Our story so far: In 1987, a freshly-scrubbed idealist leaves the cornfields of rural Minnesota and travels to The Cities in search of his beloved punk rock. Answering an ad, he finds himself working at "Prince's Club," minus the Prince....
First night: Sunday Night Dance Party. SNDP was an underage hipster farm club for suburban wannabes and Loring Park already-weres on their way up to the Big Show at Danceteria. My first night consisted of picking up soda cups and mini-bar bottles of Smirnoff and Captain Morgan's in the bathroom. Alcohol not allowed, but all things permitted. It was loud, I didn't recognize all the music and I didn't belong. The other employees were cordial, but distant – I was an auslander with a Rob Lowe haircut and an encyclopedic knowledge of music. I was obviously a narc and to be avoided.
I hated it. I was thinking about quitting that night until I ran into, of all people, Lori Barbero, pre-Babes In Toyland. A genuinely nice person in a crunchy punk shell, she saw me struggling and went out of her way to toss me a rope. She knew everything and everyone. She made the introductions, showed me where the bones were buried and helped the other employees see the irony in my presence. She worked A LOT – I could see her dreads from across the Main Room on any day I was working and most days when I wasn't. I even got to see an early Babes performance at the employee Christmas party. I kept working and it turned out to be a great, memorable job, thanks in part to Lori.
Then I found out 20 years later that she didn't even work there.
Very rarely I'll run into someone I used to work with at First Avenue. And invariably, they will be working at First Avenue at the time. It's been 19 years, but I figure the people with the face tattoos need job security, too. I ran into Lori again a couple months ago at the Nomad where she was tending bar. I don't look a lot different now than I did then (i.e., Craig Kilborn haircut instead of Rob Lowe), but even so, she was cordial and pleasant like she had been two decades before.
I mentioned we had worked together and she said she vaguely remembered me, but then was puzzled, since she had never worked at First Avenue. Yup, never worked at First Avenue. It hadn't occurred to me to ask since she was always there. Pre-shift meetings, after parties, hanging out in the "kitchen" – I just naturally thought she was an employee, rather than a part of the extended First Avenue family. Then she smiled the way people smile at crazy people and gave me another Stella.
The "Hard Rock Bad/First Avenue Good" mantra seems tired, but it resonates loudly in a downtown eagerly redeveloped with little sense of community or connection between venues and the people they serve. The closest I can find today is maybe the Triple Rock or the ubiquitous NE drunk bars that have replaced their meat raffles with punk karaoke. Franchising is anti-community. It's about uniformity, about removing the mystery and apprehension from encountering new places.
First Avenue makes Minneapolis unique. The Hard Rock makes Minneapolis Pittsburgh.
Next time: Mark at Oarfolk Records hates Kurt Loder and gives the gift of grunge. Plus, the first return of Duran Duran.
Legal restrictions compel Almostred to write under an assumed name. His identity isn't a big secret but you don't know him anyway. He is survived by a daughter who doesn't appreciate his esoteric musical sensibilities and a bank account residing with his ex-wife. His massive record collection is currently very hip with the young people.
Contact him at almostredd@hotmail.com
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