"There are places I remember
All my life, though some have changed
Some forever, not for better
Some have gone and some remain"
All my life, though some have changed
Some forever, not for better
Some have gone and some remain"
Next to recalling absent friends, I can think of no activity more nostalgic than revisiting those places from your younger days which have vanished - like surveying craters where once stood the capitol city of self. Finding padlocks on the doors that once led through the portal to another world, some place that shaped you - well, it can break your heart. But I don't want to be maudlin about it. Rather I want to conjure those places back into being, just very briefly, so that you can experience them here (as you can no longer do so anywhere else). And in so doing, maybe you can get a better sense of what it is that I'm seeking to recapture as I scout out every wunderkammer and roadside attraction I can find. So here they are for you, just four of those points of interest that defined my most deeply personal Terra Incognita Americanus.
City Gardens - Trenton, NJ. I think it's probably safe to say that no one else on earth mourns the loss of what it would be far too flattering to call a dive. I can still feel and hear the sound of my sneakers sticking to floor and the olfactory assault of old beer and stale cigarette smoke as I entered. It was dingy and grimy - cutting yourself there on the busted metal paper towell dispenser in the bathroom would almost certainly require a battery of shots for tetanus and god only knows what else. But then the lights went out, a band took the stage, and suddenly none of that mattered - you were transported to a universe light-years away. It was there as a teenager that I saw my very first show - a little punk rock band called Mojo Nixon and the Toad Lickers. And it was the place where I got hooked on live music, which was one of the precious few things that made my high school years bearable. Over the years I saw more bands perform there than I could count, including the Ramones, Bad Religion, Rollins Band, Bad Brains, Ween and the like. James Murphy of LCD Soundsystem was a bouncer there. Jon Stewart was a bartender there before becoming a comedian. Danzig played their very first live show there. Sure, it may have been overshadowed by venues like CBGB's in New York, but it carved out it's own tiny place in punk rock history and earned a considerably larger spot in my own young life.
River East Art Center - Chicago, IL. When I moved back to Chicago somewhere around 2003 or 2004, I moved to a studio apartment in Streeterville. I came to know the neighborhood, not only for its unique story (which we'll get to another time), but also for the collection of astounding young artists that had studios down the street from me. The space itself was designed to impress - a glass stairway, an indoor waterfall, high ceilings with exposed wood and duct-work - it was hard not to feel creative or inspired there. It was more than just the place, it was the contents - home to such a brilliant collection of talent there: Terry Dixon, Rebecca Moy, Rory Coyne, Predrag Djordjevic to name just a few. In the same way that City Gardens was my introduction to live music, River East Art Center opened to me the world of visual art studios and galleries, which were so much more intimate than the museums I'd visited. From there I started to explore other artist studios and collectives, from the Fine Arts Building to the Cornelia Arts Building to a great many others. But River East Art Center always had a special magic for me - it was the first. And when I launched my own art leasing venture, some of the artists I had encountered there were among the very first I approached.
The Tin Angel - Philadelphia, PA. Funny how you can live somewhere for such a long time without ever really getting to know it. That's how I feel about the city of Philadelphia. I grew up in the suburbs there, but it wasn't until I moved back there in my late 20's that I began to explore it. My friend T helped open that door, introducing me in many ways for the first time to a place I thought I knew. Among the memories I treasure from this period, which was a tough time for me, was finding the Tin Angel. A small, urban acoustic cafe up a steep flight of stairs from Serrano Restaurant at 20 S. 2nd Street in the Old City neighborhood, with murals painted on both walls, dim, flickering lights reflecting faintly off the tin ceiling (violet, as I recall - the color I most associate with twilight and magic) and amazing musicians. My first time there was to watch Jeffrey Gains play on the small stage, transfixed by the sound and depth and broken beauty of his voice and guitar. Truly, it was like stumbling into some alternate reality. I came back a number of times to see various bands and solo performers, and it never failed to deliver. The way I imagine that the devout feel after attending a service or a sermon, that's probably the nearest thing I can compare it to. At that time, at that place, when I so desperately needed it, I had found a slice of creative salvation.
Iggy's - Chicago, IL. If there's an afterlife in which restless souls are bound to the one spot that they most loved in life, any who would wish to seek me out would be well advised to begin at 700 N. Milwaukee Avenue. I loved that place. I loved everything about it. It was my dark, urban swank Gen X version of Cheers (or Jeers, maybe). It was one of the first places in Chicago where I became a regular. If I close my eyes I can still picture the redheaded bar tender, Sherry, mixing a martini and talking to a patron above the murmur of conversion and the music (6 Underground by Sneaker Pimps, or maybe something by the Replacements, I'm thinking) about that year's motorcycle show, which the owner, Dion, hosted. And I can taste each item on the menu - while my friend Jake who introduced me to the venue was always a fan of their lemon butter bow-tie pasta, I always preferred the spicy chicken ravioli. I can visualize the edgy artwork on the brick walls, the curtains of chain links, and the small outdoor patio area where they projected cult films during the summer. I can feel the sweet bite of bourbon on my lips and tongue - Basil Hayden, on the rocks. When I moved back to Philadelphia, Iggy's also moved to a new location, in Bucktown. I never visited this second site, but I heard that it lacked the same feel, and so it closed. When I moved back to Chicago, it reopened for a third and final time, in a smaller space. It had the same menu, the same drinks, but still lacked that feel of the original. It did, however, have just enough magic left in it for one grand finale - it's where Jen and I had our first date, and it was at that location, years later, where I planted a knee on the cracked sidewalk and proposed to her.
There are places that I came to before these and others I've come to since, but when I think of those impossibly, imperfectly magical places I've found along the way, these are the first ones I think of. Each of them, in its own way, is like the town of Spectre in the story Big Fish; inaccessible now they take on mythic qualities when viewed through the kaleidoscopic lenses of subjective and selective memory. The first time I came to these places, I was, perhaps, too early. To find them again today, certainly, it is too late.
City Gardens - Trenton, NJ. I think it's probably safe to say that no one else on earth mourns the loss of what it would be far too flattering to call a dive. I can still feel and hear the sound of my sneakers sticking to floor and the olfactory assault of old beer and stale cigarette smoke as I entered. It was dingy and grimy - cutting yourself there on the busted metal paper towell dispenser in the bathroom would almost certainly require a battery of shots for tetanus and god only knows what else. But then the lights went out, a band took the stage, and suddenly none of that mattered - you were transported to a universe light-years away. It was there as a teenager that I saw my very first show - a little punk rock band called Mojo Nixon and the Toad Lickers. And it was the place where I got hooked on live music, which was one of the precious few things that made my high school years bearable. Over the years I saw more bands perform there than I could count, including the Ramones, Bad Religion, Rollins Band, Bad Brains, Ween and the like. James Murphy of LCD Soundsystem was a bouncer there. Jon Stewart was a bartender there before becoming a comedian. Danzig played their very first live show there. Sure, it may have been overshadowed by venues like CBGB's in New York, but it carved out it's own tiny place in punk rock history and earned a considerably larger spot in my own young life.
River East Art Center - Chicago, IL. When I moved back to Chicago somewhere around 2003 or 2004, I moved to a studio apartment in Streeterville. I came to know the neighborhood, not only for its unique story (which we'll get to another time), but also for the collection of astounding young artists that had studios down the street from me. The space itself was designed to impress - a glass stairway, an indoor waterfall, high ceilings with exposed wood and duct-work - it was hard not to feel creative or inspired there. It was more than just the place, it was the contents - home to such a brilliant collection of talent there: Terry Dixon, Rebecca Moy, Rory Coyne, Predrag Djordjevic to name just a few. In the same way that City Gardens was my introduction to live music, River East Art Center opened to me the world of visual art studios and galleries, which were so much more intimate than the museums I'd visited. From there I started to explore other artist studios and collectives, from the Fine Arts Building to the Cornelia Arts Building to a great many others. But River East Art Center always had a special magic for me - it was the first. And when I launched my own art leasing venture, some of the artists I had encountered there were among the very first I approached.
The Tin Angel - Philadelphia, PA. Funny how you can live somewhere for such a long time without ever really getting to know it. That's how I feel about the city of Philadelphia. I grew up in the suburbs there, but it wasn't until I moved back there in my late 20's that I began to explore it. My friend T helped open that door, introducing me in many ways for the first time to a place I thought I knew. Among the memories I treasure from this period, which was a tough time for me, was finding the Tin Angel. A small, urban acoustic cafe up a steep flight of stairs from Serrano Restaurant at 20 S. 2nd Street in the Old City neighborhood, with murals painted on both walls, dim, flickering lights reflecting faintly off the tin ceiling (violet, as I recall - the color I most associate with twilight and magic) and amazing musicians. My first time there was to watch Jeffrey Gains play on the small stage, transfixed by the sound and depth and broken beauty of his voice and guitar. Truly, it was like stumbling into some alternate reality. I came back a number of times to see various bands and solo performers, and it never failed to deliver. The way I imagine that the devout feel after attending a service or a sermon, that's probably the nearest thing I can compare it to. At that time, at that place, when I so desperately needed it, I had found a slice of creative salvation.
Iggy's - Chicago, IL. If there's an afterlife in which restless souls are bound to the one spot that they most loved in life, any who would wish to seek me out would be well advised to begin at 700 N. Milwaukee Avenue. I loved that place. I loved everything about it. It was my dark, urban swank Gen X version of Cheers (or Jeers, maybe). It was one of the first places in Chicago where I became a regular. If I close my eyes I can still picture the redheaded bar tender, Sherry, mixing a martini and talking to a patron above the murmur of conversion and the music (6 Underground by Sneaker Pimps, or maybe something by the Replacements, I'm thinking) about that year's motorcycle show, which the owner, Dion, hosted. And I can taste each item on the menu - while my friend Jake who introduced me to the venue was always a fan of their lemon butter bow-tie pasta, I always preferred the spicy chicken ravioli. I can visualize the edgy artwork on the brick walls, the curtains of chain links, and the small outdoor patio area where they projected cult films during the summer. I can feel the sweet bite of bourbon on my lips and tongue - Basil Hayden, on the rocks. When I moved back to Philadelphia, Iggy's also moved to a new location, in Bucktown. I never visited this second site, but I heard that it lacked the same feel, and so it closed. When I moved back to Chicago, it reopened for a third and final time, in a smaller space. It had the same menu, the same drinks, but still lacked that feel of the original. It did, however, have just enough magic left in it for one grand finale - it's where Jen and I had our first date, and it was at that location, years later, where I planted a knee on the cracked sidewalk and proposed to her.
There are places that I came to before these and others I've come to since, but when I think of those impossibly, imperfectly magical places I've found along the way, these are the first ones I think of. Each of them, in its own way, is like the town of Spectre in the story Big Fish; inaccessible now they take on mythic qualities when viewed through the kaleidoscopic lenses of subjective and selective memory. The first time I came to these places, I was, perhaps, too early. To find them again today, certainly, it is too late.
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