#cleansing your palate from last night’s sluttiness

[alluks-olee]

I’m exciting

Yes… yes you are

[textales]

“Fight for Your Right.”

“Who the fuck are you?” asked the leader of some band we hired to play that night.

Good lord, how could anyone have the audacity to be so disrespectful and rude?  He had to have known this was the office where the check would come from as he was being escorted by the guy who hired them.  

I stood there with my mouth gaping open, stunned like a deer in the headlights, then just like that he and his entourage moved on before I could scare up an answer. 

My work-study job was more fun than most.  While others were stocking shelves at the bookstore or washing dishes at the food service, I worked for ASUM Programming, the entertainment arm of “The Associated Students of the University of Montana.”  A New Yorker named Erik curated concerts. A grad student picked the lectures.  And there were three red-headed sisters – triplets no less – from a windswept town near some Indian reservation. One ran the performing arts program, one picked the movies, and one was the benevolent boss of all of us. 

Working for the student government was an honor and a responsibility that I took very seriously, and figured it would pay off when I had to get a real job after graduation.  Thirty years later I can say I was right – if not for me, at least for many of my co-workers who went on to become big deals.  One girl got a gig at some software company in Seattle and was so successful she retired in her 30s.  Our student body president became a senator.  And that New Yorker responsible for bringing concerts to our college made a fortune when he sold the newspaper he founded to a big media conglomerate. 

I did the advertising – a position that completely went to my head.  Looking back, I was a pain-in-the-ass prima donna, but my intentions were righteous (or at least I thought so).  Although we were in the sticks, I was insistent that our image be every bit as cool as those of giant schools like UCLA or Harvard.  It was my personal mission to showcase how we were so much better than our redneck peers at MSU in Bozeman who offered washed-up has-beens filling dates between county fairs.  As our community’s un-elected curators of cool, we presented performers on the cutting edge.  Oh sure, occasionally we had a show a little past its prime, but we knew how to position it as the best thing to happen since the advent of electricity, and we’d sell out the biggest venues on campus every time.  

I made ridiculous demands of our graphic artists and printers, maxed out every budget and milked my media partners for every last free commercial. I shamelessly coerced radio stations into selling us commercials for pennies on the dollar. I hired the most expensive television production house in the state and ground them down until they agreed to the pittance I was willing to pay.  On broadcast TV, The Cosby Show was the number one hit in prime time (years before any controversy) and I demanded our commercials on the local NBC affiliate play “first in set” when the most people were watching. At $75 bucks a pop, I got our money’s worth and then some.   I was making my mark, dammit, hell bent on proving this was no hokey small town operation!   

The office was situated in the student union building known as University Center. The glass walls were covered with posters from past performers – everyone from Alabama to Van Halen had been through that town. I was proud of the bands we presented during my tenure there, including 38 Special, Cheap Trick and Corey Hart.  On that cold winter day, a red and shiny silver poster hung on the front door to promote the music group who had just blessed our office with their presence.   

After cooling-off for a minute I conjured a response to that obnoxious “up and comer” who wanted to know my purpose in the overall scheme of things.  Given the chance, I would have shot back with something snarky like “I’m the reason you sold out your show here in the middle of nowhere, you stupid fuck.”  But by that point the ungrateful bastard and his band were halfway across the snow-covered campus.

“I like Dick’s.”

Once a year, our team would make a trek to Portland to go shopping.  We were looking for “the next big thing” and we’d find it at the convention of the National Association for Campus Activities (NACA) where aspiring music artists, comedians and speakers would present themselves for hire by colleges in the region looking for entertainment options for their respective campus constituencies.  The convention was held at the Jantzen Beach Red Lion, a big fancy hotel on the waterfront. Artists would do short performances for the crowd, then interested buyers would have an opportunity to meet with them and their agents at a conference room where deals were cut on the spot. At the conclusion of each three-day trip we’d come home with a pretty good idea of what the next year’s entertainment line-up would be. 

I was fascinated with Portland – it was a “real city” (at least compared to Missoula) and traveling at the expense of someone else was cool shit for this 21-year-old college kid who at that point could count on one hand the number of times I’d stayed in a hotel or eaten at a restaurant with cloth napkins. 

My first taste of fine dining happened on a NACA trip at a restaurant named the Couch Street Fish House.  Knowing it would cost a fortune I was reluctant, but caved to peer-pressure as I was reminded such opportunities for fancy were nonexistent where we came from.  Trying not to look like a total hick from the sticks I gawked at fish tanks in the lobby where you could pick a lobster or sea critter they’d kill and cook right then - ain’t never seen that before!  Dinner was presented in a coordinated reveal as servers lifted silver domes covering the entrees of all patrons at the table, in unison, at the direction of the lead waiter. There were so many different forks and knives I had to ask which to use for what, and I recall being given a hot towel at some point, along with grapefruit sorbet which was to, according to the sharp-looking waiter in a bow tie, “cleanse the palate between courses.”  Hardly an adventurous eater, I had a simple Sirloin Steak (AKA high-grade hamburger), but rest of the crowd went crazy with escargot, scallops and crab.

Split among us, my portion of the bill was $106.  To put things into perspective, I made $290 a month before taxes, so this was absurdly high for this poor college kid, consuming over half of my take-home for the month.  But I don’t regret it, and to this day that dinner over thirty years ago remains one of the fanciest of my life. 

We went night-clubbing on Front Street at The Satyricon.  This place was buzzing with sketch-looking guys with mohawks, tight leather pants, chain necklaces and tattoos.  And there were women in fishnet stockings looking all slutty with black lipstick and winged eyeliner. A few emo kids and some nerds rounded out the crowd, which contained more diversity than anywhere I’d ever been back home. Oh sure, I’d set foot in The Top Hat and AmVets in Missoula, but never a gritty place like this. I recall a wall of black and white TVs showing nothing but snowy static…a wall of TVs just for decoration?  This is nuts.  It was literally on the edge of railroad tracks, complete with an angry punk rock band, a bouncer with bad teeth and bulging biceps, a coat check hosted by a girl who looked remarkably homeless, and there was a ridiculously high cover charge.   The door person asking if my male co-worker and I were a couple.  Before I could answer, Kevin blurted “yes,” knowing we’d get a discount.  Still deep in the closet, I was mortified at the consequences of having my cover blown.

As college kids are known to do, we drank a lot of beer on those trips. In eco-conscious Oregon, with progressive recycling laws decades ahead of the rest of the country, empty bottles and cans could be redeemed for a refund of five cents each.  On the way out of town, we’d stop at Fred Meyer to return the cases of empties.  We were so proud of ourselves, having consumed so much beer over the weekend that the refund money was enough for beef jerky and bottled water for the nine hour drive back to Missoula.  

In Spokane we stopped for burgers and fries at a drive-in.  Without realizing how dumb it would sound, I proudly blurted “I like Dick’s,” as I stood there in acid-washed jeans and a pink polo shirt.

“He is so gay” the New Yorker exclaimed to the red-headed triplets.  And here I thought I had them all fooled.  

“Fight for Your Right”

Erik must have seen something promising when he hired the group of white rappers at the NACA conference that year.  Yes, we wanted to be “cutting edge” and all, but white rappers?  In Montana?!  I didn’t see it…but what did I know? I was a fan of the fluffy pop I played on the radio, like Exposé, Bananarama and Madonna, which Erik considered the musical equivalent of cotton candy.  

As it turned out, he proved to be a programming genius.  When he signed The Beastie Boys months prior in Portland they were nothing more than an unknown opening act for Run-D.M.C., dismissed by industry pros as three obnoxious white kids from New York trying to sound black. Then they blew up…and it was like ASUM Programming hit the jackpot.   The album “Licensed to Ill” was certified Platinum by the Recording Industry Association of America (RIAA) on February 2, 1987 – just five days after their appearance in Missoula.  This was an unofficial launch of the “License to Ill” tour, which started three weeks later.

Those Beastie Boys were obnoxious alright. And they were pissed, because just before coming to Missoula they were offered a show in Toronto and tried to cancel ours. Erik held their feet to the fire and threatened to file a lawsuit if they bailed on us, so they conceded and came to Montana in the dead of winter to do a gig for pennies of what they might have otherwise made in a bigger city. 

They were nice to Erik at first, but told him once the show was on they’d have to portray the image of the obnoxious rebels their managers were so carefully crafting.  They delivered on their promise to their management and then some. No wonder the lead guy was such a dick to me at the office. 

We suspected they might be rowdy and cause a ruckus early on. Their contract required multiple cases of beer and bottles of whisky, and they wanted their dressing room stocked with a “rainbow assortment” of condoms.  Such demands are not uncommon, and often ridiculous demands are written into the contracts just to make sure someone is actually paying attention to the small print. I’m not sure if we provided the condoms, but we definitely didn’t supply the beer and whiskey since University policy wouldn’t allow.  So they brought their own, and sprayed two cases of warm Budweiser on the crowd as part of their performance. They encouraged the crowd to rip-up the seating in the first few rows of the venue, and they trashed their dressing room, which I suspect got charged-back to the promoter.  

I recall not wanting to see the show….it was rap, after all, and I liked “the musical equivalent of cotton candy.”  But I was curious about what made this group so popular, so I found my way to the University Theatre for the last few minutes of their show that snowy January eve.

I don’t remember much, other than the crowd went absolutely wild and most were certainly fighting for their right to party.  I also recall fighting for my way to the bathroom, where dozens of drunk fellow college kids were using every available piece of porcelain all at once, including the urinal, toilet, sink, floor drain, and even the garbage can.  It was filthy, but efficient.

The Missouri Lounge is located a few blocks from my home in Berkeley, California. I discovered this place after moving into the neighborhood over a dozen years ago.  Sometimes referred to as “unassuming” or “low key,” truth is it’s a total dive.  The bar and apartments above it were built in 1961 by a serviceman who retired to the area after doing his time in the Navy on The USS Missouri.  I just learned the music video for Cher’s “If I Could Turn Back Time” was filmed aboard that battleship.  Now I love even more this bar named after the boat.  

On the walls you’ll find pictures from the early days. Not unlike the black & white pictures I’ve seen of my grandmother playing pool at Reed’s Tavern in Great Falls, these framed photos are evidence of innocent local fun…people wearing paper hats and shooting confetti at a New Year’s party when 1962 rolled in… people not interested in going to the big celebrations across the bay in San Francisco…people looking for something comfortable and close to home.

The bar has seen many generations of customers and countless changes of ownership and décor. My first visit was in 2003, just a couple months after the then new owner had repainted in pretty pastels and neutral tones.  Concert posters from famous folk like Janice Joplin, the Beatles and the Rolling Stones adorned the walls.  And they had a brand new 48” flat screen TV hanging smack dab above the middle of the bar, presumably intended to lure sports fans hoping to see their favorite games in a venue more convenient than those in downtown Oakland or Berkeley.

After a few months the newly remodeled bar wasn’t doing so well, so a consultant was hired to “spruce things up” by “dumbing it down.”   As she told me a dozen years ago, the bar was essentially “too nice” for the neighborhood, so she decided to make it look more like a pool room in someone’s basement. Down came the framed posters from historic concerts at the Fillmore and Cow Palace.  Peach and pastels were covered over with battleship gray and brown paint.  A tired old couch was moved in, and so was an old Zenith console TV that for years doubled as the DJ stand.  The flat screen TV was moved into the corner, and they’d start showing classic horror movies with a Pulp Fiction feel.   Whatever magic she did seemed to work, and the place became a goldmine that it is today.  

Regulars at happy hour include Tim the glazier, Ian who works for the county, and Hans who owns a construction company.  Later at night, once the pool table is covered and moved to the corner, a totally different crowd of college kids and younger neighborhood professionals come in to drink and dance.   There’s a professional sound system and a proper DJ Booth, and the back patio which started out with a portable BBQ from someone’s back yard now features a commercial kitchen with permanent built-in stainless-steel sinks and a granite countertop.   But still, honestly, the place is a total dive, with picnic tables and chain link, where a shot and a beer are cheap, and the bathroom walls are covered in graffiti (even if that graffiti was put there on purpose in the first place). 

“I Played That Song When It Was New.”

One of the Disk Jockeys at the Missouri Lounge is a guy named Pat, who is around my age and plays lots of songs from the 80s. Whether it’s Thompson Twins, Prince or YES, he’s often spinning something that I can say I put on the air when I was a Top 40 DJ in Missoula. 

One random Friday night I noticed Pat wearing a hat from some bar in Whitefish, a small town in Montana, which spawned a conversation about my college days. I learned Pat’s wife is from Missoula, and my world continued to grow smaller as he cued-up “(You Gotta) Fight for your Right (to Party).”  

But as much as I was enjoying the conversation, I had to excuse myself (discount dive-bar beer like Olympia has a way of working its way through quite quickly) and headed toward the bathroom where I stood in line as polite millennial men took their turns one-at-a-time in a bathroom that has both a urinal and a toilet.  “Why can’t these kids be efficient like at that Beastie Boys concert where they were using the sink, the toilet, the floor drain and a garbage can?” I wondered without saying a word out loud. Okay, I understand not peeing in the sink or the floor drain or the garbage can, but they can use the urinal and the regular toilet and cut the time in line in half. “Hurry the fuck up. I gotta pee, besides, I have to get back to my conversation with Pat.”

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity in line, I returned to the DJ Booth where Pat told me the wife’s father founded “The Independent,” a newspaper in Missoula, and his business partner was a guy named Erik. 

Yes, THAT Erik, the same guy from New York who brought the Beastie Boys to Montana for their first concert out west. 

It’s a small world when the Missouri and Montana collide with the Beastie Boys.