And now the Rose...

I snapped this photo on the way toward the First Friday event, and thought not much about it.  I remember the long-ago establishment here, which gave way to Mojo's, which I'd never liked, so I pretty much have ignored the new incarnation of this little music space down there in what used to be the industrial backwater, our own sketchy patch of downtown Detroit, before the Arts people here decided to upscale the whole neighborhood.  Now, it's the Rose Music Hall. 

But I'd had that sip of beer at the Orr Street Studios, and it was a sunny Friday, a rarity in this long wet season of Washington in the Midwest.  And there was a balloon over there in that bland sky, balloons always a joy (I regret that Columbia hasn't snagged that balloon competition again--we had a good 3-year run of balloons-galore back in the late 90s; I still have one tattered t-shirt from that, and an X-rated story I won't tell), so I decided I'd at least try this new Rose, all the while eager to be confirmed with the worst.

     I walked up to the gate, sure there'd be a cover charge, an automatic/righteous No way! (like the next day at Quinton's) that would let me get on with my business, walking the dogs, starting up the skin-alert for ticks, picking out a new movie to maintain my high culture status.  But no!  No cover.  No one even noticed me walking in.

     At the bar, inside the big music hall room, they still have all those taps.  I picked out what I think the bar-mistress said was Three Blind Mice, out of Springfield, and liked it, then

found a picnic table with a couple who would blissfully ignore me and my legal pad, and so sat down to scribble notes about First Friday.  Didn't take long for me to be distracted by the people all around.  I expected that in-group rough-edge hostility that I always got from Mojo's, that group I could never well define, except that I wasn't it--not enough of my t-shirts are black?  Not excited enough about obscure ultra-cool bands from the 90s that required fans with safety-pin piercings?  That idolized needles that they mostly didn't use?  Didn't have cheap and obscene tattoos? That I never liked the right bad beer, didn't like the smell inside?  Never liked, well, anything about Mojo's...not that it's likely to show.

     So I expected that patio circle of guys with long beards to be somehow part of that too-cool, disdainful crowd, half-expected a picnic table to collapse and bang up my leg like the last time I was here when it was still Mojos's, or be deafened by dubious music inside while I waited for Graham's band to get on stage.  None of this is fair, of course.

I kept watching for the punk-descended storm troopers, but this certainly wasn't their time-slot.  Instead, families, kids, and dogs in the open, sunny green space.  Dogs!  And not the dogs that would be scrabbling in rusty dumpsters for a chunk of something unidentifiable.  These dogs glistened from high-protein diets, each sack of which would have paid for my 20 a month x 20 cents Ramen noodle meals for a full year (there are many of us who still eat on a grad-student budget). Dogs on leashes!  Evidence of obedience classes!  Donna Haraway would be proud.

     Beyond this, the music.  Not screeching at me.  Not unfamiliar. In fact, more low-key than I'd usually go for, including a remake, made-more-mellow version of "I'm on Fire."  In fact, it was easy to not hear the music at all, often an ideal situation for me.  And, as their website tells us, "KOPN 89.5 fm is your community supported radio in Mid-Missouri for 42 years."

     Ok.  What else here?  Guys with stitched jeans, plaid shorts, expensive if low-key hair, pricey, not flashy, celeb-endorsed, consumer-i.d., tennis shoes. Men and women both with leather sandals.  Women with not-quite peasant skirts, well-framed but not vulgar shirts.  Tie-dye.  One shirt logo I had to Google:  "Hustle trees," which YahooAnswers tells me means:

Best Answer: "Hustle trees" means to sell grass/weed/marijuana.

LRG Hustle Trees is what you see in ads for large-size (LRG) "Hustle Trees" logo T-shirts and other clothing, sold to people who -- for some unfathomable reason -- think it's cool to pretend to be a dope dealer and announce the fact to anyone who's watching.

Another t-shirt with the message, "Peace, Love, and Heirloom Tomatoes."  Few kids here are just college age.  Lots of gray-male ponytails.  Re-usable water containers.

     Suddenly, yes, I know this crowd.  This is Columbia-elite.  Not the Wal-mart heirs, not the politicians, not the too-rich-spoiled MU seniors, but the ones who embody Columbia as the blue-heart of Missouri.  The ones at the symphony, at Ragtag, at Art in the Park, at True/False. Progressive, egalitarian and paternal in the same breath, literate, self-assured--with reason to be.  These are the folks who have kept me in the Columbia area, who make this a good place to live, and just as much made me decide to live outside the city limits.

     How did this happen to former Mojo's?  Is it just a freak moment of an art-event afternoon? Or have they met the enemy and politely, very politely, redefined the discourse?  Asserted politically-correct modes of the casual use of public space?  Huh.

     Well, now there are two balloons in the sky, and I realize I'm gazing at catalpha trees scattered all around the enclosure, including directly overhead. (Ok, I know I'm "misspelling" catalpa, but I'm just putting it in my regional dialect.  Y'all up here in the North talk funny.)  Indeed, 
       

when I start paying attention, I notice not only another catalpha tree, but growing around it both day lilies and Queen Anne's Lace, all three indicators of a certainly stability in a place, a certain not-overly-messed-with grace. A pocket of life outside the immediate realm of city planners--a good thing.

     This morning, here in Boonville where writing is taking place for a day or two (but that's another story), Amy and Danita had me try to write out what all this meant, almost like a thesis statement, a form and battleground, which, heresy of heresies for an English teacher, I've come to despise:  I want to show how the place-identity of Mojo's/The Rose has both shifted, yet remained anchored, much through participating in wider networks which are often not conscious of each other.  Such networks, associations, and the biogeography fascinate me.  So things change, and stay the same (that sure sounds like a freshman thesis statement!).  

     Meanwhile, this notice popped up on the back wall bulletin board at Lakota...

  

It's alive!  And reading online about The Rose, I found that Graham's band, Don't Mind Dyin', will be playing here on August 14. But a 5$ cover?? Outrageous!

     See, I do belong in Columbia--I can complain about everything, even on a really nice afternoon when the sky is full of balloons.   Complain.  Equivocate.  Reason.  Blog...

later, bob