Even though I didn’t actually see it, that Dead Milkmen set did turn out to be a show that changed my life. See, the Milkmen had played at a club in downtown La Crosse called The Warehouse. I’d been vaguely aware that the place existed before then, but this was the first time I’d thought of it as somewhere I might actually go. A few months later I did just that. I suppose the stellar ‘90s punk lineup of Hagfish, Swingin’ Utters and Hoarse live at The Warehouse wasn’t technically my first show. I’d seen plenty of Christian acts before, attended some God-rock festivals, and even sampled a bit of the La Crosse alternative scene at the Brew Note coffee house. But going to The Warehouse felt different from all of that. This felt like a real show in a real club, the type of thing kids in New York or Seattle might do. Needless to say, I was stoked.
All I knew about the
bands was that Hagfish’s latest CD had gotten a pretty good review in CMJ.
In the limited sphere of the greater La Crosse, Wisconsin area, that
established them as a must-see. It turned out to be a hell of a show, noisy and
raucous and full of life. The music was like nothing I’d heard played live
before. The musicians were like no one I’d seen live before. (One of the
Swingin’ Utters guys had an honest-to-god giant, spiky mohawk! I’d only ever
seen those in music magazines and comic books!) I was amazed to see a real-live
mosh pit, just like the ones I’d read about in news stories about Woodstock
’93. It took me a while to work up the nerve, but eventually I dove in and took
to thrashing about the dance floor. I couldn’t have been a pretty picture – a
gawky, ghost-pale teenager in a sweat-soaked purple flannel and a knit stocking
cap that kept falling over my eyes – but I was having a hell of a time.
I had a lot of hells of
times at The Warehouse over the next several years, all without realizing what
a rare thing I was experiencing. I didn’t realize at the time that an
alcohol-free, all-ages club that booked national acts was hard to come by in
any city, let alone one the size of La Crosse. For all I knew, it was the norm
for misfit teens who lived near college towns to spend their evenings watching
noise rock bands make music with power tools in a dusky nightclub. It wasn’t until I got
to college that I learned most of my peers didn’t have that opportunity. I might have missed out on the Dead Milkmen, but the
bands I did see could make for a hell of a mid ‘90s mix tape: Poster Children,
Me First and the Gimme Gimmes, Possum Dixon, Chemlab, Pegboy, NIL8, Savage
Aural Hotbed, Sister Machine Gun, Helva, Puzzle Factory... I could go on for
ages.
And it
wasn’t just about the bigger name bands. The Warehouse also provided a place
for local acts to cut their teeth in a more professional venue than their
college buddy’s basement. Although I’m sure I’m looking back through
rose-colored glasses, the La Crosse area had itself quite a thriving little
scene at the time. The local bands I saw at The Warehouse loom just as large in my memory
as their better known counterparts. USV, Spindle, The Baum Squad (formerly
Spoon), Norm’s Headache, Space Bike,
The Lush Workers – these bands were the first network of artists that I truly felt a part of. Hell, even my high school band Inflatable Grandpa, whose sound could
charitably have been called sloppy nerd punk, landed a few Warehouse gigs. I
still shiver when I recall the thrill of subjecting a small crowd to the sight of me barking my They
Might Be Giants-aping lyrics from the stage of a club I knew and loved.
I don’t
think I’m exaggerating when I say The Warehouse played a vital role in making
me the man I am today. I have friends who say the place probably saved their
lives by giving them a refuge from alcohol and drugs at a very fragile point of
their youth. Personally, I was a substance-free teen, mainly because it gave me
one more reason to feel superior to my schoolmates (self-righteousness was my
anti-drug). For me it was all about access to the music. Not even the bands
themselves, necessarily, but the experience of seeing live music and being part
of a scene. Even when the bands sucked – and there were plenty that sucked hard
– I was still out at show, immersed in a culture that most of my peers wouldn’t
have a chance to discover for another half-decade. I can’t even imagine how grim my high school and early college years would have been without it.
As I
write this, The Warehouse is in dire straits for the umpteenth time in its 22-year
history. Due to factors more detailed than I care to go into here,
the place is in danger of being shut down and turned into condos if owner Steve
Harm can’t raise a considerable sum to pay off the business’ debts by tomorrow night. There’s a Warehouse
Rescue Campaign fundraising page posted at Indiegogo where you can chip in
any amount to keep the music going. I’ve pitched in and I hope to hell more
folks will too. Right now there’s a kid in West Salem or Bangor or Sparta or
Winona or Galesville or Nodine who’s checking out an old SNFU concert video on
YouTube and falling in love. I want that kid to have a place to live that
dream. I want The Warehouse to be there to give another generation the
invaluable education it gave me.
(See
the tall guy in the white t-shirt standing by the stage at the 0:22 mark? That’d
be me at 18.)
