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But, why, York, do you bring up dead rock stars in a column about Five Points, you may be asking? For the simple reason that it is a fitting metaphor, perhaps, for the fact that our beloved college ghetto has no dedicated music venue and the ones we did have…well they have gone the way of any number of those croaked crooners to whom I have alluded.

By York “Bud” Durden

When the music’s over, turn out the lights.

Yup, Jimbo Morrison wrote that nearly four decades ago, perhaps presaging his own sorry demise in a cracked Paris bathtub—another milestone of rock and roll ignominy, one among far too many similar bits of indulgent foolishness.

But, why, York, do you bring up dead rock stars in a column about Five Points, you may be asking? For the simple reason that it is a fitting metaphor, perhaps, for the fact that our beloved college ghetto has no dedicated music venue and the ones we did have…well they have gone the way of any number of those croaked crooners to whom I have alluded.

What’s that, you say? A college ghetto (and I say that with the utmost respect) without a dedicated live music club? How, pray tell, can this be?

First, a bit of history: Two notable clubs, both long-lived by the standards of this town, played host in their heyday to a roster of acts that included such present-day (though in some cases, defunct) superstars as the Black Crowes, Red Hot Chili Peppers, Dave Matthews Band, Widespread Panic, the Ramones, the Tragically Hip, and many others too numerous to list, covering a wide range of artistic and stylistic strata. (Yes, yes, I left out Hootie, but who among us doesn’t already know about them?) Greenstreet’s existed in two incarnations, one slightly before my time and one right smack-dab during my own golden age of bar-hopping. I don’t know much about the first version, but the second and more nicely appointed venue was located in the Forum up at the north end of the neighborhood (recently home to a snooty, overpriced women’s gym). Greenstreet’s sat across the hallway from a beautiful art cinema called The Bijou that is as greatly missed as the rock clubs. The club boasted wonderful sightlines and decent acoustics; its tiered layout made even a packed house not too dreadfully uncomfortable. It lasted a couple years; Phish played there circa 1990 to a dozen or so forward thinking jam-band fans, those who weren’t up in Hampton for the Jerry Band gig. Richard Thompson appeared there too. It was a great room, Greenstreet’s. Wha happen?

Rockafella’s is the place more people below a certain age probably remember; it lasted well over a decade, shuttering finally in 1998. The building re-emerged soon after as Jake’s, where bands sometimes play, but it isn’t a club that “real” touring acts visit. Nor is Delaney’s, nor is anywhere else in the neighborhood that currently hosts live music.

Elbow Room ran with it for a while. Government Mule, The Strokes, Leftover Salmon, west coast guitar impresario Steve Kimock, they and many other notables all came through. Then, no Elbow Room. Wha happen?

And there were some others before my time. A punk club called Von Henmon’s played host to REM before Murmur came out. Another joint (thought not in Five Points) saw one of the final gigs by the New York Dolls in ’75 or so. The Dolls! Think of it.

A few years ago, indie rock icon Stephen Malkmus came to town. Did he play in Five Points? Hell no, there wasn’t a club there for him—he appeared in some hole out by the airport, for god’s sake. Back in the day, Columbia was a real stop on the tour for many renowned acts. Zappa, Yes, Pink Floyd, they all played the Township, if you can believe it. Sabbath and Skynyrd at the Coliseum, bro. Blue f–king Oyster f–king Cult, man. Dig it. Shucks, I even saw a country package tour at the Coliseum with Conway Twitty, Loretta Lynn, and George Jones. (Didn’t think much of it at ten years old; now I’m sort of awed that I was there.) Legends, even in their own time, and they all came through Columbia.

But times, and the music business, have changed. Everything’s fragmented into sub-sub genres; so-called “stars” are the winners of fucking TV talent shows, and come and go with the seasons. Record companies, like always, want face bands that have hits and make the unmentionable parts of teenage girls damp with hubba-hubba excitement. Arena rock these days (with exceptions) seems limited to teenybopper acts-of-the-moment, and creaky Top 40 codgers like Billy Joel trying to scare up one last thirty million or so.

Everyone’s excited, it seems, about The Police reunion this year, but what for, other than nostalgia? And even if Sting & Co. do come down South, you know it won’t be here. Atlanta, Charlotte, even Greenville are considered better music markets—even at the club level. And that’s a shame. Which brings me back to Five Points. I heard a little birdie whispering about some supposed activity right smack dab in the middle of the neighborhood, a group of guys putting a joint together, one that just might reinvigorate the music scene down here in the red muddy basin. This is a town full of talented musicians, and while New Brookland and Headliner’s are fine in their own way, we need a place down here. This is the college ghetto. This is Five Points. If I was still a student? I wouldn’t want to go party in the Vista with a bunch of yuppies; I wouldn’t want to drive across the bridge (although being a music lover, I would, for the right act of course).

Me? I would want to do the Blossom Street Stagger, or the Green Street Stumble, back from a club where’d I just heard some vital, happening music that blew my mind. I would want to see my musical heroes, whether potential or otherwise, in Five Points.

Yours in music,

York “Budd” Durden

PS: Beams of hope go to Chris Connor and his family. Beat the crap out of this ridiculous illness, you stalwart, talented Red Bank oak of a guitar player. Columbia needs your songs—your voice—for a while longer, at whatever club in whatever neighborhood.