dash in some respects, strained attempts to make meaningful contact with everyone in the space of a couple hours, all the while taking in a rock show. Really it just highlights for me that I’m not the only tight lipped character, for most of these guys don’t have much to say, either. Despite having gone to high school with Ferguson and Kemp and meeting Hostetler through some of the other dudes, like many of our friends they’re mellow, laid back fellows who guard their words and as such it’s difficult even for a marginal friend such as I to describe them in any more detail. They’re like Fry and Wendling, or for that matter Kick before the lurid details of his drug problems, meaning they’ve always just been around but I don’t know anything about any of them.

Secret of Flight begins their set, and the words pleasant surprise fail to serve them justice. Kemp’s bass lines are incredible, fluid and unique and melodic as hell, made all the more amazing in considering that he’s almost too wasted to walk. Meanwhile Ferguson’s got this fantastic guitar sound, flowing smooth as water and bright as a hundred watt light bulb. Hostetler doesn’t have the most dynamic range in the universe maybe but does make the most of it, wavering between the familiar speak-to-shout-to-speak dynamic made famous by a number of other independent bands. Still, it fits the music well, and though neither he nor the drummer are particularly jaw-dropping tonight, they provide a steady backdrop for the instrumental heroics of Kemp and Ferguson.

Earlier this summer, Dan played had played their demo for us at a house party, at a time when the band was still an instrumental trio. I liked it, but at the time ruffled some feathers by suggesting it was kind of power poppy, a little heavier but in the vein of early Cheap Trick.

“Cheap Trick,” Bandman had scoffed, shooting me a dark glance as he ejected the cassette.

I suppose at least one band member is bound to be offended, or at least find it ridiculous, whatever comparisons you make or genre you suggest. It’s best to say you dig it and move on. A week or so after that, a bunch of us are sitting at this very bar when Dan tells me they’ve settled on the tentative moniker Superstar Rookie. I think it’s great and suits their sound like a well-oiled kick drum, but on that day, at least, he was having second thoughts, worried that it might not fit their aesthetic.

As Superstar Rookie launch into their opening song, I recognize that Dan had been correct in scoffing at my power pop label for their music. They’re a little too loud and a tad bit loose for that designation. And as such, he might have been correct in suffering second thoughts and considering the band’s name a mismatch for their sound – but I don’t know, I still kind of like it anyway. Besides, it isn’t as if their direction is even etched in stone as of yet.

“The whole half time breakdown thing we learned from Copper,” Dan will tell me later, and cites, when I ask, the chorus of A-Ha’s Take On Me as an example, the way the music briefly slows down to half speed before revving up again. “That’s a trick he taught us.”

And aside from this conscious signpost, they lace in covers from multiple eras alongside their still relatively new originals. Beyond Dan and his three piece suit on guitar, my good friend Travis Tyo functions as bassist, with this burly redheaded guy Dave Copper manning the drums and the new recruit Brandon singing, by every indication a ball of nerves, terrified. The stage is adequate in size but not much beyond that, yet to their credit both Dan and Brandon make the most of it, canvassing both ends, jumping around, infused with as much animation as this limited arena will around.

In sound they are sloppy and unprofessional as hell, yet somehow make it work, winning you over in much the same manner as the neighborhood mutt. Call it the old Bandman charm – he and Travis have been at this together stretching clear back to our scholastic days, both in Mansfield and Columbus, and their seamless unison combined with Dan’s obvious enthusiasm make for a compelling combination. Travis smiles and rides his bass lines but even he can’t take his eyes off the guitarist, by all rights it’s the main attraction here.

Copper’s a powerhouse phenom with more chops than any other drummer I’ve seen around town, yet appears bored behind the kit, his face expressionless and detached from everything else happening on stage. As for Tuber’s vocals, he’s somewhat shaky and not nearly loud enough, and also displays this amusing trait of turning red in the cheeks when he sings, face and vocal inflection both reminiscent of a teenage kid arguing with his mom. But the lyrics and in fact the band’s song structures in general suggest something unheard of before, a new composite sound, a resolute avoidance of cliches.

Alan shows up halfway through their set, munching on a submarine sandwich he’s purchased at an undisclosed gas station. The more fast paced our lives become the worse the quality of our food gets, it seems, and this vile creation I’m watching him inhale represents the latest link in his diet’s de-evolutionary chain. After putting in a two to ten shift at the airport he’s stopped home only long enough to change, and now we stand in the back of the bar because he’s still too wound up to sit down.

Excuse me, Steve Simmer says, stumbling up to Alan and me as if we’re complete strangers, my eyesight’s not very good. Is that Dan “Three Fingers” Bandman playing guitar?

This question is so bizarre on so many levels that it’s best to not even attempt thinking about it. We mumble a response in the affirmative and he thanks us while shuffling away, though not before Alan hands Steve the remains of the noxious sub. We share a laugh over the whole peculiar encounter, my roommate and I do, from his acceptance of the sandwich to his efforts across the bar of pawning the sub off onto Ben Kick and Ron Fry. Ron in fact punches Steve in the arm at last as if telling him to piss off, at which point Simmers finally gives up the ghost and tosses the offending sandwich aside.

“Three Fingers Bandman?” Alan finally gets around to wondering aloud, “what the fuck’s that supposed to mean?”

“I have no idea,” I admit.

The only possible explanation I can divine is something to do with the three piece suit Dan was wearing at the beginning of the show. But the suit’s long since history, as Dan strips down to just the dress slacks and a white Superstar Rookie tee shirt. Now he’s sliding across the stage on his back as he reels off a guitar solo, grinning at this obvious homage to a cheesy rock era gone by.

He laughs at my comparisons to Cheap Trick but there’s definitely an element of the overblown 70s here, and the glorious 1980s, too, but just a touch. Handclaps and singalong choruses colliding against a crunchy guitar tone familiar from eras past. An indie rock pedigree buffered against Copper’s dexterous drum patterns with a dash of Replacements-esque sloppiness thrown in the mix, manifesting itself in the way they’ll start a song over if anyone hits a bum note. One selection features Brandon reading a favorite book passage through this megaphone, thus flipping over the last stone they might have left unturned in their quest for the perfect show.

After a short break, the band returns for an encore. Whereas their main set features strictly original material, here they veer into the familiar land of time tested covers, beginning with Just What I Needed by the Cars. For this one Brandon enlists the audience, coaxing them into shouting out each chorus by holding his microphone above the crowd, a move met with thunderous, roaring approval. But now that we’ve heard the thunder here comes the lightning, knocking out the bar’s power supply just as the band kicks into Just Like Heaven by the Cure.

We fidget in snickering silence for a few moments, waiting for the juice to return and end this evening proper. When it does some five minutes later the Superstars eschew wrapping up their Cure tribute and instead opt for a much more modern one, closing out the night with a Built To Spill song I fail to recognize. Then the show’s over and they’re putting away their equipment and as we congratulate the four members on a job well done, Ron Fry and some of the other fringe characters are hamming it up on the microphone, eager for a portion of the spotlight. Amusing as this is Alan and I wave to everyone else and disappear down the road, off to a keg party across town.

Superstar Rookie have lurched out of the gates with an impressive debut, though they’ve understandably still got some kinks to iron out. Truth be told, while I wouldn’t have admitted this to anyone, the secret in the opening band’s name might be that I unexpectedly liked them a little better. Secret Of Flight launched into the stratosphere tonight, but then again this was Bandman and the guys’ first time out, and much better things are forthcoming from them.

By the time their second gig arrives about a month later, held at the Northberg Tavern on High Street, they’ve augmented the lineup with a lead guitarist, Tony Bair. Thus begins a schizophrenic patch of sorts, in which they’re attempting to decide whether this fifth member belongs or not – although in my mind, the answer is a resounding yes.

Superstar-Rookie-sticker — Superstar Rookie sticker

II.

Superstar Rookie will release their debut album, The Problem With Words, in 2000. By this point Tony Bair is already out of the band, and they are back to the fourpiece which kicked things off during this first show. It’s a solid, high energy release, and the music mostly explodes out of your speakers. If I have one complaint, it’s that vocalist Brandon Tuber sounds different on here than he did during their live shows. He doesn’t sound bad, just exactly that: different. On this disc his vocals come across as clipped, whereas during their gigs his voice was somewhat more expansive. I’m not sure if this was a conscious decision, or accidental, or something that just happened at the control board while recording. One exception is Pulling Oliver’s Wings, which might be the best song on the album and is a good example of what I’m talking about. Here he really gets to belt it out, giving you a good indication of what their shows were like:

The album truly hits its stride from this point forward, actually, as songs #5 through 10 are probably the high point. Some guitar solos might have been nice, sure, but you don’t really miss Bair’s absence a ton, as great as he is. I think there’s enough variety here to make up for that extra piece – particularly on Pete’s Dragon, where Bandman submits a nice little shredding interlude, as well as a cool acoustic breakdown. And you even get to hear Dan sing lead on Expost Facto, an added bonus. I’ve always liked bands that shake things up with more than one vocalist, so this is a terrific change of pace.

Though initially released on local label Diaphragm Records, a product of Workbook Studios, this album is sadly now out of print. And to date they’ve not yet made it available for streaming, either. Here’s to hoping The Problem With Words will see a proper reissue one day. And who knows, maybe a reunion will be in the cards, too. For now you can jam on this classic cut here, and if you like what you hear, pick up a used copy of the album online.

Posted on by Jason McGathey — 2 Comments

Studio 35

A new co-worker I’ve only recently met – and actually, am training, laughable though this may seem – is the first person to clue me in on Studio 35. And maybe her true calling will somebody be in advertising. Because the way she’s drumming up its merits, I basically want to chuck aside this lunchtime shift and race over there right now. Instead, I am stuck with daydreaming.

A dilapidated dive tavern, she says, in the heart of church solemn Clintonville, which just happens to hoist a full size movie screen against its back wall, which buries the whole tacky Flickers franchise beneath a mound of shame. Studio 35, surely I stumble into your dim, smoky aisles some evening on my own accord, with or without the intervention of this righteous nymph, surely I wrap popcorn buttered fingers around a frosted mug of ale while seated on a barstool I can’t even see. Conning roommates along for the freakshow thrill, we’ll crane our necks to imbibe the latest reel of film, as vicious cramps creep slowly up these same necks, absolved only through the continued application of still more alcohol. Surely, o holy tabernacle, surely.

Shortly hereafter, a few of us manage to check it out. Studio 35 collides against the eastern rim of Clintonville’s dry district, able to serve alcohol by a matter of feet. Dating from the 1930s, this building features a wedge shaped marquee, dangling above the street where we park, and a glass bubble ticket window expanding out into the sidewalk. Each night, three paltry dollars buy a triple bill of second run features, the most reasonable admission in town. And while we’ve missed the first of these, whatever it was, the heavily hyped horror flick Scream awaits us, followed by some unknown comedy titled SubUrbia.

Here, the movies themselves might garner lowest priority. We’re five minutes late for the second leg of this triad, yet it scarcely matters, for the main attraction is a dark, smoky tavern occupying the theater’s back third, allowing full view of a regulation size screen. Beyond, rows upon rows of traditional seating flesh out the remaining space, but we don’t give those small, uncomfortable chairs a second glance. Stools around the bar, they speak to us. Falling into line astride them, we inspect their sizable array of bottled beer, ultimately settle upon some reasonably priced drafts. The bartender also brings forth a menu from the relocated Papa Joe’s, which has this unique arrangement with Studio 35, which operates next door in a tiny, lifeless pizza shop galaxies removed from its once riotous, now legendary, campus institution. Sympathizing with their plight, we order a large pepperoni. Our heads crook sidelong to enjoy the show.

With equal frequency, our heads also tilt in the opposite direction. Lured by her salacious rasp, the blonde at the bar’s distant end has us captive. A voice more lewd, animalistic, than any we’ve ever heard, she leans on the bartender’s every word, responds in kind with her own. Punctuates each offering with a husky, kittenish chuckle. Damon, for one, chain smokes anxiety away watching her, as if aware he can’t match the seductive film noir cool of her own graceful drags, lazy exhalations, and won’t even bother trying. Just as we’re certain that, with every chair between her and us resolutely unoccupied, our drooling leers must hang all too obvious in the aquamarine glow of the small, sad fishtank behind this bar.

“I swear,” Damon says, “I could sit here for hours and jack off just listening to her talk.”

At intermission, having dusted off the pizza, we stand to stretch and look around. A row of booths line one side wall, and then the lobby, where a flimsy film of red carpet daubs the ground, worn raw by week after week of cutrate attractions. Smokers head outside now to mingle fresh air with their flaming butts, but we interrogate the contour, from the countertop popcorn machine to the pair of 1980s video games, one on each wing, to the movie posters lining every square inch of these walls. The profiles, titles, and slogans adorning these advertisements are cut out, overlapped, stacked atop one another with impressive originality, and taped on balloons stream famous soundbites from select actors’s mouths, so that even a trip to the restroom stall requires facing off against Clint Eastwood and one of his timeless lines.

I envision this as a hideout you’d visit alone to disappear for a few hours, inviting and anonymous. Contrasting so distinctly with the tacky, fading prefabrication of other quote unquote independent operations, this kind of dogeared character you just can’t fake.

Of course, these days you can’t smoke at Studio 35, either, because you can’t smoke anywhere. I’ve never been a smoker, yet I believe that this law did chop off one leg of the tripod from this place’s charm. Even so, it has become a rite of passage through the years. Chances are you’ve brought every girl dated to this place exactly once, and chances are they hated it. A couple of times you’ve even bothered to drift down and sit in the actual theater. In the days before internet, without a paper handy, you would call and listen to the recording delivered by some jaunty sounding fellow, one whom I never met – even now, any time I see a sign for Weber Road, I think of it in the almost singsong manner he pronounced it on those recordings, and often say it aloud: Weber Row-uhhhhd!

During the height of Studio 35 mania, our presence here became so predictable that one friend dropped in, believing on a wild hunch that he might find the rest of us here, and he was correct. I must admit I haven’t attended in way too long. As always, Columbus’s oldest, best indie theater keeps itself afloat screening a nice mix of mainstream and independent fare, and here’s to hoping it continues to do so until my next visit.

Opening clear back in 1938 as the Indianola Theatre, it eventually switched over to its current name – although I’m not sure about the meaning behind this Studio 35 moniker. Whatever the case, a more significant development occurs in 1972, when owner Frank Marzetti installs draft beer, thereby making it the first movie theater in the nation to do so. John Conti bought it in 1995, and did a great job revitalizing the theater, from adding a new curved screen in the late 1990s, experimenting with karaoke at the bar, working out a delivery deal with the Papa Joe’s pizza place next door, and revamping the format to (mostly) a double feature of just slightly not-quite-new movies. With the occasional art house, retro, or Rocky Horror and otherwise themed nights thrown into the mix, of course. I believe they are on their third ownership group at this point, but could be wrong about that.

Posted on by Jason McGathey — 6 Comments

Maxwell’s Bar

Itching for adventure, we latch upon Maxwell’s, across the street from The Edge. Though passing this club a number of times in pursuit of others, we have nonetheless absorbed and pondered those tantalizing tunes emanating from its mysterious pitch black interior, we’ve seen scores of lovely ladies swallowed up by the same. Rumor has it that Thursday is 1980s night and as such we can no longer resist.

After the twenty minute walk here and a wait in line very nearly as long, we finally gain entry into the club. Struggling to adjust, our eyes initially protest this unrelenting onslaught of black, not only the absence of light but also the predominant shade in both hair color and clothing among the freaks that populate this place. Goth kids, in other words, though accentuated with a plentiful dose of meek freshmen females, cowering in corner clusters, making us feel at home.

Aside from a remote DJ booth perched in a loft above the dance floor, reachable only by a wall clinging ladder, the layout is fairly standard here. Near the entrance, a number of tables and chairs, a couch by the DJ’s ladder. A u-shaped bar enclosed by the building’s front wall, with one lone pool table underneath a swinging lamp on the other side of it. Beside the pool table, the establishment’s only window, a giant plate glass affair affording a splendorous view of High Street.

Occupying much of the room’s center is the dance floor, elevated about two steps up from the rest of the club. Beyond lie two more couches and another pool table in a relatively well-lit section, the restrooms, and then a patio for fresh air whenever the weather allows. Assaulting our ears with panoramic supremacy, these golden pop nuggets such as Little Red Corvette, Just Like Heaven, and 99 Luftballoons. Depeche Mode’s Blue Dress, The Bangles reworking Hazy Shade of Winter, and seemingly every cut from the first two Beastie Boys albums. Given, these girls are less attractive than the selections at that subterranean club across the street, but they’re also less included to give us any grief when we approach – and we avoid the top 40 dance music prevailing over there.

All told we spend fifteen minutes surveying the establishment, at the conclusion of which Damon and Paul announce they’re leaving in favor of The Edge. I don’t care much about where they’re headed, because at long last we’ve finally stumbled onto a scene with substance and potential, the fleeting pot of gold, and to bail now is laughably insane. I have a seat on the back couch to soak it all in while Alan’s off at the john.

An overweight youth with wire rimmed glasses and bowl cut dirty blonde hair flops onto the couch beside me. He’s dressed like an overzealous sports fanatic, in the jersey shirt of a Chicago baseball team. The kind we cater to in the clubhouse at my restaurant, he admittedly appears as out of touch as us in this murky habitat. My eyes are momentarily riveted, though, to this short redhead in a tight black dress nearby, and I’m paying the corpulent White Sox fan no mind. Until, that is, he expresses his incompatibility with the place by launching this half full cup of ice into the air, impacting the pool table felt just as this musclebound thug with a shaved head is lining up to take his shot. Incredibly, no punches are thrown, but he’s attracted attention plenty.

“Ever been here before?” he asks, lounging still in perfect unflappable ease.

“No.”

“Me neither,” he says, “and I’m never coming back.”

“Oh really?” I return.

“Yeah,” he says, “my girlfriend dragged me here. Some friends of hers come here all the time. We were over at their house and they were all doing coke and shit, so they decided to bring us here. That’s them over there,” he elaborates, nodding toward a group of three girls, among them my redhead in the tight black dress.

He introduces himself as Brian, and I’m suddenly interested in becoming his best friend. As this entire exchange has transpired in the time it’s taken Alan to secure a stall in the john, it seems ridiculously easy, though I suppose we are due some good fortune. At any rate if Chicago fits in here we no longer have any worries about assimilation. And if only this Brian will bridge the gap between me and the strawberry princess, I’m willing to suspend my disbelief, I’ll gladly endorse the notion of love at first sight.

From the group, he calls his own woman over, introduces her as Kathy. With a naturally attractive face readily given to smile, and a dash of makeup that, while sparse, is more colorful than what the other freaks are wearing, she’s a comely brunette in her own right, friendly and by turns either self effacing or putting down this place. But I can see no reason in beating around the proverbial bush, particularly with strangers I may never see again.

“I think your little red headed friend is hot,” I admit.

Kathy whistles to her two friends, who immediately join us. Like my redheaded beauty, the raven haired goddess beside her wears another tight black dress, clinging to a body only marginally less sensational. Their names are Tonya and Valerie, respectively, and to my astonishment after just a moment the redhead grabs my hand, leads me out onto the dance floor.

“Come on,” she says.

Just then, his timing immaculate, Alan returns from the restroom. I shout to him and point at Valerie and tell him to follow us on out onto the floor, which he does, he jumps right in beside her. Amidst the swirling lights and the throbbing beat, we claim our tiny parcel of land, as Alan’s beside his babe and I’m all over Tonya.

Our bodies grind together and the whole time I can’t help but think this is it, I’ve finally arrived. She pulverizes my crotch with her ass and I’ve got a hand on each of her hips and it doesn’t matter that we’ve barely spoken five words to one another, total. All that matters is the moment, every twitch our bodies make to the music, every ounce of sweat, the way the occasional pinspot light sets her lustrous hair afire and her green eyes dancing in the dark alongside us.

We maintain this frantic lockstep for two or three more songs, then separate. Needing no coaching of his own, Alan fixates upon Valerie in much the same fashion as I have upon Tonya, and now’s he’s priming me on the finer points of seduction. The girls are still dancing and Brian’s kissing Kathy on the couch while we hold up the back wall, three distinct islands within eyesight of one another but playing this scripted game of social conduct.

After ignoring our prey awhile, we spot them walking out onto the back patio. Alan turns to me and says, “come on, let’s go talk to them.”

Meeting the girls outside, we converse with them a short while. If club time is expressed in songs rather than minutes, then this discussion clocks in at approximately one and a half. Eventually, they hear a beat they can dance to, or maybe the well of our conversation runs dry, the flames of discourse momentarily extinguished. Either way Tonya and Valerie make a beeline again for the floor and as the crisp air around us feels like a splash of cool lakewater after sweating indoors, we’re in no hurry to follow.

“Now when we go in,” Alan explains, “we need to act like we don’t even know them. Don’t even look their way.”

“Okay,” I nod, as we step inside ourselves.

We besiege the dance floor again, this time without the girls. Neither of us are especially fleet of foot, but he insists this is our best ticket, and as I don’t known one tenth of what Alan does about girls this becomes our next grand maneuver.

He comes off like a genius, then, when the hottest girl in the entire bar swings her hips over to where we are. A tall skinny girl with sandy hair, in untucked white tee shirt and tight black slacks, she immediately begins dancing with us. Beneath those pants lies the most amazing ass I’ve ever seen, a feature made no less incredible in viewing it under such intimate circumstances. She jumps frantically up and down with the big 80s beat, inching closer and closer, until that luscious behind is flush against my crotch, grinding out the rhythm of the song. I do my best to keep up and move along with the girl, rubbing her wondrous rump with my hands.

The song ends and she wanders off without a word, but it doesn’t matter, her impact has been felt deep and wide. Tonya and Valerie are against the back wall, eyeing us and talking in what appears even from this distance as conspiratorial plotting. That the skinny girl with the tight ass deems us worthy enough for a dance only improves our standing with these other two, it seems.

“Look at them,” Alan says to me and nods his head in the direction of the cigarette machine, against which Tonya and Valerie are standing, “they haven’t taken their eyes off of us.”

The house lights come up and it’s time to leave. Bouncers in black shout venomous instructions herding everyone to the door, and meanwhile, our two girls are still staring at us with an expression equal parts wonder and awe. I can’t wrap my head around the luck we’ve enjoyed this evening, but do my best to act as if it is an everyday occurrence, sensing this is a front worthy of Alan. Brian and Kathy are nowhere to be found, but we offer Tonya and Valerie some perfunctory goodbyes before stepping out into the night. Euphoric, Alan and I scarcely notice the winter chill biting our extremities.

“Dude, it’s in the bag!” he cheers.

“You really think so?”

“It’s in the bag,” he repeats, and I believe.

Needless to say, the next time we run into these two, they don’t even remember meeting us. Such is the scattershot nature of these unhinged outings in a half dark room stuffed with strangers. The lame attempt at conversation with this Tonya is one of the more awkward, dorktastic moments of my life and I soon enough retire this charade.

We have plenty of other adventures on the docket to keep us entertained, anyway. Mondays for example mean goth night at Maxwell’s. We arrive to check it out hot on the heels of our Thursday escapade, and encounter about one third of the crowd. In a sea of black inkier even than 1980s night, we gape in open amazement at the handful of pierced loners in dark clothing and raccoon mascara, writhing along to Nine Inch Nails, trying to act mysterious. Howling till our sides hurt for nearly two hours, before calling a much deserved end to our evening.

A pair of additional, unexpected complications will append any voyage to these clubs. One such issue is the matter of coats. Wearing a coat to this strip of bars, if walking as most do, is always a tricky strategy to navigate. You could do without, although the weather will not necessarily permit this. Otherwise, it’s either wear the thing around, carry it with you, or find a place to stash it. Each of these options has its obvious faults. Paul and I try hiding ours behind this couch at Maxwell’s, only to have them both disappear. The other challenge to navigate is the attitude of the bartenders if attempting to order a water. Though considerable lip service is donated to taking care of the designated driver, or even just the sensible babysitter, in today’s society, these dudes apparently didn’t get the memo. Open hostility awaits you at first, followed by being ignored outright once they begin to recognize your face. The weird thing about this is, there’s no guarantee of a tip even if these (underage?) drinkers are ordering beers and cocktails. On the other hand, plenty of folks would tip on a water if delivered without an attitude. And it isn’t like tap water is more difficult to pour than a draft, or a bottled one tougher to lift from a cooler than your 12 ounce Bud Light. Unless these barkeeps are business owners, which I seriously doubt is the case, it shouldn’t much matter to them. Actually even if actually owning the business, it shouldn’t matter – Maxwell’s for example was collecting three dollars a head on Thursday nights, minting a small fortune in the process from that revenue stream alone.

But these are minor blips. Maxwell’s offers a veritable cornucopia of delights, depending upon the night and your inclinations. Learning the what and when of this outrageous campus spectacle prove equally important to the who and how, all chapters of our own ongoing education. Wednesday nights each week, this club hosts a one dollar door charge techno gala, termed Maxwell’s House, while every Tuesday and Sunday, they sell pitchers of draft for the rock bottom price of twenty five cents. None of these hold a votive candle to Monday’s goth night, however, which itself dims literally and figuratively against Thursday Big 80s. For factors you can never quite determine, certain elements resound better against your own interests, the arc of your ambitions. In theory nothing should surmount scraping together a few dimes and nickels for the plastic pail drunkfest, but we feel most comfortable here on Thursdays, networking our faces and names then, without ever resolving why.

Quarter pitcher night, it must be pointed out, is somewhat of a gimmick. Oh, the prices are real, but the problem is they keep running out of pitchers. You must maintain a death grip on yours at all times or else risk someone stripping it from you in a beer fueled frenzy.

“I wouldn’t even waste my time with those quarter pitcher nights,” Paul advises us after the fact, having had the sense to avoid this scene, “all it will ever be is skunk beer they’re trying to get rid of.”

A plate glass window in front of the pool tables, wedged into that street facing corner behind the bar and before the dance floor, affords awesome opportunities for people watching. Another Thursday, we’re bringing a couple of newcomers to this freakish scene which has somehow become our surrogate home, in the form of Damon’s girlfriend Shannon and my buddy Doug.

Enduring the customary block long wait, the clock above the bar already reads 12:30 and much of our night is shot. Alan and Doug go in on a pitcher of the cheapest brew available, and, hitting it off as well as I envisioned they would, stand in our normal central observation post, by the cigarette machine. Shannon’s suddenly not feeling well, on the other hand, checking Damon’s own enthusiasm, and I’m not compelled to drink at all. With an impressive adaptability he rarely extends, meanwhile, Paul’s good cheer survives the bartender’s word of a Heineken outage. Though detesting the skunk draft beer, as he calls it, Paul orders a plastic cup of foamy Michelob, and, continuing his astonishing if potentially short lived transformation, agrees to join me as partner in a game of pool.

For a change of pace we put some quarters upon the front table, in this corner of the bar we rarely occupy. Waiting our turn, joined by Damon and Shannon, through the mammoth plate glass window we watch college student swarms file past en route to other watering holes. Two clean cut, carbon copy males, constituents of that same army, have run this table for a while, but my first turn out I sink five consecutive balls. Though a considerable liability, my partner has little work ahead of him as we quickly swat these lads from their pedestal.

“He’s awesome,” Paul whispers to Damon, who nods in polite disinterest, as if plotting his escape. Addressing me, Paul adds, “that was cool how you came out of the gate like that, showed em who’s boss.”

“Hell yeah,” I grin.

Paul never plays pool and watching him stab at the cue ball with his feeble left-handed shot always provides some much needed humor. Occasionally he strikes gold, but for the most part represents a pure handicap. Still, as the ring of onlookers gradually morphs, aspirants to the throne, we’re now up against a pair of tall cheerleader types, their abilities neatly delineated into the same demographics as ours. The sandy haired one, she’s a shade worse than Paul, while the Nordic blonde, squinting when she speaks, introducing herself to me as Amy, has impressive command of the table. We promptly dispatch them, impressive in its own right, doubly so considering the relentless force of Paul’s chatter.

Under normal circumstances, Damon we could not pry from an opportunity such as this, even in his strictly observational role. But citing Shannon’s mysterious illness, they evacuate. When the rotation of turns permits, Amy and I stand against the bar’s backside, separated from its cooler by a thin plywood wall, spray painted black, cracking wise about the world outside this window, those dressed with unintentional hilarity within, the ineptitude of our partners.

But Maxwell’s will suffer a curious fate, before eventually shuttering and being reduced to rubble. Always a freaky place to begin with, as soon as school breaks for the summer, it somehow transforms into a gay bar overnight. Alan and I drift up there one night, but unearth little to hold our interest outside carnival attractions such as a seven foot tall bald guy wearing a frilly pink dress, and our go-go boot girl making out with some other chick. Figuring it must only be a summer thing, we give the place a rest until school resumes in the fall, and yet for whatever reason, Maxwell’s never does revert to its prior form. That rainy Thursday in September will bookmark an era, the end of what had been, not even three months earlier, a weekly ritual.

II.

We somehow land in a throwback mood and decide to check out Maxwell’s one more time, considering it has been months upon months and might have reverted back to its former great self, for all we know. A half-hunch somewhat confirmed upon arrival, where it’s a relief to see that these former hallowed grounds, given up on entirely and last visited just once in the fall, is packed just like those days of yore. Every bit as gloomy, of course, a condition which these swarming bodies don’t allay, but at least it’s mostly normal college kids again as the freak quotient is now mercifully low.

While we stand around drinking ale and listening to poppy hits from the prior decade, this Asian babe wearing what has to be the shortest skirt I’ve ever seen commands most of our attention. Understandably, we make a concerted effort to remain within eyesight of her for much of the evening.

But then, in the first happy accident of the night, who should drift through these doors next but Melissa and an extensive pack of her current/old crew, the dormitory gang. Sid and Britta but then also a couple pretty faces I don’t know, plus the always unfortunate guys trailing behind them. We hadn’t known they were coming here, didn’t know this place was even on their radar – and you have to kind of wonder what impact these cell phones are soon going to wreak upon this landscape. Right now, fluke, spontaneous encounters are a nightly occurrence and a large percentage of the fun, never knowing who’s where and what kind of people you might bump into. And yet I have a feeling this phenomenon is bound to drastically change.

Wherever they’ve been before landing at Maxwell’s, Britta is blotto, but in a surprising twist so is Sid. This is an event without precedent, at least in my association with her, which certainly leads to speculation that maybe she’s lightening up a little bit. That perhaps, in the wake of that final heated night at our house, she suffered an epiphany and realized she was wrong. However, this notion is soon dispelled by an exchange that betrays none of this self-awareness.

“McGathey!” she cheers, in a drunken semi-stupor, “when am I coming to party at your house again?”

“You’re not.”

Sid’s understandably taken aback by this declaration and presses me for further clarification. When I elaborate on her history of interfering with our good times, in particular by willfully attempting to bust up any and all efforts we ever make with her female friends, she denies these charges. But I stand by the claims in my case.

The girls it seems have only breezed through here en route to their dorm, and when they decide to leave, we follow suit. It’s at this turn in the road, rounding the corner from High Street onto the West 11th, that Renata first appears in earnest on our radar. We pass the Cornerstone and Cluck-U-Chicken, the street lights and their neon cousins providing a much better glimpse of her shapely posterior than Maxwell’s would ever afford us. Unfortunately, she’s joined at one of those hips by some Steve character, meaning we have little recourse but drooling in her wake.

Posted on by Jason McGathey — Leave a comment

Pockets

It’s funny, but my initial impression of Pockets Sports Bar on Kenny Road is that I won’t be logging many hours here. I could not have been more wrong on this front.

One black mark against it in the early going is that it’s located in Upper Arlington, during an era where I’m completely spellbound by the OSU campus. Suburban in every sense of the word, placid and refined, this northwest end of town differs acutely from the university mayhem I’m accustomed to. Yet with sophistication there comes an offsetting loss of character, and the further I drift from campus the more pronounced this disparity becomes. Maybe the condos up this way have clean carpets and all their windows intact, but in the exchange you lose that gap-toothed low class charm.

Of course, a little over a year later, I will wind up moving within about two blocks of this establishment, to the apartment at Merrimar Circle N. But this was all still in the murky, unpredictable future the first time I visit Pockets Sports Bar. At the behest of a coworker I’ve only recently met, Doug, I drive us there one night along with his roommate Mike Nelson, to watch a boxing match. Proudly touted upon their parking lot marquee, this boxing match, while featuring two figures I’ve never heard of, draws about a thousand drunken assholes with the same idea as ours to Pockets’s numerous mammoth TV screens. In actuality, having forgotten my state ID at home, I’m forced to drop the two of them off, as they alone claw their way through the jungle of bodies.

When I return more than thirty minutes later, locating their table to the left and sandwiched between two gigantic wall mounted screens, Doug lets out a roaring mocking cheer. Timing immaculate, a pitcher of cheap domestic beer sits between us, and the fight is just beginning. I still can’t swallow more than two or three cups of this hoppy swill in one night, but the match offers my taste buds distraction enough. Besides, with the bar too dim to peer deep and our backs to most of the compact crowd, I don’t have much choice. A burly Latino – Oscar De La Hoya, as it turns out, whose star is only rising – squares off against this wiry black, Pernell Whitaker, and I instantly take a liking to the Mexican American’s style, the deliberation of his motions. He wins in twelve rounds, our hero, which is exactly the amount of time it takes us to kill three pitchers.

Back then, the same guy who owned Pockets also counted Out-R-Inn on campus among his business holdings. He ended up being somewhat of a shady character and involved in a couple bizarre crime cases, about which I might write more when the inspiration strikes. For now you can always listen to the True Crime Garage podcast and their thoughts on these matters – which are probably much more insightful anyway.

These days Harrison’s On Kenny sits where Pockets once did, at 4510 Kenny Road. But I see this too is listed as a sports bar, and imagine it’s pretty much the same operation. One difference I have noticed is they do have a fenced in outdoor seating area to the left of the front door – I could be wrong, but I certainly don’t recall this being here before, during the Pockets days.

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