From San Francisco Examiner: Historic San Francisco gay bar shuts its doors — at least for now.
Saturday marked the last night of the landmark Eagle Tavern, a SoMa leather bar and institution for the neighborhood’s gay community. San Francisco artist Jim Leff, left, takes one last picture of the place. (Dan Schreiber/The Examiner)Mike Talley said his family back home in Tulsa, Okla., disowned him, and it wasn’t just because he was gay. He was also into leather. “Leather was over the line,” he recalled. “Thirty days later, I was living in San Francisco, and I had found home.”
And like many gay men who sought refuge in The City in the ’80s, he wound up at the Eagle Tavern, a quintessential leather bar that shut its doors — at least for now — on Saturday night, after 30 years as an institution.
Out on the back porch Saturday afternoon, the final-day crowd was in a nostalgic mood. Final pictures and videos were being captured and chalked messages on the walls said things like, “I broke my jaw here in 1993,” and “I left my heart at the Eagle.”
“If we hadn’t seen our friends in a while, they would always end up here on Sundays,” said patron Scott Van Hyde. “You didn’t have to be anything, or wear anything special. Just show up. Just easy.”
Sundays were when the bar held its famous beer bust fundraisers benefiting all kinds of charities, including those for AIDS research.
The disease was the bane of the gay community in the ’80s, which was the heyday of SoMa leather bars that have since — and now perhaps officially — faded into history.
There was a time when many American cities had “Eagle” bars, a sort of label for gay-friendly. A few remain, including one in Dallas, where owner Mark Frazier contemplated buying the San Francisco outpost from its two owners, John Gardiner and Joe Banks.
But negotiations with the building’s landlord faltered after rent was increased by 20 percent, and Frazier backed out. Bar manager Ron Hennis also expressed interest in ownership but declined requests for an interview and said in a Facebook message that he won’t discuss ongoing negotiations.
San Francisco Supervisors Jane Kim, Scott Wiener, and David Campos sent a letter to San Francisco police in mid-April that highlights the cultural importance of the Eagle and calls for the department to “closely scrutinize” any liquor license transfer that changes the business.
Wiener, who along with Campos is openly gay, said he has been to the Eagle many times as a patron.
“It would be a big loss to The City,” Wiener said. “It looked like it was completely dead, but at least the landlord might be negotiating again.”
Patron Richard Olivia said the bar, at its core, represents all that is “San Fransexual.”
“You don’t feel like you’re in the Castro with the clones, or in the Tenderloin with the trannies,” Olivia said. “You can come here, and it’s everyone.”
Showing posts with label Gay bar closing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Gay bar closing. Show all posts
Monday, May 02, 2011
Tuesday, March 02, 2010
Chicago's last girl bar closed in January 2010
From Pageoneq.com: "Star Gaze, what many called the last full-time lesbian bar in Chicago, closed earlier in January after 14 years. The loss leaves a hole in Chicago’s lesbian community.“I opened the bar knowing there was a need for it,” Mamie Lake, the owner, told the Chicago Tribune. “It went big time. We had people moving into the neighborhood because of the bar. It was like a gay Although Lake said the economy was a factor in her decision to close, she also noticed a change in the way lesbians socialize. Once the staple of lesbian meeting places, the bar scene is no longer the only option for meeting other women.
“There are lesbian book groups and other kinds of social spaces now where people can find each other,” Jennifer Brier told the paper. She is an associate professor of history and gender and women’s studies at the University of Illinois at Chicago.
But not everyone is convinced. “For a young queer woman coming out or just arriving here, someone looking for community where they feel comfortable, I don’t know where that place is going to be anymore or where that one bar is,” Lesbian Community Care Project manager Christina Santiago told the Tribune.
“There are lesbian book groups and other kinds of social spaces now where people can find each other,” Jennifer Brier told the paper. She is an associate professor of history and gender and women’s studies at the University of Illinois at Chicago.
But not everyone is convinced. “For a young queer woman coming out or just arriving here, someone looking for community where they feel comfortable, I don’t know where that place is going to be anymore or where that one bar is,” Lesbian Community Care Project manager Christina Santiago told the Tribune.
Saturday, December 05, 2009
Landmark Pittsburgh Gay Bar - Pegaus Closes
"As Pegasus owner Scott Noxon prepares to close this Downtown landmark gay bar on Dec. 6, his fondest memories still seem to be from the time he was just a customer. In 1984, Noxon came out -- in both senses -- for the first time to Pegasus, just four years after it opened.
After work, he recalls, you could see political figures "and the heads of the largest corporations in suits meeting here.
"Nobody discussed who they saw here," he adds, sitting in a back office whose walls are still covered with signed souvenirs from American Idol contestants, adult-film stars, drag performers and Gov. Ed Rendell. "It's always been known as a safe place."
The entrance to the Liberty Avenue bar, marked only by a red Pegasus figure, leads down a set of steep stairs. But once you reach the bottom, the entire bar is visible: the alcohol-free section on the right, for the club's college-age patrons; the dance floor in the middle; and the main bar on the left, marked by a large crescent-moon statue with puckered red lips.
Expenses are "too high here, especially for a basement," Noxon says in explaining the bar's demise. Five years ago, he bought it from original owner David Morrow, who died earlier this year. Noxon also owns the North Side's Eagle, another fixture in the lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender (LGBT) community here. The Eagle was closed temporarily over the summer.
"It was always a cause," he says of Pegasus's spot in local gay history. "But from what I see, we don't need it any more. We asked for acceptance. We got it." Numerous other bars and clubs in town welcome a gay clientele, he points out, and "The Internet has taken a bunch of our customers" as well. Still, the decision to close "was tough -- Rodney and I shed some tears over it."
Manager Rodney DeCecchis, the bar's longest employee at 15 years, isn't so sure places like Pegasus have become obsolete. "It's been a great place for youth" to come out and to meet other LGBT people, he says. "Seeing this place, hearing about it, has helped a lot of people," he adds.
"It was my first gay bar, from when I came out -- 1993," says Shawn Collins, who has been a DJ here since 2001. "When people from out of town think of a gay bar in Pittsburgh, they all know Pegasus. It's always everybody's first bar."
Pegasus has also been the first choice of local nonprofits trying to reach young LGBT people to promote a cause.
"Every new organization that would spring up would come to the bars and say, 'Would you donate to this? Would you donate to that?'" says Jim Fischerkeller, who began volunteering with Downtown's Gay and Lesbian Community Center in the 1970s, when it was just a phone line in someone's home, and was its chairperson from 2000 through 2005. "In the early days, I felt that the bar owners made a lot of money off of our community, and I thought they ought to give back. They certainly did." Pegasus in particular, he says, "had many shows [that] were fundraisers for different gay and lesbian organizations."
Most crucially, the Pitt Men's Study began its investigation into the causes and effects of AIDS in 1984 by recruiting male subjects from local gay bars, including Pegasus.
"Along with the other bars, it was a key player in getting AIDS research going in the city," says Anthony Silvestre, who was hired that year to head the recruitment effort and is today co-investigator of the study. "Maybe more important, it had a key role in education" about AIDS here before local officials got involved, he adds. "It was also at Pegasus that the first organizing committee was formed for the Pittsburgh AIDS Task Force" in 1985. He calls it the movement's "Independence Hall."
Today, Lyndsey Sickler uses Pegasus to offer oral HIV testing, free condoms and safe-sex advice to 18- to 25-year-olds as part of the LGBT organization Persad's Youth Empowerment Project. She's been at the bar twice a month since 1997. "Pegasus has been a staple venue for outreach services," she says. Noxon and DeCecchis, as well as original owner Morrow, "have always been willing to help out nonprofits, and the drag community."
"Any time we lose a site where kids gather, it's a loss to the program," says Persad head Betty Hill.
Pegasus' closing is a loss to Pittsburgh too, says Pittsburgh Cultural Trust spokesperson Veronica Corpuz. "They were a great asset in the Cultural District," she says.
Noxon and DeCecchis didn't always feel entirely welcome, they say. The Trust bought their building in 2003, replacing the street-level Condom World and an adult bookstore with Space art gallery. They also made Pegasus remove its large red-and-black Pegasus sign, which had hung over the sidewalk for years.
"Our sign at one point was quite famous," says DeCecchis. "We get 20, 30 phone calls a night: 'We can't find you. What happened to your sign?'"
"This has been tough to run a business without any way to advertise that you're here," adds Noxon. The Cultural Trust "said they wanted to sterilize -- I think they said sanitize -- the area" from its seamier days. (Corpuz says she doesn't know the history of the sign's removal.) Today, Space's smaller sign hangs from Pegasus's former signpost. "And [Space pays] no rent," Noxon says. "That was sort of a slap in the face to me."
Mostly, though, the good memories are all around them -- like the old sign, which now hangs in the bar.
"There's three giant Rubbermaid containers of shows and contests we had here, on VHS tapes," Noxon says. "It'd be awesome if we could find Christina Aguilera on one of them." Barroom legend has it that the pop star performed at Pegasus before her 1999 breakout album, though details are hard to substantiate.
Noxon plans to bring down the sign for The Staircase Lounge -- the place's name before Pegasus -- and display it inside during the bar's last week. He marvels at the gay celebrities who joined the crowd or performed here through the years, such as drag icon Divine, made famous in John Waters' movies.
"We had Rufus Wainwright here as a customer" after a 2008 concert, recalls DeCecchis. "It was fabulous."
"I don't think there'll be another bar like it," says doorman Terry Price, whose longevity at Pegasus rivals that of DeCecchis. "It always had a good cruising pattern" -- especially because the entire floorplan is visible the moment customers descend the stairs.
"It was like going to Hell," he says affectionately. "We were all having fun in Hell."
URL for this story: http://www.pittsburghcitypaper.wshttp://www.pittsburghcitypaper.ws/gyrobase/Content?oid=oid%3A72371"
After work, he recalls, you could see political figures "and the heads of the largest corporations in suits meeting here.
"Nobody discussed who they saw here," he adds, sitting in a back office whose walls are still covered with signed souvenirs from American Idol contestants, adult-film stars, drag performers and Gov. Ed Rendell. "It's always been known as a safe place."
The entrance to the Liberty Avenue bar, marked only by a red Pegasus figure, leads down a set of steep stairs. But once you reach the bottom, the entire bar is visible: the alcohol-free section on the right, for the club's college-age patrons; the dance floor in the middle; and the main bar on the left, marked by a large crescent-moon statue with puckered red lips.
Expenses are "too high here, especially for a basement," Noxon says in explaining the bar's demise. Five years ago, he bought it from original owner David Morrow, who died earlier this year. Noxon also owns the North Side's Eagle, another fixture in the lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender (LGBT) community here. The Eagle was closed temporarily over the summer.
"It was always a cause," he says of Pegasus's spot in local gay history. "But from what I see, we don't need it any more. We asked for acceptance. We got it." Numerous other bars and clubs in town welcome a gay clientele, he points out, and "The Internet has taken a bunch of our customers" as well. Still, the decision to close "was tough -- Rodney and I shed some tears over it."
Manager Rodney DeCecchis, the bar's longest employee at 15 years, isn't so sure places like Pegasus have become obsolete. "It's been a great place for youth" to come out and to meet other LGBT people, he says. "Seeing this place, hearing about it, has helped a lot of people," he adds.
"It was my first gay bar, from when I came out -- 1993," says Shawn Collins, who has been a DJ here since 2001. "When people from out of town think of a gay bar in Pittsburgh, they all know Pegasus. It's always everybody's first bar."
Pegasus has also been the first choice of local nonprofits trying to reach young LGBT people to promote a cause.
"Every new organization that would spring up would come to the bars and say, 'Would you donate to this? Would you donate to that?'" says Jim Fischerkeller, who began volunteering with Downtown's Gay and Lesbian Community Center in the 1970s, when it was just a phone line in someone's home, and was its chairperson from 2000 through 2005. "In the early days, I felt that the bar owners made a lot of money off of our community, and I thought they ought to give back. They certainly did." Pegasus in particular, he says, "had many shows [that] were fundraisers for different gay and lesbian organizations."
Most crucially, the Pitt Men's Study began its investigation into the causes and effects of AIDS in 1984 by recruiting male subjects from local gay bars, including Pegasus.
"Along with the other bars, it was a key player in getting AIDS research going in the city," says Anthony Silvestre, who was hired that year to head the recruitment effort and is today co-investigator of the study. "Maybe more important, it had a key role in education" about AIDS here before local officials got involved, he adds. "It was also at Pegasus that the first organizing committee was formed for the Pittsburgh AIDS Task Force" in 1985. He calls it the movement's "Independence Hall."
Today, Lyndsey Sickler uses Pegasus to offer oral HIV testing, free condoms and safe-sex advice to 18- to 25-year-olds as part of the LGBT organization Persad's Youth Empowerment Project. She's been at the bar twice a month since 1997. "Pegasus has been a staple venue for outreach services," she says. Noxon and DeCecchis, as well as original owner Morrow, "have always been willing to help out nonprofits, and the drag community."
"Any time we lose a site where kids gather, it's a loss to the program," says Persad head Betty Hill.
Pegasus' closing is a loss to Pittsburgh too, says Pittsburgh Cultural Trust spokesperson Veronica Corpuz. "They were a great asset in the Cultural District," she says.
Noxon and DeCecchis didn't always feel entirely welcome, they say. The Trust bought their building in 2003, replacing the street-level Condom World and an adult bookstore with Space art gallery. They also made Pegasus remove its large red-and-black Pegasus sign, which had hung over the sidewalk for years.
"Our sign at one point was quite famous," says DeCecchis. "We get 20, 30 phone calls a night: 'We can't find you. What happened to your sign?'"
"This has been tough to run a business without any way to advertise that you're here," adds Noxon. The Cultural Trust "said they wanted to sterilize -- I think they said sanitize -- the area" from its seamier days. (Corpuz says she doesn't know the history of the sign's removal.) Today, Space's smaller sign hangs from Pegasus's former signpost. "And [Space pays] no rent," Noxon says. "That was sort of a slap in the face to me."
Mostly, though, the good memories are all around them -- like the old sign, which now hangs in the bar.
"There's three giant Rubbermaid containers of shows and contests we had here, on VHS tapes," Noxon says. "It'd be awesome if we could find Christina Aguilera on one of them." Barroom legend has it that the pop star performed at Pegasus before her 1999 breakout album, though details are hard to substantiate.
Noxon plans to bring down the sign for The Staircase Lounge -- the place's name before Pegasus -- and display it inside during the bar's last week. He marvels at the gay celebrities who joined the crowd or performed here through the years, such as drag icon Divine, made famous in John Waters' movies.
"We had Rufus Wainwright here as a customer" after a 2008 concert, recalls DeCecchis. "It was fabulous."
"I don't think there'll be another bar like it," says doorman Terry Price, whose longevity at Pegasus rivals that of DeCecchis. "It always had a good cruising pattern" -- especially because the entire floorplan is visible the moment customers descend the stairs.
"It was like going to Hell," he says affectionately. "We were all having fun in Hell."
URL for this story: http://www.pittsburghcitypaper.wshttp://www.pittsburghcitypaper.ws/gyrobase/Content?oid=oid%3A72371"
Monday, November 16, 2009
Maine's Oldest Gay Bar Closes
October 10, 2009 from Mainetoday.com:
"LEWISTON -- As a gay teenager and young adult, Michael Martin had few places to turn to in Lewiston.
Sure, there were support groups and other organizations for young gay people, but they offered just once-a-week or once-a-month meetings. Not real camaraderie. Not community.
However, the Sportsman's Athletic Club did.
"When I was 15, I would hang out in front of the bar, which wasn't a good thing to do," said Martin, now 36 and manager of the place. "But it was the only spot. The only spot. And once I did turn 21, I was welcomed with open arms. They made you feel comfortable about yourself."
For more than 30 years, the gay bar on Bates Street has been an important part of life for many in the gay community. It was a place where they could find friends, dance with a same-sex partner without worry, be themselves. Outside the bar they might be harassed, bullied, told they were going to hell. At Sportsman's they were accepted.
And because of Sportsman's, the wider community started to accept them as well.
"I think it paved the way," Martin said.
But all of that will end tonight. Sportsman's, the longest running gay bar in the state, according to the former owner, is closing.
"We're calling it the curtain call," Martin said. "The end of an era to a legendary bar."
When Sportsman's opened on Lincoln Street in 1958 it was originally geared toward straight people. Roland Blais turned it into a gay bar when he bought it in the mid-1970s.
"They needed something gay up here," he said. "It was in demand. If something's in demand, you go for it for business. There's no place for gays to go. That way they can go to the gay bar and be themselves."
He moved the bar to Canal Street, then Bates Street. Over the years the bar became known for its mix of people -- both gay and straight -- and for both its cozy atmosphere and vibrant dance music.
"It's always been pretty much a homey type bar, very comfortable setting," Martin said. "But it can become very crazy, too. Usually after 9 o'clock at night when the younger crowd comes out and they want to dance and party. That's when things pick up and get loud."
But even early on, Sportsman's was more than just a place to grab a quiet drink or party to re-mixed pop music. The bar represented a community whose members, led by Blais, helped raise money for AIDS, took canoe trips, played volleyball and climbed Tumbledown mountain. In the early 1990s, Blais helped fight for equal rights for homosexuals in the city.
"This is America. This is supposed to be equal," Blais said.
In more recent years, bar patrons have traveled en masse to gay pride parades.
About four years ago Blais sold the bar to Marc Mason, who also owns the Acme Social Club in Lewiston. Blais had run Sportsman's for about 30 years. It was time, he said, to retire.
"I was burned out. I'm 71 years old. I'm not young anymore," he said.
Martin has managed the bar for the last four years. He said business has dropped over the years, that the economy has affected Sportsman's. The business has been sold. He believes the building is slated to be torn down.
Mason could not be reached for comment Friday.
The bar's closing was at first kept quiet. Martin said he wasn't comfortable with that, so he recently began telling patrons.
"These people have been dedicated to this place much too long to be shut out to the truth," Martin said. "I said 'No, enough's enough.' I think it's time they know so they can prepare themselves."
Martin expects a large crowd for the last night tonight, including a few patrons who started coming when Blais opened the place as a gay bar -- and are still regulars.
"I call them our ancients, and we treat them like gold," Martin said.
The bar will open at 6 p.m., an hour early, to accommodate the crowd. A New York DJ, who worked at the club in the 1980s, will perform that night. The bar will also host various performers, including its popular drag queens.
The bar will close at 1 a.m.
"It's going to be emotional," Martin said.
Martin believes homosexuals are more accepted now than they used to be -- and he credits Sportsman's for some of that -- but he also believes there's still a need for a place where young gay people can gather.
"One thing I've noticed, when one club closes another club usually opens. I can't say for fact that one will, but I'm hoping and praying for their sake," he said. "
"LEWISTON -- As a gay teenager and young adult, Michael Martin had few places to turn to in Lewiston.
Sure, there were support groups and other organizations for young gay people, but they offered just once-a-week or once-a-month meetings. Not real camaraderie. Not community.
However, the Sportsman's Athletic Club did.
"When I was 15, I would hang out in front of the bar, which wasn't a good thing to do," said Martin, now 36 and manager of the place. "But it was the only spot. The only spot. And once I did turn 21, I was welcomed with open arms. They made you feel comfortable about yourself."
For more than 30 years, the gay bar on Bates Street has been an important part of life for many in the gay community. It was a place where they could find friends, dance with a same-sex partner without worry, be themselves. Outside the bar they might be harassed, bullied, told they were going to hell. At Sportsman's they were accepted.
And because of Sportsman's, the wider community started to accept them as well.
"I think it paved the way," Martin said.
But all of that will end tonight. Sportsman's, the longest running gay bar in the state, according to the former owner, is closing.
"We're calling it the curtain call," Martin said. "The end of an era to a legendary bar."
When Sportsman's opened on Lincoln Street in 1958 it was originally geared toward straight people. Roland Blais turned it into a gay bar when he bought it in the mid-1970s.
"They needed something gay up here," he said. "It was in demand. If something's in demand, you go for it for business. There's no place for gays to go. That way they can go to the gay bar and be themselves."
He moved the bar to Canal Street, then Bates Street. Over the years the bar became known for its mix of people -- both gay and straight -- and for both its cozy atmosphere and vibrant dance music.
"It's always been pretty much a homey type bar, very comfortable setting," Martin said. "But it can become very crazy, too. Usually after 9 o'clock at night when the younger crowd comes out and they want to dance and party. That's when things pick up and get loud."
But even early on, Sportsman's was more than just a place to grab a quiet drink or party to re-mixed pop music. The bar represented a community whose members, led by Blais, helped raise money for AIDS, took canoe trips, played volleyball and climbed Tumbledown mountain. In the early 1990s, Blais helped fight for equal rights for homosexuals in the city.
"This is America. This is supposed to be equal," Blais said.
In more recent years, bar patrons have traveled en masse to gay pride parades.
About four years ago Blais sold the bar to Marc Mason, who also owns the Acme Social Club in Lewiston. Blais had run Sportsman's for about 30 years. It was time, he said, to retire.
"I was burned out. I'm 71 years old. I'm not young anymore," he said.
Martin has managed the bar for the last four years. He said business has dropped over the years, that the economy has affected Sportsman's. The business has been sold. He believes the building is slated to be torn down.
Mason could not be reached for comment Friday.
The bar's closing was at first kept quiet. Martin said he wasn't comfortable with that, so he recently began telling patrons.
"These people have been dedicated to this place much too long to be shut out to the truth," Martin said. "I said 'No, enough's enough.' I think it's time they know so they can prepare themselves."
Martin expects a large crowd for the last night tonight, including a few patrons who started coming when Blais opened the place as a gay bar -- and are still regulars.
"I call them our ancients, and we treat them like gold," Martin said.
The bar will open at 6 p.m., an hour early, to accommodate the crowd. A New York DJ, who worked at the club in the 1980s, will perform that night. The bar will also host various performers, including its popular drag queens.
The bar will close at 1 a.m.
"It's going to be emotional," Martin said.
Martin believes homosexuals are more accepted now than they used to be -- and he credits Sportsman's for some of that -- but he also believes there's still a need for a place where young gay people can gather.
"One thing I've noticed, when one club closes another club usually opens. I can't say for fact that one will, but I'm hoping and praying for their sake," he said. "
Montreal's Oldest Gay Bar Closes
From Xta.ca:
"After 37 years, Montreal's oldest gay bar will be closing its doors for the final time. Though the bar, and its upstairs neighbour, the Stanley Pub, have been up for sale for over a year, Mystique manager Steven Wells confirms a deal is close to being finalized and that the new owners have "no plans to keep Le Mystique open."
And for many who know Le Mystique's place in Montreal's queer history, this is indeed sad news. "Obviously, we are greatly saddened by this," says Wells, "and not just for staff. Many of our regulars are disheartened to know the place won't be around."
Le Mystique is the last gay outpost west of Montreal's east-end gay Village, situated on Stanley Street in a discreet spot halfway between McGill campus and Concordia's downtown campus. Though there were recent efforts to get more students in to drum up more business, Wells concedes these are tough times for gay drinking holes. "A lot of younger people meet online now. Since Mystique's heyday in the '70s, we've had the AIDS crisis, which took a lot of patrons, we've had the Village move east, and we've had the smoking ban. These things haven't helped us. In May, Loto-Quebec also took out our three lotto machines, and that's hurt us too."
Despite its rather drab décor — it seems like a very run-of-the-mill basement pub — Quebec's gay historians say Mystique is hallowed ground, a crucial spot in the city's queer evolution. Ross Higgins, co-founder of the Quebec Gay Archives, points to Mystique's spot in a key moment of social change for Montreal's queer citizens. In the wee hours of Oct 21, 1977, police raided several of the gay bars on Stanley, including Truxx and Le Mystique. The police used ludicrously heavy-handed tactics, arriving with guns drawn, arresting 146 gay men on spurious charges. It is now thought that, beyond homophobia (which obviously played a part), it was part of the municipal government's plan to continue to harass the city's gay milieu and the businesses that served them, effectively pushing them away from the downtown core and further east. Since most of the arrests happened at Truxx, the night has since become known as the Truxx Raids.
The police action prompted a potent counter-reaction, however. It inadvertently helped to galvanize the gay community. Gay men who previously had felt no political connection to being gay began speaking out and protesting. By the very next night, over 2,000 gay men and allies blocked the corner of Ste-Catherine and Stanley, effectively paralyzing the downtown core. This drew huge amounts of media attention and put the issues of human rights front and centre. Many said they felt that a majority of straight people supported their cause, and that enough was enough in terms of police harassment.
By the following December, the effects could be felt. Quebec's national assembly, then in the hands of the PQ, approved Bill 88, which added sexual orientation to Quebec's charter of human rights as an illegal basis for discrimination. This made Quebec the first place in North America to have such protection (and it would be quite some time before another province would follow suit). It also led to one of Montreal's first Pride Parades, in 1979.
Since its glory days, Le Mystique has gotten occasional notices in the press, not all of them welcome. Some patrons expressed their dissatisfaction after reading a 1996 Montreal Mirror cover story on Montreal's "strangest bars." Le Mystique was listed, and was likened to the scene captured in William Friedkin's landmark 1970 film The Boys in the Band, which depicted a group of pre-Stonewall gay men who were unhappy, self-hating and often addicted. Not such a flattering analogy, the regulars said at the time.
Wells says it's too bad this historic spot could no longer make a go of it. "Right now we're just waiting to find out precisely what the timeline is for closing the doors. We just hope they give us enough notice that we can have a big closing party. Our patrons deserve that. And so does the spirit of Le Mystique. There's something really incredible about having a drink with friends in a bar that's a piece of history."
"After 37 years, Montreal's oldest gay bar will be closing its doors for the final time. Though the bar, and its upstairs neighbour, the Stanley Pub, have been up for sale for over a year, Mystique manager Steven Wells confirms a deal is close to being finalized and that the new owners have "no plans to keep Le Mystique open."
And for many who know Le Mystique's place in Montreal's queer history, this is indeed sad news. "Obviously, we are greatly saddened by this," says Wells, "and not just for staff. Many of our regulars are disheartened to know the place won't be around."
Le Mystique is the last gay outpost west of Montreal's east-end gay Village, situated on Stanley Street in a discreet spot halfway between McGill campus and Concordia's downtown campus. Though there were recent efforts to get more students in to drum up more business, Wells concedes these are tough times for gay drinking holes. "A lot of younger people meet online now. Since Mystique's heyday in the '70s, we've had the AIDS crisis, which took a lot of patrons, we've had the Village move east, and we've had the smoking ban. These things haven't helped us. In May, Loto-Quebec also took out our three lotto machines, and that's hurt us too."
Despite its rather drab décor — it seems like a very run-of-the-mill basement pub — Quebec's gay historians say Mystique is hallowed ground, a crucial spot in the city's queer evolution. Ross Higgins, co-founder of the Quebec Gay Archives, points to Mystique's spot in a key moment of social change for Montreal's queer citizens. In the wee hours of Oct 21, 1977, police raided several of the gay bars on Stanley, including Truxx and Le Mystique. The police used ludicrously heavy-handed tactics, arriving with guns drawn, arresting 146 gay men on spurious charges. It is now thought that, beyond homophobia (which obviously played a part), it was part of the municipal government's plan to continue to harass the city's gay milieu and the businesses that served them, effectively pushing them away from the downtown core and further east. Since most of the arrests happened at Truxx, the night has since become known as the Truxx Raids.
The police action prompted a potent counter-reaction, however. It inadvertently helped to galvanize the gay community. Gay men who previously had felt no political connection to being gay began speaking out and protesting. By the very next night, over 2,000 gay men and allies blocked the corner of Ste-Catherine and Stanley, effectively paralyzing the downtown core. This drew huge amounts of media attention and put the issues of human rights front and centre. Many said they felt that a majority of straight people supported their cause, and that enough was enough in terms of police harassment.
By the following December, the effects could be felt. Quebec's national assembly, then in the hands of the PQ, approved Bill 88, which added sexual orientation to Quebec's charter of human rights as an illegal basis for discrimination. This made Quebec the first place in North America to have such protection (and it would be quite some time before another province would follow suit). It also led to one of Montreal's first Pride Parades, in 1979.
Since its glory days, Le Mystique has gotten occasional notices in the press, not all of them welcome. Some patrons expressed their dissatisfaction after reading a 1996 Montreal Mirror cover story on Montreal's "strangest bars." Le Mystique was listed, and was likened to the scene captured in William Friedkin's landmark 1970 film The Boys in the Band, which depicted a group of pre-Stonewall gay men who were unhappy, self-hating and often addicted. Not such a flattering analogy, the regulars said at the time.
Wells says it's too bad this historic spot could no longer make a go of it. "Right now we're just waiting to find out precisely what the timeline is for closing the doors. We just hope they give us enough notice that we can have a big closing party. Our patrons deserve that. And so does the spirit of Le Mystique. There's something really incredible about having a drink with friends in a bar that's a piece of history."
NPR: Gay Bars Facing a New Reality
From NPR Marketplace April 25, 2008:
"2TEXT OF STORY
KAI RYSSDAL: At this point in the recession, or slowdown, or whatever you want to call it, you're probably familiar with the term "business cycle." Business and businesses have life cycles just like everything else. Demand creates new opportunities, and then when that demand dries up businesses die.
Every year, Fortune Magazine releases a list of 10 businesses it thinks are facing extinction. Some of this year's casualties? Record stores, crop dusting and telemarketing. Oh, and gay bars, too. That one caught our eye because gay business in general is booming.
Stacey Vanek Smith has more.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
STACEY VANEK-SMITH: It's a busy weekend night at a gay bar in Los Angeles. . .
Actor Jason Dottley says gay bars don't just cater to a gay clientele anymore. The scene has become a lot more mixed.
Jason Dottley: It's an indication of open-mindedness. I think it's a sign of progress.
But that progress has a left some older gay bars sounding like this . . . [sound of ocean waves crashing].
The Boom Boom Room opened in Laguna Beach in 1947. It used to be a favorite hangout of Rock Hudson's. But today the windows of the white, art-deco facade are papered over.
Fred Karger started coming here in 1973.
Fred Karger: It's a magical place. It had a little, kind of loungey bar, and it had pool tables. They'd have this wonderful cabaret show on Wednesday nights.
The new owner plans to tear down the Boom Boom Room and build a luxury hotel.
Gay bars all over the country have met similar fates: New York's Roxy, The Avalon in Boston, The Pendulum in San Francisco. But here's the weird thing: Gay business is booming. Gay spending power in the U.S. is worth an estimated $750 billion.
So why are gay bars having so much trouble? Marketing expert Jerry McHugh says part of it is generational.
Jerry McHugh: Generation X people and Generation Y people are less concerned about gay-exclusive socialization, and they're more interested in a more-diverse environment.
McHugh says for gay boomers, bars used to function like community centers.
McHugh: When I came out it was the early 90s, and it was really helpful to go to these places.
Boston Globe writer Robert David Sullivan says a few years ago he noticed the number of gay bars in Boston had been cut in half. He says it was strange because they had been such a cornerstone of the gay social scene.
Robert David Sullivan: It was sort of structured that you could meet people that way, and you could say things and not censor yourself.
Sullivan says today young, gay men and women use the Internet, not bars, to meet people. And the older generation has graduated from late-night bar hopping to a mellow meal out.
Of course, a lot of gay bars aren't disappearing, they're just becoming more mixed. Take The Abbey in West Hollywood. It's an institution on L.A.'s gay scene. But on a weekday afternoon, there are as many straight neighborhood families as there are single gay men. Owner David Cooley says the gay-bar business model worked 10 years ago, but not anymore.
David Cooley: If you would say to me, "David, let's open up a gay bar." I wouldn't be investing.
Cooley is investing in gay-friendly bars. He's opening an Abbey in Chicago and plans to expand to other cities. He says all of the spots will be mixed -- that's where the future is.
Cooley: Once in a while, I'll get a customer say: "The Abbey's becoming so straight." And my response is: "Isn't that wonderful? Isn't that what we've been working for all these years?"
Bar owners George Butler and Randall Lambright disagree. They own the Savoy Orlando and Paradise Orlando in Florida. Butler says a mixed scene might work in places like New York and San Francisco, but in most of the country, the need for gay bars still exists.
GEORGE BUTLER: I don't think we're quite at the point where the gay clientele is comfortable sitting in a chain restaurant or bar where they can still hold hands or kiss.
Co-owner Randall Lambright says many of the older gay bars have closed because they just don't meet the high standards of gay customers anymore.
Randall Lambright: I can remember when gay bars were basically back-alley -- dark and not very inviting. And I think the clubs that are around are definitely more upscale.
Lambright says if the quality's there, the market for gay bars is still strong. He says the demand for exclusively gay spots hasn't gone away, it's just evolved.
In Los Angeles, I'm Stacey Vanek-Smith for Marketplace"
008: "
"2TEXT OF STORY
KAI RYSSDAL: At this point in the recession, or slowdown, or whatever you want to call it, you're probably familiar with the term "business cycle." Business and businesses have life cycles just like everything else. Demand creates new opportunities, and then when that demand dries up businesses die.
Every year, Fortune Magazine releases a list of 10 businesses it thinks are facing extinction. Some of this year's casualties? Record stores, crop dusting and telemarketing. Oh, and gay bars, too. That one caught our eye because gay business in general is booming.
Stacey Vanek Smith has more.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
STACEY VANEK-SMITH: It's a busy weekend night at a gay bar in Los Angeles. . .
Actor Jason Dottley says gay bars don't just cater to a gay clientele anymore. The scene has become a lot more mixed.
Jason Dottley: It's an indication of open-mindedness. I think it's a sign of progress.
But that progress has a left some older gay bars sounding like this . . . [sound of ocean waves crashing].
The Boom Boom Room opened in Laguna Beach in 1947. It used to be a favorite hangout of Rock Hudson's. But today the windows of the white, art-deco facade are papered over.
Fred Karger started coming here in 1973.
Fred Karger: It's a magical place. It had a little, kind of loungey bar, and it had pool tables. They'd have this wonderful cabaret show on Wednesday nights.
The new owner plans to tear down the Boom Boom Room and build a luxury hotel.
Gay bars all over the country have met similar fates: New York's Roxy, The Avalon in Boston, The Pendulum in San Francisco. But here's the weird thing: Gay business is booming. Gay spending power in the U.S. is worth an estimated $750 billion.
So why are gay bars having so much trouble? Marketing expert Jerry McHugh says part of it is generational.
Jerry McHugh: Generation X people and Generation Y people are less concerned about gay-exclusive socialization, and they're more interested in a more-diverse environment.
McHugh says for gay boomers, bars used to function like community centers.
McHugh: When I came out it was the early 90s, and it was really helpful to go to these places.
Boston Globe writer Robert David Sullivan says a few years ago he noticed the number of gay bars in Boston had been cut in half. He says it was strange because they had been such a cornerstone of the gay social scene.
Robert David Sullivan: It was sort of structured that you could meet people that way, and you could say things and not censor yourself.
Sullivan says today young, gay men and women use the Internet, not bars, to meet people. And the older generation has graduated from late-night bar hopping to a mellow meal out.
Of course, a lot of gay bars aren't disappearing, they're just becoming more mixed. Take The Abbey in West Hollywood. It's an institution on L.A.'s gay scene. But on a weekday afternoon, there are as many straight neighborhood families as there are single gay men. Owner David Cooley says the gay-bar business model worked 10 years ago, but not anymore.
David Cooley: If you would say to me, "David, let's open up a gay bar." I wouldn't be investing.
Cooley is investing in gay-friendly bars. He's opening an Abbey in Chicago and plans to expand to other cities. He says all of the spots will be mixed -- that's where the future is.
Cooley: Once in a while, I'll get a customer say: "The Abbey's becoming so straight." And my response is: "Isn't that wonderful? Isn't that what we've been working for all these years?"
Bar owners George Butler and Randall Lambright disagree. They own the Savoy Orlando and Paradise Orlando in Florida. Butler says a mixed scene might work in places like New York and San Francisco, but in most of the country, the need for gay bars still exists.
GEORGE BUTLER: I don't think we're quite at the point where the gay clientele is comfortable sitting in a chain restaurant or bar where they can still hold hands or kiss.
Co-owner Randall Lambright says many of the older gay bars have closed because they just don't meet the high standards of gay customers anymore.
Randall Lambright: I can remember when gay bars were basically back-alley -- dark and not very inviting. And I think the clubs that are around are definitely more upscale.
Lambright says if the quality's there, the market for gay bars is still strong. He says the demand for exclusively gay spots hasn't gone away, it's just evolved.
In Los Angeles, I'm Stacey Vanek-Smith for Marketplace"
008: "
Gay Bars Facing Losses, Attract Straight Customers
From Alaska on adn.com:
"By JULIA O'MALLEY
jomalley@adn.com
(03/21/09 00:02:01)
In Mad Myrna's drag dressing room, where a J-Lo song wound out among the wigs and gowns on a recent Friday evening, Isanoel Pinson leaned into the mirror, pursed his lips a little and smeared foundation on his forehead.
Pinson, who is in his 40s, started performing drag just after he emigrated to Anchorage from the Philippines in the early '80s. His first haunt was an old bar called the Jade Room. These days the crowds that come to his shows couldn't be more different than they were back then.
"Oh. My. God," he said, applying a ribbon of glue to a false eyelash. "Before is all like gay, gay, gay. Now would you believe? Our audience is all straight people. Couples!"
Myrna's has been home to a drag show for a decade, and straight people have long been part of the audience. But on some Friday nights lately, gay patrons have thinned dramatically, replaced by military couples, bachelorette parties and curious young professionals. It's part of a national trend.
From San Francisco to Pittsburgh, Boston to Nashville, gay bars are closing their doors and shuttering drag shows, citing lack of patrons.
There are plenty of theories why clientele is changing at Myrna's. People are making connections on the Internet. Growing social acceptance means there are few establishments were gays don't feel comfortable. Simply put, the need for gay bars is fading.
"I have this feeling now that it's like 'mission accomplished,' " said Mike Richardson, board president of the Imperial Court of All Alaska, one of the state's oldest gay organizations.
"We really don't need safety in numbers."
Myrna's had to get creative to attract new customers to fill in where the old ones used to be, said manager Jeff "Myrna" Wood. Over the last few years, that has meant retooling the drag show to appeal to a wider audience. And now the venerable gay bar depends at least in part on the dollars of straight customers to keep its doors open.
As Wood likes to say, gay or straight, "everybody's money is green."
QUEEN OF QUEENS
The clock ticks toward 9 p.m., Paige Langit arrives in the dressing room with her mother, Donna Langit, carrying bags of costumes.
Langit is 28. Lounge singer and comedienne, she's the sexy, bossy, busty co-host of the show. She's also a registered Republican with a boyfriend. She stands in front of the mirror in a pink bra, teasing her hair and caking on purple eye shadow. A queen named Mariquita squeezes in next to her, pawing through a make-up bag.
Langit is the face of the new scene. The drag show, once the exclusive domain of gay men and transgender women, has morphed into a variety show -- kinky and freaky -- with something for everyone, from burlesque to torch singing, along with a diverse stable of queens.
A singer and actress since her teens, Langit started performing at Myrna's in her early 20s after one of the drag queens saw her sing karaoke. She had a couple of gay friends in high school but had no experience with drag.
"I didn't know anything about the transgender community," she said, but enjoyed the personalities she encountered at the bar. "It was like, 'Oh great -- a group of people who like to perform.' "
Drag is mainly about exaggerated femininity, Langit says. Once she has her hair and make-up and magenta high-heels on, she feels a bit like a drag queen too.
People in the audience wonder if she's a lesbian or if she's a "real" woman. All that ambiguity is part of what makes the show interesting, she says.
SOLDIERS IN THE AUDIENCE
Lights dimmed, cocktails flowing and tables full, music pounds out of the speakers in Myrna's show hall. Scott "Daphne DoAll LaChores" Koeller, the other drag show co-host, is dressed in a red Sarah Palin-esque suit, enormous ratty blonde wig and matronly glasses. He takes the stage, warming the audience with a monologue full of double-entendre one-liners.
Then Langit makes her entrance, sashaying into the spotlight in a tight pink top and white leggings, bubble gun in hand. An old cross-dresser and a young lady-- a drag version of Regis and Kelly -- their witty, bawdy banter serves as the backbone for the show, bridging generations and sexuality.
Koeller makes a joke referencing a decades old commercial. Langit tilts her head to the side, her face blank.
"I'll YouTube it," she says.
Soon an old-time burlesque dancer in a bustier and ruffled panties weaves through the audience starting her act. Then comes the lithe, shirtless male go-go dancer. Then the Karaoke crooner in a brown v-neck sweater. The room is full of whistles and belly laughs. There's a soldier in dress uniform and his wife in the front row.
Today's audience is usually couples or single women, Wood said.
"The girls want to go see the drag queens," he said. "Women are more tolerant than guys are."
"You can always tell the straight people," says Koeller, "because they're the ones who come on time."
Iesha Jones, 32, who is not gay, has become a regular at Myrna's. She started coming years ago because she had a friend in the show. She likes that the bar doesn't have a "meat market" feel, she said.
"It's like OK, I'm here for the show," she said. "I know I'm not going to get hit on by guys."
The straight men are almost always with women. In general men who come alone are "highly questionable" as a dating prospect, she said. Though it's not entirely impossible to meet someone.
"Occasionally you get a lot of soldiers. I did meet a guy who just got back from Iraq."
Members of the older generation might raise an eyebrow that she's spending time at a gay bar, she said. But people her age don't think it's strange and most of her friends would be comfortable joining her. There are a number of bars in Anchorage with an integrated gay-straight social scene, she said.
THE NEW SHOW
Backstage not everyone is happy. But then they wouldn't be drag queens without a little drama. Pinson, affixing a 3-foot-wide Afro wig, clicks his tongue, looking at the clock. The new acts take forever. He complains in Tagalog to Joebie Fernandez, a diminutive, smooth-skinned queen, who's sorting through a tackle box of earrings. There are eye rolls all around.
The class of drag queens once at the center of the show are aging -- most are at least 40 -- and like a fading order of nuns whose convents are closing, fewer among the younger generation are stepping into their size 13 pumps.
Some worry drag has become so mainstream, it may have lost its edge, so the younger generation isn't as interested. And, with fewer bars, there's fewer places for new queens to learn the craft.
That's what makes Trevor "Ashley" Council unique. At 24, he's the youngest of the queens by at least 10 years. On his hands and knees, he's pulling shoes out of a suitcase, naming each style as he examines them: "French Whore. French Whore. Hooker Shoe."
"I'm a boy during the day and girl on Friday nights and for special events," he says.
He stands in front of the mirror in a black dress, fluffs his wig and flashes a set of perfect white teeth. He's doesn't know what gay bars used to be like but likes the way they are now.
"I think the people who go there are the kind who are straight and more accepting of gay people," he said. "It's nice to be around those kind of people."
Out on the main floor, bass from the speakers vibrates the drinks on the bar. Pinson waits off stage for her Gloria Gaynor number. Fernandez, in a leather bikini and dangling earrings, steps out to face the audience, opening a huge set of gold lamé wings into a whirl of lights.
And at least for now, the show goes on."
"By JULIA O'MALLEY
jomalley@adn.com
(03/21/09 00:02:01)
In Mad Myrna's drag dressing room, where a J-Lo song wound out among the wigs and gowns on a recent Friday evening, Isanoel Pinson leaned into the mirror, pursed his lips a little and smeared foundation on his forehead.
Pinson, who is in his 40s, started performing drag just after he emigrated to Anchorage from the Philippines in the early '80s. His first haunt was an old bar called the Jade Room. These days the crowds that come to his shows couldn't be more different than they were back then.
"Oh. My. God," he said, applying a ribbon of glue to a false eyelash. "Before is all like gay, gay, gay. Now would you believe? Our audience is all straight people. Couples!"
Myrna's has been home to a drag show for a decade, and straight people have long been part of the audience. But on some Friday nights lately, gay patrons have thinned dramatically, replaced by military couples, bachelorette parties and curious young professionals. It's part of a national trend.
From San Francisco to Pittsburgh, Boston to Nashville, gay bars are closing their doors and shuttering drag shows, citing lack of patrons.
There are plenty of theories why clientele is changing at Myrna's. People are making connections on the Internet. Growing social acceptance means there are few establishments were gays don't feel comfortable. Simply put, the need for gay bars is fading.
"I have this feeling now that it's like 'mission accomplished,' " said Mike Richardson, board president of the Imperial Court of All Alaska, one of the state's oldest gay organizations.
"We really don't need safety in numbers."
Myrna's had to get creative to attract new customers to fill in where the old ones used to be, said manager Jeff "Myrna" Wood. Over the last few years, that has meant retooling the drag show to appeal to a wider audience. And now the venerable gay bar depends at least in part on the dollars of straight customers to keep its doors open.
As Wood likes to say, gay or straight, "everybody's money is green."
QUEEN OF QUEENS
The clock ticks toward 9 p.m., Paige Langit arrives in the dressing room with her mother, Donna Langit, carrying bags of costumes.
Langit is 28. Lounge singer and comedienne, she's the sexy, bossy, busty co-host of the show. She's also a registered Republican with a boyfriend. She stands in front of the mirror in a pink bra, teasing her hair and caking on purple eye shadow. A queen named Mariquita squeezes in next to her, pawing through a make-up bag.
Langit is the face of the new scene. The drag show, once the exclusive domain of gay men and transgender women, has morphed into a variety show -- kinky and freaky -- with something for everyone, from burlesque to torch singing, along with a diverse stable of queens.
A singer and actress since her teens, Langit started performing at Myrna's in her early 20s after one of the drag queens saw her sing karaoke. She had a couple of gay friends in high school but had no experience with drag.
"I didn't know anything about the transgender community," she said, but enjoyed the personalities she encountered at the bar. "It was like, 'Oh great -- a group of people who like to perform.' "
Drag is mainly about exaggerated femininity, Langit says. Once she has her hair and make-up and magenta high-heels on, she feels a bit like a drag queen too.
People in the audience wonder if she's a lesbian or if she's a "real" woman. All that ambiguity is part of what makes the show interesting, she says.
SOLDIERS IN THE AUDIENCE
Lights dimmed, cocktails flowing and tables full, music pounds out of the speakers in Myrna's show hall. Scott "Daphne DoAll LaChores" Koeller, the other drag show co-host, is dressed in a red Sarah Palin-esque suit, enormous ratty blonde wig and matronly glasses. He takes the stage, warming the audience with a monologue full of double-entendre one-liners.
Then Langit makes her entrance, sashaying into the spotlight in a tight pink top and white leggings, bubble gun in hand. An old cross-dresser and a young lady-- a drag version of Regis and Kelly -- their witty, bawdy banter serves as the backbone for the show, bridging generations and sexuality.
Koeller makes a joke referencing a decades old commercial. Langit tilts her head to the side, her face blank.
"I'll YouTube it," she says.
Soon an old-time burlesque dancer in a bustier and ruffled panties weaves through the audience starting her act. Then comes the lithe, shirtless male go-go dancer. Then the Karaoke crooner in a brown v-neck sweater. The room is full of whistles and belly laughs. There's a soldier in dress uniform and his wife in the front row.
Today's audience is usually couples or single women, Wood said.
"The girls want to go see the drag queens," he said. "Women are more tolerant than guys are."
"You can always tell the straight people," says Koeller, "because they're the ones who come on time."
Iesha Jones, 32, who is not gay, has become a regular at Myrna's. She started coming years ago because she had a friend in the show. She likes that the bar doesn't have a "meat market" feel, she said.
"It's like OK, I'm here for the show," she said. "I know I'm not going to get hit on by guys."
The straight men are almost always with women. In general men who come alone are "highly questionable" as a dating prospect, she said. Though it's not entirely impossible to meet someone.
"Occasionally you get a lot of soldiers. I did meet a guy who just got back from Iraq."
Members of the older generation might raise an eyebrow that she's spending time at a gay bar, she said. But people her age don't think it's strange and most of her friends would be comfortable joining her. There are a number of bars in Anchorage with an integrated gay-straight social scene, she said.
THE NEW SHOW
Backstage not everyone is happy. But then they wouldn't be drag queens without a little drama. Pinson, affixing a 3-foot-wide Afro wig, clicks his tongue, looking at the clock. The new acts take forever. He complains in Tagalog to Joebie Fernandez, a diminutive, smooth-skinned queen, who's sorting through a tackle box of earrings. There are eye rolls all around.
The class of drag queens once at the center of the show are aging -- most are at least 40 -- and like a fading order of nuns whose convents are closing, fewer among the younger generation are stepping into their size 13 pumps.
Some worry drag has become so mainstream, it may have lost its edge, so the younger generation isn't as interested. And, with fewer bars, there's fewer places for new queens to learn the craft.
That's what makes Trevor "Ashley" Council unique. At 24, he's the youngest of the queens by at least 10 years. On his hands and knees, he's pulling shoes out of a suitcase, naming each style as he examines them: "French Whore. French Whore. Hooker Shoe."
"I'm a boy during the day and girl on Friday nights and for special events," he says.
He stands in front of the mirror in a black dress, fluffs his wig and flashes a set of perfect white teeth. He's doesn't know what gay bars used to be like but likes the way they are now.
"I think the people who go there are the kind who are straight and more accepting of gay people," he said. "It's nice to be around those kind of people."
Out on the main floor, bass from the speakers vibrates the drinks on the bar. Pinson waits off stage for her Gloria Gaynor number. Fernandez, in a leather bikini and dangling earrings, steps out to face the audience, opening a huge set of gold lamé wings into a whirl of lights.
And at least for now, the show goes on."
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Nashville's Oldest Gay Bar Closed in July 2007
From Out & About - Nashville Posted 07/20/2007
Nashville’s oldest gay bar, The Chute, will be closing its doors at the end of this month after more than 23 years in business. The closing was confirmed to Inside Out Nashville publisher Linda Welch by owner Don Hartsfield.
The Chute, located at 2535 Franklin Road, has operated six different themed clubs under one roof and served as home bar for several local community groups including the Smoky Mountain Rodeo Association, the Music City Bears and The Conductors.
"It’s sad to see a business that had been such a staple in the community close its doors after so many years,” said John Wade, president of the Nashville GLBT Chamber of Commerce. “I understand that the club business is difficult to operate. The community has certainly enjoyed a lot of nightlife there for years, and we wish the owners and employees the best.”
Nashville’s oldest gay bar, The Chute, will be closing its doors at the end of this month after more than 23 years in business. The closing was confirmed to Inside Out Nashville publisher Linda Welch by owner Don Hartsfield.
The Chute, located at 2535 Franklin Road, has operated six different themed clubs under one roof and served as home bar for several local community groups including the Smoky Mountain Rodeo Association, the Music City Bears and The Conductors.
"It’s sad to see a business that had been such a staple in the community close its doors after so many years,” said John Wade, president of the Nashville GLBT Chamber of Commerce. “I understand that the club business is difficult to operate. The community has certainly enjoyed a lot of nightlife there for years, and we wish the owners and employees the best.”
Wednesday, February 04, 2009
Gay bars of Boston are disappearing, and what it says about the future of city life
From Boston Globe:
Last call
Why the gay bars of Boston are disappearing, and what it says about the future of city life
By Robert David Sullivan | December 2, 2007
THE FIRST THING I ever did to identify myself as a gay man - before coming out to a friend or relative, before putting a rainbow-flag pin on my jacket - was to walk into a gay bar. This was not so unusual in the early 1990s, when few gay men identified as such before they left high school. Some of us needed to walk around the block four or five times before finally pushing open a dimly lit, unmarked door.
At the time, there were plenty of dimly lit doors in Boston. The Napoleon Club was a piano bar near Park Square that attracted theater students and older men who left big tips on small glasses of red wine. A few blocks away, Luxor was a video bar for younger guys; nearby were Buddies (all ages) and Chaps, a dance club where dressing conservatively meant keeping your shirt on. In other parts of town, there were Sporters, a friendly Beacon Hill dive, and Playland, a Combat Zone bar known for its sketchy clientele, banged-up piano, and year-round Christmas lights. In all, there were 16 gay bars in Boston and Cambridge, according to Pink Pages directories from 1993 and 1994.
Today, that number has been cut to less than half. None of the bars I've mentioned are still in business, and most of the city's seven remaining gay-every-night bars have sparse customers for most of the week. (Lesbian bars were never numerous to begin with.) The gay population may have political clout and the right to marry in Massachusetts, but it has fewer and fewer public spaces to call its own.
The disappearance of places like Buddies and Chaps may sound like a problem limited to gay men, but it is part of a much larger trend reshaping American cities. As gay bars vanish, so go bookstores, diners, and all kinds of spaces that once allowed "blissful public congregation," as sociologist Ray Oldenburg described their function in his 1989 book "The Great Good Place."
In New York, the Jewish deli - a staple of the city's identity - has all but vanished. In the Boston area, many of Harvard Square's bookstores, Kenmore Square's student eateries, and myriad other places that guaranteed a diverse urban experience have closed their doors, replaced by a far more uniform lineup of bank branches, chain stores, and upscale restaurants.
This change is a serious challenge to the city, which has historically been defined by the breadth and variety of its street-level experience - and the wide diversity of people it threw together. "City air makes free," a saying that dates to medieval times, was a favorite of urban-studies pioneer Jane Jacobs. But as a wide range of gay bars dwindles to a handful of survivors - and the city's diners, indie bookstores, and dive bars yield to high rents and shifting patterns of commerce - that air is becoming the province of an increasingly narrow set of people.
Oldenburg calls public gathering spots a "third place" where we can temporarily step out of our household and workplace roles. Besides taverns, he cites drugstores (the kind with soda fountains), pool halls, and barber shops as examples. But if you were a gay man in the late 20th century, the place with all the qualities of an ideal third space was the gay bar.
For many closeted gays, bars were the only places where they could safely be themselves. They were also a nexus for political organizing and charitable work, they promoted safer-sex education after the onset of AIDS, and they served as a welcome mat for gay newcomers to a city.
"When I was in college, I'd go out to a few different bars with my friends every week," says gay novelist Wayne Hoffman, who came to Boston in the late '80s and now lives in New York. "It was a chance for us to socialize off campus, meet new people - including new boyfriends - and figure out how we fit into the larger gay world. The bars opened up a whole world of possibilities for me."
For decades gay bars kept a low profile (unmarked doors, blackened windows), and were often run by mobsters or underworld figures, since more respectable businessmen weren't crazy about the prospect of frequent police raids. The general population was either unaware of them or saw them as sinister.
But in 1969, New York police raided the Stonewall Inn, a rather boisterous Greenwich Village bar, and the gay patrons unexpectedly fought back. The resulting riot helped to turn bars into flag-bearers for gay culture, and "Stonewall" itself began to be used in the names of gay and lesbian political organizations (the Stonewall Democrats, for example) as shorthand for "don't push us around."
When gays moved out of the shadows during the '70s, then began settling in certain areas of major cities (like the South End in Boston), gay bars evolved. Some became respected neighborhood institutions, offering meeting space to social groups, sponsoring softball teams and arts festivals, distributing condoms and health information, and buying ads in local newspapers. By the mid-1980s, they were a major force in turning Gay Pride holidays into citywide celebrations, sponsoring eye-catching parade floats and raucous block parties.
But at the same time, larger trends in American life were massing that would soon sweep these bars away.
One was the rising price of urban real estate. Gay bars traditionally appeared in marginal neighborhoods, or in predominately gay neighborhoods, with cheap rents and accommodating (or indifferent) neighbors. As those areas have progressively been developed with high-end housing, bars have struggled to pay their rent, and neighborhood groups have been increasingly hostile toward anything that creates noise or attracts idlers. The same forces have stripped such neighborhoods of other iconic businesses, such as fringe theaters and free and low-admission art spaces.
Meanwhile, the gay population is becoming more dispersed. As gay men feel more comfortable coming out to family, neighbors, and co-workers, they may also feel more comfortable living in small cities or towns rather than in the "gay ghettos" of large cities. As a result, it's much harder for a neighborhood gay bar to attract a steady clientele.
Perhaps the most important change, however, is the Internet. When Internet access became widespread in the mid-1990s, gay chat rooms on America Online and other subscription services quickly attracted a crowd. More elaborate sites such as Gay.com quickly followed, usurping gay bars' most important function: a place for men to meet each other.
At the time of the Stonewall riots, "gay people had to go out to a bar to meet other gay men," at least if they didn't want to go to more dangerous cruising areas such as parks and men's rooms, says Michael Bronski, Dartmouth College professor and author of "The Pleasure Principle: Sex, Backlash, and the Struggle for Gay Freedom."
There are several gay chat sites where a month's membership can cost as little as the price of one cocktail at Club Cafe - and on a recent Saturday night, one of them listed nearly 600 Boston-area members online. The site claims 600,000 members nationwide.
As a result of these changes, there are stories of gay bars closing all over the country. Since the early '90s, New York has lost its two biggest leather bars (the Spike and the Lure), as well as piano bars (the Five Oaks and Pegasus) and martini lounges (the popular but short-lived Hell). In Laguna Beach, Calif., the first city in America to elect an openly gay mayor, one of the two biggest gay bars closed this spring, and the other has been purchased by a developer who wants to tear it down. And the oldest gay bar in Pittsburgh (ironically, the setting for the TV series "Queer as Folk") closed earlier this year, after Carnegie Mellon University purchased its building.
Gay bars are just one kind of business struggling to survive in what is, to use the phrase popularized by Chris Anderson in his book of the same name, the age of "the long tail." That phrase refers to an economy in which the Internet can make even low-demand products profitable. Until the Internet, large cities offered the closest thing to a long tail economy. Thanks to Cambridge's concentration of intellectual shoppers, for instance, Harvard Square had stores full of the most obscure books, magazines, and records you could think of buying. The students in Kenmore Square kept cheap eateries, music clubs, and record stores alive; the South End's gay population once supported not just bars, but also inexpensive card-and-gift shops (such as Tommy Tish), a sex-toy shop with the feel of an old-fashioned general store (the Marquis de Sade), and a gay bookstore.
Now the classic example of a long tail business is online retailer Amazon.com, which stocks close to a million book titles - including more gay novels and intellectual books than any local store could offer. As long tail businesses migrate to the Internet, cities like Boston are being skinned alive.
Businesses like bookstores, video stores, and gay bars can no longer afford to occupy valuable real estate when their goods or services are more easily and cheaply delivered electronically. As these businesses disappear from Boston streets, they're usually replaced by more profitable land uses, such as office towers and high-end restaurants. The result is a variant of the "tragedy of the commons": Hotels, condo complexes, and other upscale businesses market themselves as part of a vibrant city, but they can also make it more difficult to maintain that vibrancy. (The ground floors of new office and housing buildings are often reserved for retail use, but CVS and other chain stores usually snap up the space.) These high-end businesses attract new residents and consumers to urban neighborhoods, but when they aren't balanced by other types of economic activity, the result can be a sterile streetscape rather than a diverse ecosystem.
This development would have disappointed William H. Whyte, the sociologist who may be rivaled only by Jane Jacobs in the cogency and passion of his arguments for active city life. Albert LaFarge, editor of "The Essential William H. Whyte," says that the ideal urban neighborhood from Whyte's point of view is fueled by "the intensity and unpredictability of different people using the same space for their own reasons, and often contradictory ones, but all respecting the goals of vibrancy and function."
If a place like the South End accommodates fewer and fewer of these reasons for a person to be there, says LaFarge, it not longer meets the definition of a successful urban neighborhood.
Gay neighborhoods in New York and San Francisco are reportedly undergoing the same transformation as in the South End, but there is at least one exception to this trend. In Philadelphia, the city has encouraged the development of its "Gayborhood," a nine-block part of downtown, by adding rainbow flags to street signs, and the city's tourism board has an aggressive campaign targeted at gay travelers. Jeff Guaracino of the Greater Philadelphia Tourism Marketing Corp. says that the Gayborhood provides "a very good economic return for the city. Businesses are making a profit there."
Making a profit, of course, isn't always the same as serving a community's needs. Gay bars seem to be doing well in resort areas such as Palm Springs and Provincetown, but they're more vacation party spots than true third spaces for locals.
The fate of the Jewish delicatessen in New York is a reminder that "theme park" gay bars would be no substitute for what we've lost in Boston. Thousands of delis have disappeared from New York since the 1930s. Many of the dozen or so survivors seem to be thriving, but the tourist-oriented Carnegie and Stage delis, with their long lines and rapid turnover of tables, don't bear much resemblance to the classic model. At a panel discussion called "Jewish Cuisine and the Evolution of the Jewish Deli," held this summer and reported on by The New York Times, food historian Joel Denker described the delis of the '50s and '60s as having "this sort of yeasty combination of intellectuals, writers, and leftists, sitting together over tea and cottage cheese and fruit, talking about the issues of the day."
Sitting and talking for hours at a time. Sadly, that's not considered an efficient use of space during today's supposed revival of city life.
Boston's gay community is adapting to its scaled-down bar scene, but there's still a sense of something missing. There are probably more spiritual groups, youth programs, and health resources than ever in the gay community, but none of them really fit the definition of a third space where one can drop in and hang out. "There was a whole group of friends who I would only ever see at the Napoleon Club," says Rick Park, a Boston-based actor, "and when it closed, they all disappeared."
You can see the change for the worse in the city's annual Gay Pride celebration. Years ago, the highlights of the parade were the outrageous parade floats, featuring drag queens and go-go boys, sponsored by gay bars. Now those delightfully pointless displays are outnumbered by contingents of waving employees from banks and utility companies in matching T-shirts. It's a positive development that so many people are out at work, to be sure, but the parade has become a lot less fun for gay and straight spectators alike.
A few weeks ago I attended a panel discussion sponsored by the History Project, which maintains archives on Boston's gay and lesbian history. A lesbian of a certain age, reflecting on the changes in the gay community since the Stonewall rebellion, said with rueful irony that "life may be easier now, but it might have been more exciting then."
That sounded a little bit like Red Sox fans complaining that they liked watching the team more when it was laboring under an 86-year curse. But I knew what she was talking about. So does Abe Rybeck, artistic director of the gay-themed Theater Offensive. He no longer considers himself a bar regular - there's too much to do running a theater company and participating in other activities - but he says that he would feel their disappearance.
"I went to Fritz to watch a World Series game this year," he says, "and it was fun to be in a room with a bunch of gay men enjoying a sports event in the way gay men would. In their minds, they were all going home with Jacoby Ellsbury. I was glad I could watch the game with my people."
Robert David Sullivan is the managing editor of CommonWealth magazine and primary writer of the blog Beyond Red & Blue (at massinc.org). The History Project (historyproject.org), which maintains archives on Boston's gay and lesbian history, provided much of the information in this article.
Last call
Why the gay bars of Boston are disappearing, and what it says about the future of city life
By Robert David Sullivan | December 2, 2007
THE FIRST THING I ever did to identify myself as a gay man - before coming out to a friend or relative, before putting a rainbow-flag pin on my jacket - was to walk into a gay bar. This was not so unusual in the early 1990s, when few gay men identified as such before they left high school. Some of us needed to walk around the block four or five times before finally pushing open a dimly lit, unmarked door.
At the time, there were plenty of dimly lit doors in Boston. The Napoleon Club was a piano bar near Park Square that attracted theater students and older men who left big tips on small glasses of red wine. A few blocks away, Luxor was a video bar for younger guys; nearby were Buddies (all ages) and Chaps, a dance club where dressing conservatively meant keeping your shirt on. In other parts of town, there were Sporters, a friendly Beacon Hill dive, and Playland, a Combat Zone bar known for its sketchy clientele, banged-up piano, and year-round Christmas lights. In all, there were 16 gay bars in Boston and Cambridge, according to Pink Pages directories from 1993 and 1994.
Today, that number has been cut to less than half. None of the bars I've mentioned are still in business, and most of the city's seven remaining gay-every-night bars have sparse customers for most of the week. (Lesbian bars were never numerous to begin with.) The gay population may have political clout and the right to marry in Massachusetts, but it has fewer and fewer public spaces to call its own.
The disappearance of places like Buddies and Chaps may sound like a problem limited to gay men, but it is part of a much larger trend reshaping American cities. As gay bars vanish, so go bookstores, diners, and all kinds of spaces that once allowed "blissful public congregation," as sociologist Ray Oldenburg described their function in his 1989 book "The Great Good Place."
In New York, the Jewish deli - a staple of the city's identity - has all but vanished. In the Boston area, many of Harvard Square's bookstores, Kenmore Square's student eateries, and myriad other places that guaranteed a diverse urban experience have closed their doors, replaced by a far more uniform lineup of bank branches, chain stores, and upscale restaurants.
This change is a serious challenge to the city, which has historically been defined by the breadth and variety of its street-level experience - and the wide diversity of people it threw together. "City air makes free," a saying that dates to medieval times, was a favorite of urban-studies pioneer Jane Jacobs. But as a wide range of gay bars dwindles to a handful of survivors - and the city's diners, indie bookstores, and dive bars yield to high rents and shifting patterns of commerce - that air is becoming the province of an increasingly narrow set of people.
Oldenburg calls public gathering spots a "third place" where we can temporarily step out of our household and workplace roles. Besides taverns, he cites drugstores (the kind with soda fountains), pool halls, and barber shops as examples. But if you were a gay man in the late 20th century, the place with all the qualities of an ideal third space was the gay bar.
For many closeted gays, bars were the only places where they could safely be themselves. They were also a nexus for political organizing and charitable work, they promoted safer-sex education after the onset of AIDS, and they served as a welcome mat for gay newcomers to a city.
"When I was in college, I'd go out to a few different bars with my friends every week," says gay novelist Wayne Hoffman, who came to Boston in the late '80s and now lives in New York. "It was a chance for us to socialize off campus, meet new people - including new boyfriends - and figure out how we fit into the larger gay world. The bars opened up a whole world of possibilities for me."
For decades gay bars kept a low profile (unmarked doors, blackened windows), and were often run by mobsters or underworld figures, since more respectable businessmen weren't crazy about the prospect of frequent police raids. The general population was either unaware of them or saw them as sinister.
But in 1969, New York police raided the Stonewall Inn, a rather boisterous Greenwich Village bar, and the gay patrons unexpectedly fought back. The resulting riot helped to turn bars into flag-bearers for gay culture, and "Stonewall" itself began to be used in the names of gay and lesbian political organizations (the Stonewall Democrats, for example) as shorthand for "don't push us around."
When gays moved out of the shadows during the '70s, then began settling in certain areas of major cities (like the South End in Boston), gay bars evolved. Some became respected neighborhood institutions, offering meeting space to social groups, sponsoring softball teams and arts festivals, distributing condoms and health information, and buying ads in local newspapers. By the mid-1980s, they were a major force in turning Gay Pride holidays into citywide celebrations, sponsoring eye-catching parade floats and raucous block parties.
But at the same time, larger trends in American life were massing that would soon sweep these bars away.
One was the rising price of urban real estate. Gay bars traditionally appeared in marginal neighborhoods, or in predominately gay neighborhoods, with cheap rents and accommodating (or indifferent) neighbors. As those areas have progressively been developed with high-end housing, bars have struggled to pay their rent, and neighborhood groups have been increasingly hostile toward anything that creates noise or attracts idlers. The same forces have stripped such neighborhoods of other iconic businesses, such as fringe theaters and free and low-admission art spaces.
Meanwhile, the gay population is becoming more dispersed. As gay men feel more comfortable coming out to family, neighbors, and co-workers, they may also feel more comfortable living in small cities or towns rather than in the "gay ghettos" of large cities. As a result, it's much harder for a neighborhood gay bar to attract a steady clientele.
Perhaps the most important change, however, is the Internet. When Internet access became widespread in the mid-1990s, gay chat rooms on America Online and other subscription services quickly attracted a crowd. More elaborate sites such as Gay.com quickly followed, usurping gay bars' most important function: a place for men to meet each other.
At the time of the Stonewall riots, "gay people had to go out to a bar to meet other gay men," at least if they didn't want to go to more dangerous cruising areas such as parks and men's rooms, says Michael Bronski, Dartmouth College professor and author of "The Pleasure Principle: Sex, Backlash, and the Struggle for Gay Freedom."
There are several gay chat sites where a month's membership can cost as little as the price of one cocktail at Club Cafe - and on a recent Saturday night, one of them listed nearly 600 Boston-area members online. The site claims 600,000 members nationwide.
As a result of these changes, there are stories of gay bars closing all over the country. Since the early '90s, New York has lost its two biggest leather bars (the Spike and the Lure), as well as piano bars (the Five Oaks and Pegasus) and martini lounges (the popular but short-lived Hell). In Laguna Beach, Calif., the first city in America to elect an openly gay mayor, one of the two biggest gay bars closed this spring, and the other has been purchased by a developer who wants to tear it down. And the oldest gay bar in Pittsburgh (ironically, the setting for the TV series "Queer as Folk") closed earlier this year, after Carnegie Mellon University purchased its building.
Gay bars are just one kind of business struggling to survive in what is, to use the phrase popularized by Chris Anderson in his book of the same name, the age of "the long tail." That phrase refers to an economy in which the Internet can make even low-demand products profitable. Until the Internet, large cities offered the closest thing to a long tail economy. Thanks to Cambridge's concentration of intellectual shoppers, for instance, Harvard Square had stores full of the most obscure books, magazines, and records you could think of buying. The students in Kenmore Square kept cheap eateries, music clubs, and record stores alive; the South End's gay population once supported not just bars, but also inexpensive card-and-gift shops (such as Tommy Tish), a sex-toy shop with the feel of an old-fashioned general store (the Marquis de Sade), and a gay bookstore.
Now the classic example of a long tail business is online retailer Amazon.com, which stocks close to a million book titles - including more gay novels and intellectual books than any local store could offer. As long tail businesses migrate to the Internet, cities like Boston are being skinned alive.
Businesses like bookstores, video stores, and gay bars can no longer afford to occupy valuable real estate when their goods or services are more easily and cheaply delivered electronically. As these businesses disappear from Boston streets, they're usually replaced by more profitable land uses, such as office towers and high-end restaurants. The result is a variant of the "tragedy of the commons": Hotels, condo complexes, and other upscale businesses market themselves as part of a vibrant city, but they can also make it more difficult to maintain that vibrancy. (The ground floors of new office and housing buildings are often reserved for retail use, but CVS and other chain stores usually snap up the space.) These high-end businesses attract new residents and consumers to urban neighborhoods, but when they aren't balanced by other types of economic activity, the result can be a sterile streetscape rather than a diverse ecosystem.
This development would have disappointed William H. Whyte, the sociologist who may be rivaled only by Jane Jacobs in the cogency and passion of his arguments for active city life. Albert LaFarge, editor of "The Essential William H. Whyte," says that the ideal urban neighborhood from Whyte's point of view is fueled by "the intensity and unpredictability of different people using the same space for their own reasons, and often contradictory ones, but all respecting the goals of vibrancy and function."
If a place like the South End accommodates fewer and fewer of these reasons for a person to be there, says LaFarge, it not longer meets the definition of a successful urban neighborhood.
Gay neighborhoods in New York and San Francisco are reportedly undergoing the same transformation as in the South End, but there is at least one exception to this trend. In Philadelphia, the city has encouraged the development of its "Gayborhood," a nine-block part of downtown, by adding rainbow flags to street signs, and the city's tourism board has an aggressive campaign targeted at gay travelers. Jeff Guaracino of the Greater Philadelphia Tourism Marketing Corp. says that the Gayborhood provides "a very good economic return for the city. Businesses are making a profit there."
Making a profit, of course, isn't always the same as serving a community's needs. Gay bars seem to be doing well in resort areas such as Palm Springs and Provincetown, but they're more vacation party spots than true third spaces for locals.
The fate of the Jewish delicatessen in New York is a reminder that "theme park" gay bars would be no substitute for what we've lost in Boston. Thousands of delis have disappeared from New York since the 1930s. Many of the dozen or so survivors seem to be thriving, but the tourist-oriented Carnegie and Stage delis, with their long lines and rapid turnover of tables, don't bear much resemblance to the classic model. At a panel discussion called "Jewish Cuisine and the Evolution of the Jewish Deli," held this summer and reported on by The New York Times, food historian Joel Denker described the delis of the '50s and '60s as having "this sort of yeasty combination of intellectuals, writers, and leftists, sitting together over tea and cottage cheese and fruit, talking about the issues of the day."
Sitting and talking for hours at a time. Sadly, that's not considered an efficient use of space during today's supposed revival of city life.
Boston's gay community is adapting to its scaled-down bar scene, but there's still a sense of something missing. There are probably more spiritual groups, youth programs, and health resources than ever in the gay community, but none of them really fit the definition of a third space where one can drop in and hang out. "There was a whole group of friends who I would only ever see at the Napoleon Club," says Rick Park, a Boston-based actor, "and when it closed, they all disappeared."
You can see the change for the worse in the city's annual Gay Pride celebration. Years ago, the highlights of the parade were the outrageous parade floats, featuring drag queens and go-go boys, sponsored by gay bars. Now those delightfully pointless displays are outnumbered by contingents of waving employees from banks and utility companies in matching T-shirts. It's a positive development that so many people are out at work, to be sure, but the parade has become a lot less fun for gay and straight spectators alike.
A few weeks ago I attended a panel discussion sponsored by the History Project, which maintains archives on Boston's gay and lesbian history. A lesbian of a certain age, reflecting on the changes in the gay community since the Stonewall rebellion, said with rueful irony that "life may be easier now, but it might have been more exciting then."
That sounded a little bit like Red Sox fans complaining that they liked watching the team more when it was laboring under an 86-year curse. But I knew what she was talking about. So does Abe Rybeck, artistic director of the gay-themed Theater Offensive. He no longer considers himself a bar regular - there's too much to do running a theater company and participating in other activities - but he says that he would feel their disappearance.
"I went to Fritz to watch a World Series game this year," he says, "and it was fun to be in a room with a bunch of gay men enjoying a sports event in the way gay men would. In their minds, they were all going home with Jacoby Ellsbury. I was glad I could watch the game with my people."
Robert David Sullivan is the managing editor of CommonWealth magazine and primary writer of the blog Beyond Red & Blue (at massinc.org). The History Project (historyproject.org), which maintains archives on Boston's gay and lesbian history, provided much of the information in this article.
Thursday, July 24, 2008
The end of the G-A-Y
From TimesOnLine.com on july 24, 2008:
"The London nightclub that welcomed Kylie, Cyndi and Madonna, and provided the venue for countless gay romances, is shutting up shop.
Everyone is so post-gay now, it's probably not the done thing to shed a tear over the last night of G-A-Y at the Astoria in Central London this Saturday. With its simple delight in fluffy disco and boozy, cruisey merriment, G-A-Y seems a dinosaur in the modern landscape of gay indie clubs, mixed clubs and the pansexual, drag-tastic dives of Shoreditch, where the beestung-lipped boy in eyeshadow probably has a girlfriend who's cool with it all.
But sad I am for the passing of G-A-Y. Jeremy Joseph, the club's pixie-like promoter, says it will reopen somewhere else, but it won't be the same - for good and ill, for its fans and detractors, G-A-Y at the Astoria is a gay cultural landmark, and even though it smells of chips and the Astoria has seen better days, the club has a resounding pre-eminence. While Joseph's G-A-Y has been going since 1993, the night began life as Bang! way back in 1976. It's a gay grand-daddy in a tight T-shirt.
As the club's capital-lettered, branded moniker implies, G-A-Y is gay and then some. It doesn't try to be clever or jaded. Instead it serves up, weekly, a cacophonous, fizzing party, the centrepiece of which is a performance by a pop star. Madonna, Kylie, Mariah Carey, Cyndi Lauper, Pink, Enrique Iglesias (and a lot worse - step forward Caprice) have appeared at G-A-Y: Iglesias generously offering up his ass to be fondled. Joseph doesn't think that the G-A-Y brand is outdated: “We've survived longer than any other gay club. Does that sound unsuccessful to you?”
G-A-Y encompasses not just the Saturday-night club but also two Soho bars. Along with Heaven, it is the first, most visible homo port of call not just for foreign visitors but for 16-year-olds coming out. Its young crowd sets it apart: if you are over the age of 25 you feel ancient.
Joseph says that he has decided to ship out because he is fed up with having “the axe of Crossrail hanging over my head”. He still doesn't know if or when the Astoria will be knocked down to make way for London's high-speed rail link, but this week Crossrail received Royal Assent, which Joseph took to be “a message - the time is right to go”.
Joseph says that it is getting harder and harder to show stars around the building when it's in such a bad state. But he'll be emotional on Saturday night, he admits - his energy and ability to get stars to perform at G-A-Y have given the club an enviable profile. Open the tabloids on a Monday morning and there will be a picture of, say, McFly dropping their pants on stage.
The most dramatic appearance was possibly that of Kylie Minogue on stage, post-cancer operation, alongside her sister Dannii. That night I had been out at Ghetto, just behind G-A-Y, and was accosted by two sweet and breathless young guys on the night bus, eager to share the news (and pictures taken on their mobile phones). Over the years, G-A-Y has played a part in mobilising support for significant gay political campaigns, such as Section 28, the age of consent and gays and the military.
Joseph has had many messages from G-A-Yers young and old in the past few days. “It was the first place they went to when they came out - or before they came out; the place they went to be themselves if they were having problems with families or colleagues. I've even had messages such as ‘I met my boyfriend ten years ago at G-A-Y. If you hadn't been there we'd never have met'.”
Joseph won't say where or when the club will reopen. He is being very cagey about what will happen on Saturday night, too. “Lots of acts” will be performing - he says that Kylie and Madonna are unavailable, but is this a decoy?
The evening isn't about the “names”, he says strenuously, or he would publicise them. It's about saying farewell to the club. All will be revealed when the show starts at 1am. Joseph will make a speech - “I've been trying to compose one on the running machine but I keep getting stuck” - and a grand finale (prepare for glitter guns and tears) is planned for 4.15am.
For Joseph - and me, it turns out - the song that best sums up G-A-Y is Kylie's Better the Devil You Know. For the past 15 years he has played it at 12.30am each week.
“It's one of the world's best pop songs,” he says with absolute authority. “When you hear that first ‘Woo-ooohhh-ohhh' in the opening bars, you just know...” And his voice tails off but I know what he means. Jeremy, see you on the dancefloor at 12.30am. "
"The London nightclub that welcomed Kylie, Cyndi and Madonna, and provided the venue for countless gay romances, is shutting up shop.
Everyone is so post-gay now, it's probably not the done thing to shed a tear over the last night of G-A-Y at the Astoria in Central London this Saturday. With its simple delight in fluffy disco and boozy, cruisey merriment, G-A-Y seems a dinosaur in the modern landscape of gay indie clubs, mixed clubs and the pansexual, drag-tastic dives of Shoreditch, where the beestung-lipped boy in eyeshadow probably has a girlfriend who's cool with it all.
But sad I am for the passing of G-A-Y. Jeremy Joseph, the club's pixie-like promoter, says it will reopen somewhere else, but it won't be the same - for good and ill, for its fans and detractors, G-A-Y at the Astoria is a gay cultural landmark, and even though it smells of chips and the Astoria has seen better days, the club has a resounding pre-eminence. While Joseph's G-A-Y has been going since 1993, the night began life as Bang! way back in 1976. It's a gay grand-daddy in a tight T-shirt.
As the club's capital-lettered, branded moniker implies, G-A-Y is gay and then some. It doesn't try to be clever or jaded. Instead it serves up, weekly, a cacophonous, fizzing party, the centrepiece of which is a performance by a pop star. Madonna, Kylie, Mariah Carey, Cyndi Lauper, Pink, Enrique Iglesias (and a lot worse - step forward Caprice) have appeared at G-A-Y: Iglesias generously offering up his ass to be fondled. Joseph doesn't think that the G-A-Y brand is outdated: “We've survived longer than any other gay club. Does that sound unsuccessful to you?”
G-A-Y encompasses not just the Saturday-night club but also two Soho bars. Along with Heaven, it is the first, most visible homo port of call not just for foreign visitors but for 16-year-olds coming out. Its young crowd sets it apart: if you are over the age of 25 you feel ancient.
Joseph says that he has decided to ship out because he is fed up with having “the axe of Crossrail hanging over my head”. He still doesn't know if or when the Astoria will be knocked down to make way for London's high-speed rail link, but this week Crossrail received Royal Assent, which Joseph took to be “a message - the time is right to go”.
Joseph says that it is getting harder and harder to show stars around the building when it's in such a bad state. But he'll be emotional on Saturday night, he admits - his energy and ability to get stars to perform at G-A-Y have given the club an enviable profile. Open the tabloids on a Monday morning and there will be a picture of, say, McFly dropping their pants on stage.
The most dramatic appearance was possibly that of Kylie Minogue on stage, post-cancer operation, alongside her sister Dannii. That night I had been out at Ghetto, just behind G-A-Y, and was accosted by two sweet and breathless young guys on the night bus, eager to share the news (and pictures taken on their mobile phones). Over the years, G-A-Y has played a part in mobilising support for significant gay political campaigns, such as Section 28, the age of consent and gays and the military.
Joseph has had many messages from G-A-Yers young and old in the past few days. “It was the first place they went to when they came out - or before they came out; the place they went to be themselves if they were having problems with families or colleagues. I've even had messages such as ‘I met my boyfriend ten years ago at G-A-Y. If you hadn't been there we'd never have met'.”
Joseph won't say where or when the club will reopen. He is being very cagey about what will happen on Saturday night, too. “Lots of acts” will be performing - he says that Kylie and Madonna are unavailable, but is this a decoy?
The evening isn't about the “names”, he says strenuously, or he would publicise them. It's about saying farewell to the club. All will be revealed when the show starts at 1am. Joseph will make a speech - “I've been trying to compose one on the running machine but I keep getting stuck” - and a grand finale (prepare for glitter guns and tears) is planned for 4.15am.
For Joseph - and me, it turns out - the song that best sums up G-A-Y is Kylie's Better the Devil You Know. For the past 15 years he has played it at 12.30am each week.
“It's one of the world's best pop songs,” he says with absolute authority. “When you hear that first ‘Woo-ooohhh-ohhh' in the opening bars, you just know...” And his voice tails off but I know what he means. Jeremy, see you on the dancefloor at 12.30am. "
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