By Pete Kotz
By Michael Musto
By Michael Musto
By Capt. James Van Thach told to Jonathan Wei
By Kera Bolonik
By Michael Musto
By Nick Pinto
By Steve Weinstein
Passing by the 'Building for Sale' sign at 15 St. Marks, where Coney Island High used to be, is like a slap in the face. There's no more gruff doorman, no more musicians unloading gear, no more freaks congregating on the sidewalk, no more sweaty crowds packed wall to wall. Yeah, clubs come and go. But when they go, it doesn't just mean locking up physical space it's the end of an institution, an atmosphere, a sense of community. Reopening in a new location misses the point. "It's a shame when the music scene in NYC loses any club," Continental talent buyer Marc Yevlove told the Voice recently. But losing several in a row is more than a shame it's a problem. Is the New York live music scene strong enough to survive skyrocketing real estate, extreme Quality of Life enforcement, and neighborhood anti-nightlife sentiment?
This summer alone, we've seen the closing of Coney Island High and Upper East Side blues joint Manny's Car Wash. Lower East Side lesbian hot spot Meow Mix has, at least temporarily, lost use of its basement due to fire code violations. Union Square's Irving Plaza has been practicing damage control over what they refer to as a "one-man strike."
And now, Tramps. After a two-night stand by Son Volt Wednesday and Thursday, a private party will mark the end of this popular Chelsea club, which, thanks to brilliant booking, has consistently brought audiences the city's most eclectic range of music. Tramps has been a one-of-a-kind haven for musical multipersonalities who could dig anything: hip-hop, funk, punk, country, ska, zydeco. With such an inconsistent clientele, a move might work a "plan to reopen" is rumored. Given Tramps's history, it'd hardly be a surprise.
Though the club has been in operation for 25 years, the current location hasn't always been home. In fall 1988, drastic rent increases around Tramps's original 15th Street address prompted a move. In 1992, when owner Terry Dunne renewed the lease for the club's current 21st Street location, a clause banning noise before 6 p.m. was accidentally left intact. "It was an oversight," says Steve Weitzman, Tramps's talent buyer for the past 10 years. "Even so, it wasn't enforced until recently." The situation made preparing for shows, particularly multiple-act bills, difficult. "Who wants to play an important gig with a rushed sound check, or no sound check?" Weitzman asks. "Maybe the landlord was looking for an out. My impression is that when we moved into the area, it wasn't as desirable." He notes that more profitable businesses like Barnes & Noble and Bed Bath & Beyond have since opened shop, as well as other pricey restaurants like Puffy Combs's Justin's. Now an upscale restaurant-lounge is due to slide into Tramps's space. It all adds up to more green for the landlord.
In June, landlord issues also took out Manny's Car Wash. Posting their farewell on the club's Web site, owners Brad and Mike Winters blame a nonnegotiable rent hike for the club's demise: "Our rent was way above market rent and our landlord wouldn't even talk to us about a reduction."
Clubs located in the hippest neighborhoods have it hardest, but with Manhattan's real estate rates exploding, the distinction is fading. Though the hippie haven Wetlands Preserve is in no danger of closing, high rent in Tribeca is a concern. "We're open every night of the week because we need to pay the rent," says owner Peter Shapiro. "But our rent is crazy."
In the final days of Coney Island High's existence, co-owner Jesse Malin and partners Dean Richards and Lindsey Anderson found themselves in tremendous financial debt and padlocked out of their own venue. Their inability to make rent, they claimed, was a result of city policy, including the shutdown of their weekly Green Door DJ parties. "In order to make very high rent, you need to have a place where people can shake their booty," says Malin. "And we were doing great until we started getting cracked down on for cabaret laws. We had to get rid of the major dance parties, the premise we half-started the club on, and reinvent ourselves as just a live venue. And when they raid you on a Saturday," he added, "and scare your customers, it really hurts you, too."
Police raids are all too familiar to New York venue owners. Between 1993 and 1998, Brian Sapadin owned and ran Crossroads, an Upper East Side rock club that featured Wetlands-style up-and-coming jam bands. "There was one real bad experience," Sapadin recalls. "It was late '97, early '98. They had about 40 officers come in a citywide raid, representing the police department, the fire department, the health department, the vice squad, the consumer affairs department, and a legal team. You'd think they were making a Mafia bust. No crime had been committed. Not even a violation had been committed." He continues: "But they make you shut the music off, turn the lights up. If you were a customer, would you stay?"
All the city found during the raid was an ice scoop illegally touching an ice cube and an obstructed window view ("an unrepealed prohibition-era law"). The window, he explains, was merely obstructed by a good neighbor policy sign and a photograph of the Upper East Side rapist. Charges were dropped, but the stress was too much.
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