Maxwell's

Anyone who's been familiar with Hoboken since 1995 knows that the town has experienced a radical shift in housing prices and overall cultural aesthetic.  During the ten or so years I spent in Hudson County, I was continually amazed at the way developers were able to squeeze in yet another towering condo community into a city that's only one mile square.  Back in my day, there was still a hearty contingent of locals and imported freakers who turned their noses up at the inevitable changes that come with the gentrification of a neighborhood.  From their stools in Kelly's Pub, Black Jack's and Louise and Jerry's, these raconteurs would talk themselves hoarse about the good old days of cheap rent and unsafe streets.  All of that has vanished into the mist of nostalgia.

Among the last holdouts from the "old" Hoboken is Maxwell's, one of my favorite all time rock clubs.  The official "backstage" area was in the basement next to the kegs. Bands would have to walk up the basement stairs, through the bar, and then navigate their way to the stage from the back of the club room while accepting (or dodging) pats on the back or high-fives being offered from the crowd. I always thought that was a great proletariat approach as opposed to the usual way that bands appear from the backstage wings, looking down on their audience from on high.  I remember one night when Anton Newcombe was trying to make his way to the stage when someone by the door to the back room tried to goad him into a fight. Thankfully, Todd A was able to gently coax him away and prevent the possibility of having to refund the entire crowd for a show that was aborted before it began.  The stage was barely a couple of feet off the ground so if you were in the front there was a good chance that you might be playing the role of roadie by helping adjust mic stands that were accidentally knocked down. At Maxwell's, you felt like a more integral part of the show.

I read today that Maxwell's is shutting down on July 31st.  The shift in nightlife trends combined with the fact that much of the Maxwell's crowd has grown older and moved on makes it difficult to sustain a live music venue in Hoboken.  Despite the challenges they've faced for well over a decade, Maxwell's managed to outlive CBGBs, Brownies, Tramps, and The Continental.  This is no small feat. I was lucky enough to see a lot of great shows there over the years- Mike Watt, Guided By Voices, Supersuckers, Dead Moon, Doo Rag, The Dirtbombs, Billy Childish, Reigning Sound, Brian Jonestown Massacre, and more. (Typing that list out just now reminds me of how amazing that place was).

I'm at that age now where I can share memories of adulthood that took place over 20 years ago.  Each vestige of my younger days that slips away is another not-so-gentle nudge towards middle age. I'm slowly getting better at accepting this fact and am grateful for the experiences I had along the way.  Thank you, Todd A and gang, for so many magical nights.

Kelly's Pub

I dreamt last night that I was in one of those old-time divey Irish bars in NYC. For some reason, they served breakfast platters that came with 6 eggs. According to dreammoods.com:


To see or eat eggs in your dream, symbolize(s) fertility, birth and your creative potential. Something new is about to happen.

That would work out just fine for me.

The dream made me think about Kelly's Pub in Hoboken. It was the classic Irish bar of Hoboken for 30+ years before it closed down amidst the crossfire of a major feud among the 3 siblings of Mr. and Mrs. Kelly. When Mr. and Mrs. Kelly died, the kids took over and couldn't get along well enough to keep the ship sailing straight. As Hoboken transformed from gritty to pretty, Kelly's was the place where B&Rs (those born and raised in Hoboken, non-yuppie) could still come for cheap and strong drinks and to reminisce about the town that had escaped their working-class grasp. On the morning of the Hoboken St. Patrick's parade, the place would be packed by 8AM. The police and firefighters would be there in dress uniform sandwiched in with locals and whoever else decided to show up for the day.

When I moved to Hoboken in the late 90s, I was afraid to walk through the door as I'd heard that it was a dangerous place to visit. I remember walking past on weekday mornings at around 8 or so and seeing someone at the bar drinking. When I finally showed my face there after a few months, the Kellys had done a purge of the worst troublemakers and drug dealers but thankfully allowed a few of the more charming miscreants to stay. One person who had been 86ed and then let back in (I think) explained to Patty Kelly that the reason he had acted out on the night he was tossed was that he had a “brain problem” and could not control his actions. From what I recall, he pleaded to be let back in.

At that bar, I met guys who rolled with the Hoboken MCs, the women who tried to love them, people who were pillars of the community, and guys who definitely were not. Kelly's was a place where professional drinkers hung out. There were no “Sex In The City” cocktails for this crowd although over time, the young yuppie crowd made their way in as it became somehow hip to drink in places like this. I'd always hold out hope that Loretta the bartender would finally succumb to what I thought was my irresistible charm but was really just the ramblings of another boring, self-important drunk. At Kelly's, I learned more about the history of Hoboken by listening to the stories about the old days: landlords who burned down their own buildings to facilitate rent increases; the blocks that were so dangerous that you couldn't walk down them during the day. I loved the men's room marble urinals that seemed bit enough to accommodate a horse and easy to fall into but hated the single stall that had a clear window on the door, most likely put there to prevent illicit activity. It took a while before I had the courage to use that toilet but the need to keep drinking comfortably trumped my long-standing OCD issues around dingy public bathrooms.

As easy as it is to wax nostalgic, there's also something sad about my time there. I can still recall the names and faces of many of the regulars there as well as their stories. However, most of those people never knew my name nor could they remember it because they were so wasted every time I saw them. I'm sure no one knew the first thing about me. At the bar, I fancied myself to be a latter day Hank Chinaski taking in the sights, sounds, and smells but in the 8 or so years I drank there I was just another piece of replaceable furniture. There was lots of chatter but very little real connection. I usually entered alone and left alone.

Still, I wonder how some of those folks are doing these days: the Kelly sisters (especially Lori and her kid); Bob; Cheech; and of course, Loretta. I have no idea where all of these people ended up after they lost their community headquarters but I hope everyone is doing alright tonight.

Photo courtesy of hoboken411.com