INPITTSBURGHWEEKLY 10.27.99~11.03.99 // WWW.INPGH.COM Keeping It Real

Amid the harsh realities of the music industry, the 31st Street Pub hangs onto the true spirit of rock & roll.

by Lauri Apple

Joel Greenfield crosses his tattooed arms, sits down on a white patio chair and watches a line of customers filing into his pub. It's a rare moment of serenity; Greenfield has already been at work for 12 hours, and he's got at least four more hours of spilled beer, smoky air and raunchy guitar grind to go.

He's used to hustling 16-hour shifts. "I've been here for 22 years, and I've got a good thing going," Greenfield says, his McGruff-the-Crime-Dog voice sliding into a Pittsburgh drawl. "I'm into what I'm doing, plain and simple."

So are the folks lined up at the door. Some are twentysomething denizens of Pittsburgh's underground club scene. Others are middle-aged metalheads or well-dressed professional types. On this particular night, they've all converged at the 31st Street Pub for a night of no-frills rock and roll. For a small cover charge, Greenfield gladly delivers.

First, they have to flash photo ID to Alfie Garrett. For four years, the long-haired, leather-jacketed and lip-pierced doorman has leaned against the brick facade of the Pub and scanned people's drivers licenses for birth dates. Intimidating, yes, but Alfie's not a bouncer. The 31st Street doesn't need security guards.

"People don't get rough here," Garrett explains. His boss's "respect thy neighbor" policy rubs off on people.

A truck halts at the intersection. "Can you tell me where Bare Elegance is?" the driver asks. "Make a left and it's to the right," says Greenfield. A quick thank you and the driver moves along.

Once Alfie made a sign that read, "Directions to Bare Elegance, two dollars." And people paid - until a band stole the sign and placed it in their front yard. "I guess they thought it was cool," he laughs.

Many local musicians agree that everything Greenfield does epitomizes cool. The 43-year old proprietor currently hosts the most popular underground music venue in the city. Bands who play the 31st Street Pub share Greenfield's negative attitude towards the commercialization - and lack of inspiration - often found in today's music industry. They don't play for money, but for respect.

Though Greenfield hates corporate homogeneity almost as much as he loves Harleys and tattoos, he doesn't cater to particular underground cliques. He offers his stage to any band who can bring customers to his bar. "This is our home," Rob Tabachka says. An off-hours regular, Tabachka also plays guitar for local metal band Silver Tongued Devil, one of the 31st's most popular acts. "Though we have to, we don't really care to play anywhere else."

Other 31st Street performers feel the same way. "There's never been a place like the Pub," says Sean Finn, whose popular local indie-pop group Manifold Splendour performs in clubs running the gamut of Pittsburgh's diverse music scene - from Nick's Fat City in the South Side to Club Laga in Oakland. Though Finn admits the 31st isn't as popular as those places and doesn't have as many resources, "they just don't have owners like Joel working hands-on with musicians," he says. "Joel's as much a part of furthering the music scene as the musicians."

Several nights a week, both local and national bands climb up on the 31st's tiny stage and revitalize the spirit of rock in its purest, most innocent form. Musicians pack their own instruments, charge their own covers and watch each other's sets. On any given night, Michael Kastelic of Honeyburst dances to Master Mechanic, Master Mechanic singer Gabrielle Marsden thanks the Science Fiction Idols for coming and Sci-Fi Idols frontman Bobby LaMonde hangs out with the audience.

Though the bass usually pounds hard and the cymbals often crash heavy, the audience doesn't. That's because, while Greenfield admits that "a little of that shoving bullshit is atmosphere," he hates getting beer splashed on him just as much as anybody else. So he expects everyone in his pub to respect one another.

Just as the bands do.

"31st," Greenfield says into a white cordless. It's a minimalist telephone salutation, but Greenfield isn't into lengthy introductions. Neither is the band on the other end of the line; they just want a place to play.

Greenfield gets off the phone and chuckles loudly. The band - a half-German, half-American quartet named the Golden Showers - rings him to book a show for the next night.

The blatant obscenity of the group's name amuses Greenfield. "I have no clue who they are, but they sound right up our alley," he chuckles.

At 6 p.m., there's barely anyone in the place. Greenfield chats with a small group of regular patrons; they reminisce about the days in the '80s when the 31st was a watering hole for Greenfield's biker buddies. Those are days that won't come again: When Greenfield decided to turn the Pub into a concert venue, many of his biker pals abandoned him.

"They told me I sold out," he remembers, "but I'm still me. I'll ride a Harley forever, but after they quit coming I had nothing to do with them."

Greenfield knew little about booking bands and putting on shows until 1995. When the bar's business started slowing down, he modified a rarely-used dining room into a performance space and hired friends to build a stage in the back. An adjacent storage room became a resting area and last-ditch crash pad for out-of-town bands. (When necessary, he lets bands stay for free.)

At first, bookings were slow. "I used to have to call and call and call," he says. "No one wanted to come." Then word-of-mouth worked its magic: Local musicians heard about the pub in the Strip where every show was promoted, the owner paid the bands and sometimes signed contracts. Greenfield started getting calls from out of town. If the band was too esoteric or had no local following at all, he'd refer them to another city. If they were cutting-edge and somewhat known, he booked them right away.

After four years of experience, Greenfield still sticks to this no-nonsense policy. Though crowds rarely reach full capacity (about 150), Greenfield and the bands usually earn enough money to make it worthwhile. He leaves sound checks and lineup decisions to the bands.

"I keep my nose out of it," he says. "It's better that way." His only rule is that sound man Jeff Ban receives his 75 dollars up front. The rest of the money goes to the band.

In today's music industry, Greenfield's fair-and-square approach is exceptional. Club owners and promoters frequently charge bands for services, space and promotional activities. Others renege on contracts. Greenfield knows he could rip bands off and still stay in business, but he refuses to give in to dirty tactics.

"I don't know if it's greed or what" - the last word lingers a moment - "that drives promoters to hurt bands. As long as I don't lose money, I'm happy."

First and foremost, Greenfield is a pub owner, not a booking agent. Nevertheless, he experiences the same problems that all concert promoters face. Sometimes bands cancel performances at the last minute, leaving him with an extra slot to fill. When audiences are sparse, Greenfield has to pay bands out of his own register.

Location is also an issue: Though situated in the Strip, the 31st Street Pub is nestled at the high end, far away from the heavy traffic and pull of Smallman's major clubs. Pedestrians are scarce.

To fight low attendance, Greenfield relies on word of mouth, the press and the Xerox. When bands send him promotional photos and information, he mails them off to local papers immediately, hoping the coverage will bring a few bodies. He also does what few other club owners would: goes out himself to post flyers in coffeehouses, book and record stores and popular hangouts.

Sometimes, the extra hassle doesn't seem worth the trouble. More than a few bands leave their promotional activities entirely up to Greenfield. "These folks are my friends, but some are lazy," he says. "They get two good shows, then don't do anything to promote themselves. I make them flyers - color flyers - and they don't put them up."

Perhaps pessimism is the reason. Greenfield's shows are often too obscure to draw people outside their neighborhood or suburb and into the city. For many casual music listeners, "live music" means a big show in a big room like the Civic Arena or Star Lake Amphitheatre - or at least the mid-sized Metropol. Underground bands rarely play in front of hundreds of people; rather, they learn to expect audiences that never reach beyond their own circle of friends.

"I get too hip sometimes," laughs Greenfield. "I brainwash myself into believing everyone knows underground music, but most people don't."

Over the summer, the 31st hosted the Get Hip Battle of the Bands, a three-day showcase of garage punk, hard rock and rockabilly acts. Get Hip - a record label based in the North Side and organizer of the event - promoted it heavily. Though one of the most affordable and eclectic festivals of the summer, turnout was lower than expected. But the biggest obstacle to attracting larger crowds is apathy.

A glance at statistics generated by Pollstar - a concert information database - reveals surprisingly low numbers for live music events nationwide. Though special concerts such as Woodstock '99 and classic rock arena tours attracted thousands, in 1999 many bands - even commercial ones with heavy radio airplay - experienced lower ticket sales than expected.

In Pittsburgh, for instance, popular radio band the Verve Pipe recently played at Club Laga in Oakland for an audience of two hundred. Though Joker Productions founder Jon Rinaldo, who coordinates most shows at Laga, didn't book that particular show, he cites it as an example of how difficult it can be to draw a capacity crowd.

"It's hard to get people to come out [to a concert]," he laments, "yet they go to Banana Joe's and it's packed. I don't understand."

Rinaldo can't afford to take many huge risks on unknown acts if he's going to meet his financial obligation to Laga. Though his crowds don't always reach the club's full capacity, a high number always looms as a desired target.

Like Rinaldo, Karl Mullen has seen promising shows flop. As entertainment director for Next Big Thing Productions - the promotions agency that books most of the concerts featured at Rosebud and Metropol - Mullen is responsible for introducing new artists to Pittsburgh and staying ahead of the national curve. Though many acts draw healthy numbers, every show is hit-or-miss.

"Music - even the alternative genre - is extremely market-driven," he explains. "People need validation, [they need to hear] that what they like listening to is popular."

In some ways, the 31st Street Pub's small-scale, underground focus fills a niche that bigger promoters like Rinaldo and Mullen can't. Rinaldo for one admires the Pub's unique staying power in the local music scene. Since Greenfield started booking bands, many venues of similar size - the Next Decade, the Electric Banana and the Upstage in Oakland, Luciano's in Uptown and Cloud 9 in the Strip - have either shut down or stopped hosting live music.

The 31st draws its biggest crowds with local favorites like the Ultimatics, the Silver Tongued Devil, Honeyburst and Submachine. All of them play the small, loosely-knit club "circuit" that includes the 31st, Gooski's in Polish Hill, Pluto's in the Strip and the Lava Lounge in the South Side. All of them acknowledge the 31st is the hub.

"I just do what I got to do," Greenfield says. "If it works, I keep on doing it."

Steve Boyle and Mike Bonello are puzzled. It's 10 p.m., and only 15 people have come out for Rickety Thursday. Earlier in the week, they flyered coffee shops and record stores, sent out listings to local papers and called friends. Apparently few people got the hint.

"They did the best they could," Greenfield says later. Usually, Rickety - a collective of several local bands including the Johnsons, the Viragos and the Working Poor - attracts crowds of 60 or 70. Greenfield figures most Rickety regulars are either out of town or at Club Laga to catch "Will Play for Beer," a five-week series of local bands.

Math-rock duo the Double have come all the way from Poughkeepsie, N.Y. to play for virtually no one. But they don't look depressed; they're obscure as bands come, and are used to tiny audiences. They set up a drum kit and guitar and do a quick sound check before plugging into a half-hour set.

Following the Double is Loveleash, a veteran rock combo fronted by Duane Irate Jones. A longtime friend of Greenfield's, it was Jones who convinced the pub owner to host Rickety Thursday after its old home at the Tobacco Roadhouse shut down.

While Jones grinds his red Fender Elite Stratocaster into powder, drummer Don Bistarkey and bassist Evan Knauer pound out the rhythm section. After a tight performance, they're satisfied. "That was something else," Knauer says. "Too bad few people saw it."

After three years running, Rickety Thursday is still alive, though not as unified as it used to be. The collective's organization has dwindled to just Bonello - who plays bass for the Viragos and the Dirty Faces - and Boyle, who drums for the Dirty Faces.

When it comes to promoting gigs, they share Greenfield's attitude. "Joel lets us do what we want," Bonello says, "but if a band does nothing at all, we don't invite them back."

"Two dollars, please," Boyle says politely to new arrivals. The price is kept low to get people to come regularly. Unfortunately, the audience is only one side of the equation; Boyle laments that many Rickety bands don't attend Thursdays at the Pub anymore. Others don't even return phone calls.

"There's no community anymore," says Boyle. Nevertheless, he is optimistic Rickety will survive. Though turnout for the Double/Loveleash show was dismal, attendance in general is better than ever.

"I talk myself into coming here every week and I look for something good to happen," he says. "It might just be a bunch of people believing in what they're doing, but that simplicity can be spectacular."

Like 31st Street, other clubs in town host distinct local "scenes" as well. Before the Next Decade closed last spring, it played home to Pittsburgh's thriving rockabilly/alt-country scene, which has found a new home at the Pollinator in Oakland. The Crane Building and Rosebud in the Strip, and Zythos and Memphis in the South Side all cater to Pittsburgh's growing techno crowd. Graffiti in Oakland, traditionally a home to local and national blues acts, has recently opened its doors to jam and jazz-rock fusion bands from across the country. And Nick's Fat City in the South Side regularly features those local bands - the Clarks, the Buzz Poets et al. - looking to break into the commercial modern-rock radio market.

Though diverse, Pittsburgh's music scenes are also divided. Many groups of bands blame others for cliquishness or for "selling out" - i.e., playing popular venues in front of distracted audiences for economic reasons.

However, these barriers between club factions don't always grow out of personal or philosophical conflicts. Sometimes it's a far simpler issue: The majority of audiences are drawn to what's familiar, so that's what most venues and promoters seek to provide.

"Most people aren't willing to experiment," says Clarks frontman Scott Blasey. Unless a band draws a lot of fans, he explains, club owners and promoters simply won't book them. Without the validation a large crowd provides, audiences won't seek them out.

Though his band has long pursued the mainstream rock holy grail of commercial radio airplay, Blasey no less than the more underground performers tries to keep his focus on the creative aspect of his work. "I respect anyone who gets on stage and plays original music," Blasey says. "Whether you're underground or popular, it's tough to get your songs across if people don't listen."

As for the Rickety crowd, they'll continue at the 31st so long as interest prevails. Because audiences there do seem to listen. Neither Bonello nor Boyle can imagine spending a Thursday in another place.

"Joel takes care of the bands here," Boyle says. "He pays them, stays up front and honest and doesn't screw anyone over."

Bonello chimes in. "Every city needs a rock & roll bar," he says. "Pittsburgh has several, but the 31st is the best one for us."

Up the street from the 31st Street Pub, the Bloomfield Bridge Tavern fills with acoustic guitar noise. It's Wednesday - Hellfire Club night at the BBT. The crowd is a bit older and more sedate than a typical 31st Street audience, but they're out for the same reason: to hear underground music in a no-nonsense, intimate setting.

Roughly 30 people have come to see Todd Burge - an acoustic singer/songwriter from West Virginia - and Nashville legend David Olney. Sitting two to a table, the audience waits attentively for opener Burge to adjust his guitar strap. Some sip dollar beers, while others eat plates of the BBT's legendary pierogies. The room is so quiet one can hear the forks poking.

Behind the bar, BBT manager Steve Frankowski blames the low turnout on the rain. Usually, Hellfire night draws a slightly larger crowd. By the time Olney reaches the midpoint of his set, most people have already gone home.

Though gracious, Olney is obviously disappointed. "In Pittsburgh, you have to earn your keep," he says later. "You have to struggle to win people over. Most of the time, you don't."

After packing up his gear, he sits down on a barstool, stuffs a guitar pick in his pants pocket, orders a shot of whiskey and chats with Frankowski. Olney the performer becomes Olney the patron; no one would guess a New York Times music feature recently named him one of the best songwriters of the South.

And no one would guess Frankowski had booked him. That's because he didn't. Whether the musicians playing on the BBT stage are Hellfire acts, polka bands or local indie rock outfits, Frankowski's job is to refill customers's empty glasses and man the cash register. Like Greenfield, he's a bar owner, not a promoter. Other than locking up his sound board after performances, Frankowski keeps his involvement in shows to a minimum. "I tell them to turn the knobs their own way," he says.

Every Wednesday evening, Frankowski hands his pub over to the Ploughman's Lunch, who organize the Hellfire Club programming with poet Vincent Zepp. Like Mike Bonello and Steve Boyle of Rickety, Mullen, bandmate Don Roehlich and Zepp book all the bands, coordinate all promotional activities and keep all the profits. And similarly, they regularly face low turnouts.

"People don't make intelligent choices," Mullen sighs. He expects Hellfire crowds to be small; the young series is not a money-maker, but a labor of love.

Nevertheless, Mullen feels the Pittsburgh music scene is the healthiest it's ever been. The number of local bands has exploded in recent years. More importantly, the number of venues has increased dramatically, from a handful to literally dozens. Every night of the week, bars and clubs in both the city and the suburbs host live bands.

"Then again," he adds, "the music scene is the healthiest for bands who make things happen for themselves."

Many bands contact Mullen to play at Metropol or Rosebud. If they're too esoteric, he refers them to the BBT or the 31st Street Pub, whose small rooms make more suitable venues for underground bands. He never worries about causing a rivalry: Frankowski and Greenfield are longtime friends.

"It's funny how places open and close," Frankowski chuckles, "but Joel and I are still here. We must be doing something right."

When one needs change, an extra bottle of liquor or a band to play, the other helps out. In the past three years, Frankowski and Greenfield have both hosted Bamboozle, a one-night, three-venue festival that attracts hundreds to watch local music.

When it comes to supporting music, they share the same sentiment: Treat bands well and they'll come back.

Of course, on most nights Frankowski's regular clientele wouldn't be caught dead at a 31st Street show. One look at the Golden Showers pretty much explains why.

Under the light of a blue Molson sign - this is the extent of the Pub's stage lighting - the band turns the crowd into a semi-circle. Other than a gold lam� G-string and a pair of white stiletto platforms, the only thing the lead singer wears is a shaggy haircut.

The rest of band consists of a cowboy drummer, a bass-playing siren and a sloppy-looking guitarist. They're all a bit freaky, but it's the virtually naked man who really confounds the audience. Most people have come to the 31st Street Pub to see local favorites Bunjie Jambo, not a German guy in heels.

"He's not a drag singer," Ultimatics guitarist Terry Thomas remarks, "but he's certainly not masculine, either. I don't know what he is, exactly."

The 31st Street regularly plays host to such strange acts. Garage band the Demolition Doll Rods, raunch rockers Hot Damn! and local performance artists the Bull Seal Collective have all graced its stage at one time or another. Some have achieved national recognition: Nashville Pussy, one of Greenfield's favorite bands, was nominated for a Grammy award, and opened for Marilyn Manson at the Civic Arena when last in Pittsburgh.

While Greenfield occasionally loses acts when they hit it big, he's got plenty of replacements to draw upon; the pub owner says he's receiving more mail and phone calls than ever before. And as long as bands don't give up on Greenfield, he won't give up on them. After 22 years in the bar business, he figures he'll keep up with the times until he retires.

With four years of booking shows under his belt, he understands that underground music isn't everyone's favorite niche. Like the guy on his way to Bare Elegance, most people who drive by the 31st Street Pub are on the way to somewhere else.

On occasion - whether out of curiosity or on a whim - a few denizens of the Smallman Street circuit stop, have a beer and mingle. Some return. Many don't. No hard feelings.

"Everyone's part of a different clientele," Greenfield says. "Most folks aren't into underground music. You do the best you can do."