See music
listings for LaLuna's final events.
I won't forget LaLuna's official opening night. It was New
Year's Eve, and as the clock ticked toward 1993, a snowstorm
descended on Portland. Los Lobos, everyone's favorite East
L.A. party band, was headlining a sold-out show. And I was
the coat-check girl.
People had dressed for the weather with layer upon layer
upon layer of clothing. Some even came in on skis. It was
my job to sort it all. I quickly ran out of room for all
this crap and resorted to putting two or three garments
on each hanger. When the show was over, a torrid mass of
sweaty concertgoers engulfed the coat-check area. Bridget
O'Connor was manning the soft drink station, and she came
over to help. Eventually, she would be promoted to bartendress
and become one of the most recognizable fixtures at LaLuna,
with her piercing laugh and ability to make friends with
just about everyone. Chris Monlux, co-owner of the club,
was soon sorting out sweaters and Gore-Tex, too.
When the guests had all left we counted our tips. We had
done pretty well. In one night as coat-check chick I raked
in $25. We shot some pool and shot the shit and soon it
was dawn. It amazed me that this was even a job. Don't get
me wrong, being a coat-check girl during a blizzard was
extremely unglamorous and drudgy. But LaLuna was crackling
with energy, and I knew deep in my young heart that this
place would mean something to me.
Pretty soon I dropped my gig as coat-check girl. The weather
was getting warmer, and the tips never amounted to anything
nearing the $25 take on that first night. Frankly, I preferred
listening to bands rather than hanging out in back and minding
people's property. I visited LaLuna often.
The best thing about LaLuna was that it was a different
club to everyone because it was often a different club every
night. One evening you'd see Lucinda Williams, the next
Public Enemy. The room hosted more than enough annoying
touring MTV Buzz Bin groups. Back in the day it was always
a kick to listen to bartender Tim Brooks (no relation) grouse
about those one-hit blunder bands. At the time Brooks was
writing a caustic music column for PDXS called "I
* Satan," and if he had had his way, Portland punk kingpins
Poison Idea would have played the club every night. No one
was more saddened than Brooks when the band did its supposed
last show there in June 1993.
In between all the wannabe acts such as Live, Collective
Soul, and G. Love and Special Sauce came moments of true
transcendence. One night, Rebecca Gates, who was noted for
her toughness as a security person at the club, climbed
on stage with her new group, the Spinanes, to play to a
sold-out crowd. They were planning to record their first
full-length release, Manos. In her vintage dress
and pinned-up hair, she pummeled her guitar as Scott Plouf
plucked his drums, a searing set of contrasts that cauterized
the crowd. Headlining the bill was Hazel, which played its
version of dark pop as "dancer" Fred Nemo transfixed us,
balancing himself precariously on chairs, tables and people.
During a break in the proceedings, drummer Jody Bleyle,
famous for her onstage banter, announced she was starting
a new record label called Candy Ass, and if you wanted any
of her bands to play at your house, you should sign up.
She was serious. And we were, too. If ever there were a
group of kids who felt lucky enough to taste the sweat of
the person in front of us as we collided into history, it
was us.
You couldn't help but notice D-J, the Dutchman. First off,
his look could only be described as Amish-chic: pointy blond
beard and long hair. Second, he always had a camera in his
pocket, and when you least suspected it, a shocking flash
of light would invade your eyes. Third, he started Queer
Night on Mondays at the club, an evening of dancing, prancing
and lounging for inverts and their friends. D-J's energy
propelled the festivities, and he was always trying some
new gimmick to shake up the scene (drag-queen Tupperware
party: good idea; foam dance party: bad idea). Queer Night
epitomized the '90s homo sensibility that said you could
be a million things at once.
There are so many more memories, most verging on navel-gazing,
that come to mind when I think of LaLuna: performance-art
group God's Favorite Pussy's bloody rendition of "Our Lips
Are Sealed" at the Girl Jam event that was held for three
years; all the times Hungry Mob rocked the house at the
annual hip-hop extravaganza POH-Hop; seeing PJ Harvey three
times and watching her blossom with each performance; witnessing
Courtney Love's onstage tantrum and hearing about her alleged
attack on a fan backstage; always standing up close at Sleater-Kinney
shows. Then there was the comfort of having my friend Mike
sit on my lap during Yo La Tengo's last song. And booth
dancing in LaLuna's Living Room to Bridget's brilliant Michael
Jackson selection. Witnessing the whirlwind that is Howie
Baggadonutz as he'd scoot around managing Queer Night. Playing
shuffleboard on the short-lived vintage machine when the
club first opened. Kicking ass at air hockey in the game
room that was installed later. Feeling Shonen Knife bring
the love. Watching the club's first manager, Heidi Snellman,
school the peeps. The symbolic fatigue of Hazel's last show.
Chris Monlux's devilish grin coupled with Mike Quinn's business
acumen.
I bet most of you have your own list that's completely
different from mine.
Like life in general, club life runs in cycles. Scenesters
from the '80s love to recount how Luis' La Bamba was "da
bomb," while we LaLuna-goers looked away with eyes glazed
over. Nothing could be as good as we have it now, our smug
indifference said. But things change. People get older.
Owners get burned out. Bands break up. And things need to
mutate so they don't grow stale. Come May 2, what was once
LaLuna will change management and become an all-ages electronic
club called The Womb. The name brings to my mind gestational
fluids and choking umbilical cords. I know this is unfair.
I need to overcome my prejudice. Still, my heart belongs
to the moon.
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Willamette Week | originally
published April 28,
1999
|
