Vanished Venues - Gone But Not Forgotten

The idea for our Vanished Venues series came from the new Max’s Kansas City book, which got me thinking about all the great old music clubs that dotted the landscape here in NY and are with us no more.  It’s not that I’m nostalgic – no venue was more important to my teenage self than CBGB’s, but by the time of the club’s much-covered demise, its heyday was long past and it was surviving on tourists and its old reputation. 

But remembering these places is useful for a number of reasons.  Places that became centers of live music were cultural markers of New York, reflecting the city’s evolving population, politics, and economy; and besides, it’s a great excuse for each of us to remember why and how we fell in love with live music to begin with. 

I remember seeing a lot of concerts at the Bottom Line.  (And, ahem, I don’t remember seeing a bunch of others.)   But one of the things that made concerts at the Bottom Line so memorable was the place itself.  A series of long tables set perpendicular to the stage, usually full of plates of the club’s famously greasy fries and pitchers of beer.  The two center tables often full of industry insiders, other musicians, and, yes, radio and press.  The big pillars that never actually seemed to be in the way.  The stage wasn’t big, but it didn’t need to be – from the standing area at the back you could easily hit the lead singer with a spitball, if you were so moved.  And the sound was actually really good. 

I saw the late guitarist Michael Hedges several times at the Bottom Line.  The first time was probably the most memorable experience I ever had at the club.  Hedges was a riveting performer, known as a phenomenal guitarist but also revealing a hidden gift for singing and songwriting.  He ended a concert full of surprises with what would become his signature encore – a cover of the Beatles’ “Come Together.”  For the ending, Hedges enlisted the men in the audience to sing the bassline, and the women to sing the “ba-bada-da-bah’s” over it.  There was something magical, something… suspended, about that moment – a sense of people making their own music, enjoying themselves in this relatively small room, oblivious to the hurly-burly of the NY streets and what I believe was some seriously rainy weather just outside.  And it wasn’t just Hedges – it was Hedges in that place that made the moment so special. 

You know what it reminded me of?  There’s an award-winning post-Apocalypse short story by George R.R. Martin (wow, that’s two mentions of him in the last few days here) called “For A Single Yesterday,” in which a group of survivors take in a flaky guitarist, who sings “Me and Bobby McGee” around the campfire each night.  It is a really touching story – you can read it here – and that one moment at the Bottom Line had a similar kind of edge-of-the-world feel to it.

Do you have a favorite memory of Max’s Kansas City or the Bottom Line?  Leave a comment.