Volume 4, Issue 20
October 3 - 16, 2002
by Rob Williams
@ Climax Lounge
2217 Welton (303-292-LIVE)
www.climaxlounge.com
Dum dum dum dah dah dum dum dum dah dah...here it was, on blood red cardboard, an invite to take a "private look" at a new live music venue, The Climax Lounge. Private? Hmmmmm. Then I spotted the words "free drinks." Before the message had time to self-destruct I was on my cell phone arranging my team. One does not approach a free-drinking media party with just any partner in crime. I needed a professional. A girl with wits, moxie, mad karate skills and a liver that swims freely in Everclear. OK, maybe the image of a free-swimming liver is a bit much, but you get the idea. I picked up the phone and spoke the name "Cara" into it. (What, you can't talk to your phone? What are you, a Luddite?) Cara quickly agreed to my plan of attack. Get there early, drink as much as humanly possible and pretend to enjoy some people watching while we got the inside information on the place.
Donning my best hipster disguise, I met Cara at an undisclosed loading dock area and studied the blueprints. I knew the club used to be the Raven, but I had a feeling a lot had changed since Treblefest. Hell, Hansa isn't even on the wall anymore. We agreed that a third team member might enter the facility through the air shaft while we subterfuged our way to the bar. We picked up crack commando and communications expert Tory en route. Gripping the penlight in my teeth as we careened up Lincoln, I showed Tory the critical access points. We were ready.
At precisely 6 pm we stepped out of the truck and made our way to the door as casually as possible, while Tory donned an HVAC tech's coveralls and headed for the alley. Giving Cara's hand a gentle squeeze, we made our way into the belly of the beast. Immediately our senses were overcome as we rounded the corner into the main room. A giant disco ball was spinning, casting glowing balls of light all around the room. "The fiends," Cara hissed "anyone looking up is sure to chunk!"
"Only if they drink enough, kiddo." And drinking they were. All along the walls tiny red lamps illuminated small booths with low backs. Did they design it this way to let you keep an eye on the bands--or to better keep an eye on us? I had to know. Flashing my "media credentials" and indicating Cara as my "photographer" we made our way to the bar.
Fully stocked with the proletarian well booze and domestics, I noted the use of (gasp) auto-pour tops on the top shelf stuff. If we were going to get the heavy-handed pour we'd have to drink lower shelf. Luckily, Cara was up to the task. She noted the twin taps, both marked "Budweiser," and decided it was time to find out the born on date on both. I opted for a whiskey and coke, and on the pretense of "taking notes" I quickly sketched the floor plan. The floor is open and should allow you a good run from the bar to the stage with a pitcher, or broken bottle if merited. At two feet high it's not much of a launching platform for mosh pit hi-jinks, but I'd seen Guitar Wolf successfully curb dive in '98. It could be done.
Cara returned with beers in each hand, demanding I try both. "Which is fresher?" Tapping the left plastic cup she drained it in earnest. "Let's find the ladies room." (Apparently this was a challenge for some: "hey guys, if the stall you are in has instructions for flushing tampons, you are in the wrong damn privy!") What we found there was shocking. White walls freshly painted. Not a single band sticker, tag or reference to my questionable heritage scratched onto the surface. Were my eyes playing tricks on me? We stepped back out into the hallway, at one time clad in '70s wood paneling, now repainted in red yellow and orange vertical stripes. Tres chic . I should have worn my Mao jacket.
We reloaded at the now-packed bar, surrounded by musicians and other hipsters, but not a single media personality in sight. Let's face it, the cattle call of "free booze" usually empties every barstool at the Press Club, and yet, none of them were here. We drained our cups and went in for more. I found myself fighting for counter space with Wendy Walker as I scooped up a fresh round. Cara whispered into my ear: "Bob Ferbrache just went into the bathroom." If Ferbrache was here something MUST be up. I glanced at the table he had vacated, spying Munly and Rumley . Wasn't Rumley on tour with Horsepower? ? Something indeed was going on here. Cara chimed in again, "Hemicuda at 3 o . clock." We shadowed them far back into the club, away from the disco lights and speakers, into a room full of zebra-striped benches and glittering machines. There stood Karen gripping the sides of a metal monster--her fingers trembling at multiple buttons, a cigarette clenched in the corner of her mouth while the crowd goaded her on. Multiball! Multiball! Yes, citizens, it's true. The Climax has a secret pinball parlour in the back. Karen was soon replaced by Alice from Sugar, whose crazy flipper fingers are legend in back alleys from Saigon to Shreveport. Tyler and Michael from Lipgloss grabbed me by the arms and demanded I tell them why I haven't covered their shows. My God, how many magna-saves had they used that night? Cara broke Tyler's death-grip with a quick thumb lock and led us back to the safety of the bar, now packed with thirsty revelers trying to make that free drink last call. We dove into the fray. Steve Shalk from the Gothic handed me a fresh one and menacingly leered, "what do you think?"
What did I think? The place was full of scenesters and there wasn't even a band. I didn't see a single representative of the "media," even the hardcore partiers like Baca and Keating. Were they afraid? Or had they just knuckled under to the powers that enslave America's youth to embrace N-Sync? One thing was for certain: Cara and I were coming back. With a whole hit team of hipsters. This was the place to be. Why the hell weren't you there? (On a side note, we kinda forgot Tory in all the excitement--so if you find a muscular bald black man out behind Climax muttering to himself about Cara and I, please direct him back to Go-Go Headquarters.)
Climax opens to the public Oct. 4. with Drag the River, Black Lamb and Love Me Destroyer. Your mission--go there!
All Rights Reserved © 2002 Go Go Media, LLC, Denver, Colorado