Where to Meet the Beat

by Jarrod Hood

We suffered greatly through the rainy season. The torrential rains that plagued our small village and flooded my basement, ruining all my Wayne Newton records, seemed to have taken our music along with it in a roiling flood down the Rivanna and out to the full, firm breast of the Atlantic. It was as if the musicians could not swim, and as I walked the narrow strand of Eastern shore on one of my few ventures out of the Shenandoah valley, I found one of the Curious Digit washed ashore, pale and bloated; recognized only by his tattered Jagjaguwar t-shirt. And yet, it has been left to me -- a lowly alchemist, mixer of fine spirits -- to tell the tale of love and loss, of pain and hunger, of mythical duress that has been and will be the Charlottesville music scene. So gather round and listen well, all ye who are but newcomers in the shadow of Mt. St. Jefferson and heed these words, lest ye be doomed to hear the jerk-off with the acoustic guitar on the first floor mangle "The Eagles' Greatest Hits" for all eternity.

First and foremost, if you have come to Charlottesville expecting to see the Dave Matthews Band playing free concerts every other Friday, turn the Explorer around and head back to NoVa. It ain't gonna happen. This town's highest grossing act has set its sights elsewhere, and this is probably for the best. You'll have to settle for one-off hacks, and rest assured, they are in plentiful supply. What is to follow is a brief rundown on where to go to catch the sounds of a promising artistic community, so as to get down in whatever fashion you feel appropriate.

Since this entire issue of our beloved newsmagazine is devoted to pandering to those of you living in on-grounds sweatboxes, we'll begin with an area that is accessible and possibly familiar to you -- the Corner (add a resounding boom to strike fear in the hearts of men). Establishments on the Corner find their life's blood in catering to the likes of you , Mr./Ms. Jo(e) Student. However, they acquire these loads of student wealth primarily through alcohol sales, with bands serving as bait. This presents a problem for those who are ... shall we say ... chronologically challenged. Places such as Michael's Bistro, Orbit Billiards, the Buddhist Biker Bar, and others regularly have shows, occasionally even good ones, but often require patrons to be above the dreaded age to participate. (It's OK, just sit outside Littlejohn's and you can hear the Bistro perfectly -- have some juice, it's good for you.) If there is any possible way, catch the Hogwaller Ramblers at Buddhist Biker Bar. You won't regret it.

Happily there are some establishments on the little strip of bricks that are sympathetic to the cause of the underage. Baja Bean has an open-mic every Monday night, where one might see C'ville's next big stink (or perhaps every stinky thing in the fucking town), and the Espresso Corner has been known to offer a smattering of guys-with-guitars and the occasional jazz combo on the weekends. (Coffee is for EVERYONE.) Ziggy's seems to be the happenin' place to shake-a-rump. I've never ventured inside, but the place is absolutely hoppin' many nights of the week. Feel like your sonic diet lacks fiber? The Outback Lodge, although quite a hike all the way out on Preston Ave., offers the crunchiest, most granola bands in town nearly every weekend. It is a favorite spot of C'ville worldbeat gurus, Baaba Seth. The highlight of this area has got to be the Prism Coffeehouse. Obscurely located in a little niche on Rugby Road, the Prism has been showcasing the best in folk for nigh onto 30 years (albeit on a very erratic basis). I'm really not sure if it is even still in business, but the music has always been worth any expended effort. As for the frats forget about it unless the sound of regurgitated beer on hardwood qualifies as music. SERP has been an occasional exception, when The Interpreters aren't bleeding all over the stage.

For those who are more adventurous, willing to hazard an attempt at Charlottesville's sketchy public transportation, or desperate to hear fewer Van Morrison covers, the heart of rock n' roll beats away from Alderman road. The Downtown Mall. Ahh, it is a name spoken in the same breath as "cultcha" in this town. Nowhere this side of Richmond will you find a higher concentration of art, music, talent, crap, freaks, folks, and pretension as the bricked-off strip of main street a short hike past the Corner. Perhaps Downtown's most revered venue is the drugstore-turned-watering-trough, Miller's. Honestly, if you like to listen to jazz, this is the place. John D'earth and friends are staples here on Thursday nights, and U.Va.'s trumpetin'-est guy always brings along a passel of the groove-havin'-est musicians around. Even if you don't like jazz so much, see it once, you may become a believer. Other nights, Miller's presents everything from chicken-fried southern rock to "folk songs of the Amazon Basin," with the obligatory smattering of Downtown Charlottesville pseudo-funk from those left behind when the U.S.S. Matthews set sail. Down a little further, Escafe has some dance/house/whateverthehellyoucallit on different nights of the week, but age may be an impediment (I really don't know, I had my ass-shakin' shot off during a land war in Kentucky). The single most populated event in the entire three-county area occurs every Friday through the early fall, after five o'clock, called (big surprise) Fridays After Five. The music tends to play to the lowest common denominator, but acts like Bio Ritmo and Baaba Seth have made appearances. The big attraction here is definitely people-watching, as well as the numerous musicians who set up on the mall away from the amphitheater/beer garden/world's biggest frat party at the far end.

Now we turn our attention to the battle of the rock venues. It is truly a bloody conflict in which the lines have been sharply drawn. In the Eleventh Street corner, weighing in at upwards of ten dollars a show, Trax. And in the Ivy Square corner, weighing in at a measly five dollars a show, the Tokyo Rose. These, with the exception of the occasional house party, are the options open to rock kids in this town. Trax is convienient for those whose primary means of transportation is biological (horse-drawn carriages not included). Located behind the U.Va. hospital, Trax offers the hottest of the hot, the cream of the bandwagon, made-for-radio one-hit wonders that back up the airwaves like an old septic tank. But one should try not to be biased. Honestly, I have had one good time at Trax (Southern Culture on the Skids, fall '94), and I find the space, the staff, and the roster generally reprehensible. The problem is, that if your favorite band sells more than fifty copies a year, Trax may be your only possibility to catch them. (The place can't be all bad, I mean, My Bloody Valentine played there long ago.)

You ask where might one turn for quality rock at discount prices. I reply, go west young audiophile, Rt. 250 west, also known as Ivy Road. Here lies Tokyo Rose -- sushi bar/crowded basement extraordinaire. This is really the place to see exciting new acts (and the insanely obscure ones) and a healthy dose of Teenbeat, Merge, Drag City, etc. The place is hard to find, difficult to walk to, and usually hot and smoky as you-know-where. Basement renovations, new booking blood, and two of the hottest bartenders in town are aligning to reestablish the little basement that could after a long dry summer.

But wait, there's more. A newcomer to the scene has begun to stretch its wings this summer on Preston Avenue. The Bomb Shelter has appeared on the scene only in the past few months, cutting its teeth on the angry youth of central Virginia. I have yet to visit this club, which is on its way to being a haven for the younger crowd, but word on the street is that some really exciting punk, ska, hardcore, and gothic rumblings have been heard from the ex-China Chef, with a much needed boot to the collective ass. So there, if I've forgotten anything, take your sorry putrescence out and find it, but don't whine about hearing "Desperado" for the seventy-fifth time.

And thus speaking, the withered old wretch struggled to his feet and lurched toward his hut, stepping almost angelically into an immense pile of dogshit.