This article first appeared in the St. Louis Beacon, July 19, 2012 - Over the past half year, this space has nodded in the directions of various clubs, coffee shops, nightspots and other assorted spaces, each adding something unique to the musical mix of this community over the past quarter-century. But a few have been too-lightly touched upon. Today, we’ll fondly remember three, the first installment on a look at some classic venues around town.
WAY OUT CLUB: Name remains
Just this past Saturday night, a small group of people sat on the patio out front of the Way Out Club, with the traffic of Jefferson roaring past. As I walked in, co-proprietor Sherri Lucas was surprised to see me, a sure sign that I hadn’t been by in a while, despite a few concerts and events of definite interest. Sometimes you get into a pattern, and it’s hard to shake. And even with the Way Out as a rock club just minutes from my front door, I’ve not attended this space’s offerings as much as those in the old venue, on the corner of Compton and Cherokee.
A fair bit of time’s passed since the Way Out debuted on Cherokee on Sept. 29, 1994. It’s hard to believe now, but for the first few years, the Way Out was at least partially known as “the old Thurmer’s,” referencing the longtime, South City bar that existed before it. Pretty quickly, though, the two-room space was transformed into Lucas and Bob Putnam’s own, with vintage decor overwhelming the walls, the table-tops, the ceiling. In a town known for having pretty funky barrooms, the Way Out was one of the easy-to-spot leaders, even if the exterior only hinted at what all was inside.
When the bar moved to Jefferson and Gravois a half-decade later, the obvious parallel was that the venue was, again, split in two. And just as at the last venue, when you walked into “the music side,” you entered at the front of the room, giving everybody a sense of who had dropped by. In the old place, the smaller music side was even more of a looky-loo environment. You could not sneak in; but you could reach over and slap hands with the bass player, if so inclined. Rock’n’roll was seldom quite as in your face as at the old Way Out.
While the music was then the clear, five-nights-a-week calling card of the Way Out Club, “the bar side” was equally interesting. On some week nights, Putnam and Lucas would have a relatively small audience, but they treated everyone to stories and anecdotes. Music would play on the jukebox, or the television would offer campy films, playing on the house VHS system. Possibly my favorite night at the club was sitting at the bar, watching all of 1993’s “Leprechaun,” starring Jennifer Aniston. It’s a terrible, little movie, but one you can enjoy plenty when watching with good company. Went in for a beer, left a couple hours later, still laughing. That’s kinda the way it’s supposed to be.
When the Way Out won the 2000 “Best Rock & Roll Club” category in the RFT, Chris King wrote that “Barman Bob Putnam has a cuddly cuteness, and his co-owner/wife, Sherri Lucas-Putnam, has a cuddly cuteness and then some, but sirenlike sex is not really their appeal. For their younger regulars, Bob and Sherri have the iconic power of ideal parents: They are smart, they are hip, they are loving, they let you drink and smoke (encourage you to do so, in fact), and they don't always enforce the curfew -- ‘last call’ deserves scare quotes on a good night at the Way Out. And for all the regulars, including those closer in age to Bob and Sherri and those not looking for a cool mommy or daddy, they simply add to the atmosphere of an ideal hangout.”
By that point, the club had moved, to the new, larger, even-more-intensely-decorated space. But many of the same elements remained. And remain.
On Saturday, I sat down with a Red Stripe. It was well on the other side of midnight, time for last call. I walked into the music side and caught the last song of a band called the Monos. And, then, the true sign I was at the Way Out: On the TV monitors, a woman danced in a black-and-white film, gingerly disrobing to a song we couldn’t hear. A bit of burlesque on TVs at the Way Out? Yup, some things never change. THIS was a Way Out moment, clearly.
DINO'S BUNGALOW BAR: Too hot
Found on Leona, a small side street in deep South City, Dino’s Bungalow Bar was a hangout for the early ‘90s versions of today’s “hipsters,” who mingled alongside the bar’s usual crowd, age 60 and up. On weekends, especially, the blend took place naturally, as the house band cranked up the hits of yesteryear; at which point, the audience would fan out on the small dance floor, absolutely packing it. The drummer, Dino, was the club’s namesake, a veteran who enjoyed a smoke, a beer and a turn behind the drums, though he was also just as comfortable working the crowd.
To that end, he’d recruit others to drum. Once, when I was outed as a drummer by friends, sure enough, I wound up on-stage, slapping the skins for a tentative version of “Sweet Georgia Brown.” Sitting in with musicians counting out decades of experience was nerve-wracking; I slipped off-stage and never did that again, content to simply sit and watch the passing parade from our preferred, regular table just inside the doorway. Aided, in part, by appearances on Pete Parisi’s “World Wide Magazine” cable show, the bar brought in the strangest collection of South Siders imaginable, which made almost every night there entertaining.
Dino’s had a lot of quirks. For example, even though the place had one of the oldest beer gardens in town, Dino wouldn’t open it in the summertime. Why? It was too hot and, as he figured, “Why would people want to sit outside and drink their beers, when we have air conditioning inside?” No wonder that Parisi loved this guy.
At some point, our little crowd drifted away from Dino’s. I like to think we never treated the place as kitschy and that the club’s regulars never treated us as goofy gawkers. But there was probably a bit of that involved, from both parties. Just a touch. But after a good chunk of time passed without a visit, I walked in on a random weeknight and the place had changed, almost entirely. It was now called Super’s Bungalow and Beer Garden and you could, in fact, drink your beer out in the heat. The band, gone. Their fans, gone. Even some of the cool fixtures had left the space. It was hard to take.
About six months back, feeling nostalgic, I went by the place again. The backbar was strangely barren; generally, the place felt seedy and unkempt. The conversation was less than stimulating, thanks largely to the judge show playing on the TV. As I left, I tore open a tire, backing into a stone “protecting” their alleyway from speeders. At least that was a memory, of some sort.
RIP, Dino. Your bungalow was the best.
FACES: Up all night
My first trip to Faces came a week prior to turning 17. How it is that a sheltered, suburban college freshman winds up at an all-night gay dance club on the East Side with two other under-age friends in the traveling party, well ... I’ll save some of the details for another time, OK?
But it’s safe to say that all the following were involved: an available car, a boozy party at Webster U., and a pretty high school senior that some friends were pushing me to take on a date (add in: a few too many cocktails for this young lady). After spending time shedding some liquor on a highway shoulder, she rallied and pulled a kind of remarkable spin move at the club, simply rotating her way past a cover charge and the bouncers at Faces’ intimidating, several-foot-high front desk.
I was the last one of our party to make it that far and I’m not sure that I’ve ever been as nervous since. But they took my money, never asked for a card and provided me with some indelible memories.
Within seconds of walking in, the senses were overwhelmed. Adult films on the TV. An adult store tucked into a wall. The obvious possibility of ordering drinks at one of multiple bars. And, then, this: The club’s DJ was playing “One of the Living,” a hit for the come-backing Tina Turner. It was the weekend before Halloween, and the club was rife with costumes. Just ahead of me, a man danced in a diaper, cooling himself with a Japanese fan as he dipped and bobbed in that particular way that we all danced in the ‘80s. Can’t find my car keys some mornings, but I can remember this scene, in cinematic, real-time quality.
Over the next couple years, friends and I dropped by Faces regularly, sometimes actually getting stopped at the door, but usually allowed to stay ‘til dawn; literally, you could go in, leave and greet the sun. The place didn’t necessarily sync with me musically, but gave me an introduction to the drag scene, to dance music, to a segment of the LGBT community’s after-hours life. More than anything, it said this: There’s a big world out there, full of people doing what they like to do. And, sometimes, for a small cover, you get to witness what a little corner of that world’s up to.
In time, I actually was able to get into Faces legally. I enjoyed many a night there and found it a particularly good place to take a first date: If your potential lady-friend can roll with a Faces moment at 4:40 a.m., there’s a chance of making it, alright. The upstairs cabaret, filled with saucy, wise-cracking drag queens was the best place to land for conversation and laughs, but the stairwell leading up to the floor, with its movie-set size and sweep was also a top spot to take in the scene. Of course, there was also the basement, a male-only affair that I only visited once, since the carnal fare offered down there wasn’t made for straight boys; and, yeah, that visit was on my first trip. Age 16. Different days, yo.
It was the ultimate melting pot, Faces, the place to go after you shut down the rest of town. If you dug Depeche Mode, Bette Midler and Darude’s “Sandstorm,” and high camp, you were in even better shape.
Faces was crazy. Doubt any of us knew how much.