QUOTE OF THE WEEK:

SONG OF THE WEEK: “Turf Club, St. Paul”
— Todd Newman

There’ll be no giant, garish green banner hanging behind the drum kit on stage—oops, did I say drum kit? The SPMC bought, maintained and shared all of the gear at the Turf, including the drum kit. If that gear’s still there, it’s only because the SPMC are just a nice goddamn bunch of folks. There are no outlandish costumes thrown willy-nilly over the couches and tables in the Green Room, no bulletin board overloaded with notes reading, “Folk/Funk fusion act desperately seeking drummer,” “Hard rock vocalist looking for band. I’m into Queens Of The Stone Age, Motorhead, and some emo,” or, “Lost: One Zildjian cymbal case, black. Please call Carlos at blah blah blah.” No rockin’, boppin’, grinning Rob Rule peering out over the soundboard. And somewhere, right now, there are around 70 beat-up vinyl copies of Neil Young’s Harvest album (which used to hang from the ceiling there like so many gentle, dusty, rock ‘n’ roll Christmas ornaments) stacked willy-nilly in a cardboard box.

For music fans, curious college kids, local and national (and international) artists, and bookers, PR flacks, and media wonks alike, it truly is the end of an era. Quite frankly, if you weren’t there, you’ll have to be content with (and put up with) the memories of those of us who were, bragging it up, comparing it to everyplace else, and, sometimes, shedding a salty tear in our beers over it. Personally, I can only say that there’s a real good chance that there would not only NOT be a Round The Dial, but I may not have continued writing about rock ‘n’ roll at all had it not been for the people, experiences and opportunities that came with being a member of and friends with the SPMC. A loose collective of local artists, musicians and fans, the club was responsible for giving a much needed leg up to countless fellow rockers, folkies and boogie-woogie bad boys (and gals) over the years, but mostly, they acted as parents-by-proxy, swingin’ party hosts/hostesses, or cool, late-night baby-sitters to any and all who knocked upon their figurative door.

What will I miss the most about the SPMC no longer being at the Turf? Well, you might think it’d be the excellent bands and artists (Rob Rule, especially, who booked, hosted, led the house band, ran the soundboard, and basically wiped the drool off the chins of everybody who looked like they needed it) they brought my way since I first started haunting the joint in the mid-’90s. Or the Clownge, where I and my fellow Squealer magazine cohorts first sponsored the Sunday Night Clown Lounge Calvacade of Stars, long before regular jazz nights, visits by the likes of Ryan Adams and Lucinda Williams, and a nightly parade of horny, haughty hipsters became regular occurrences there. Or maybe the complete, no-holds-barred access I was given as a journalist to some of the world’s most talented singers, musicians and artists. And yeah, you’d be right on all of those counts, but that wouldn’t be the whole truth.

Sure, it was a real treat watching people like Dream Syndicate founder Steve Wynn, Hank Williams III and Syl Sylvain of the New York Dolls tear up the same stage my best friends played on every other night of the week. And yeah, the Clownge (and its one-of-a-kind host/bartender Dave Weigardt) was like a home away from home for me, even years after I’d had anything to do with the booking or entertainment there. Hell, I missed more than one great show upstairs sitting at that tiny bar. One night, local writer Jim Walsh and I hunkered there, drinking and yacking through a two-hour show by a national artist we’d both come specifically to see. Upon hearing the band quit playing and glancing at the clock, we both gaped at each other and threw up our hands....that’s just the way that room was, like time stopped in a blissful state of limbo. Finally, there’s no denying that I was thrilled beyond words to have the opportunity to make ex-Mother Of Invention Jimmy Carl Black and his band tacos and hang out with ‘em all night. Have my photo taken with Alejandro Escovedo. Buy Lucinda Williams a drink, and have her give me a special autograph (“To Tommy—My Other Drunken Angel. Love, Lu) and a hug or three. To hang out listening to stories from The Silos’ Walter Salas-Humera after hours. I wouldn’t trade a moment of it for anything.

But what I’ll really miss the most, as you might have guessed, will be the people. The regular, beer-swilling, cig-sucking, bullshit-spouting folks who, just like me, came to the Turf for the camaraderie, the vibes, the warmth. Lounging around on the SPMC bus for A WHOLE DAY, sucking down a kegger and trading verbal jabs with Grant Hart, Rich Mattson or John Ewing. Stumbling up those stairs with Dave W., my buddy Max Edwards and Martin Devaney at closing time. Hanging out with three or four other die-hards on a Sunday side-stage night, watching Hazy Dave Hazledine play ancient blues and folk tunes on a battered acoustic. Haunting the alley after hours with Tom Siler, Andy Schultz and the Mammy Nuns until the last rock trivia question was answered, the final Bill Nye The Science Guy theory expounded upon, the final vehicle had pulled off, reluctantly, into the first faint strains of a new dawn. Catching Leah Rule’s knowing glance and open grin as we both totally grooved on a riff, or a lyric, or a stance from one of the cats onstage. Spinning around to catch some sorta-famous celeb strolling through the doors, or Rob switching costumes onstage (let’s not forget the dozens of “Tribute” shows the Mammys and friends put on over the years—SPMC Stinks, a tribute to the Replacements, Frank-O-Ween, the annual Frank Zappa-a-thon, Styx And Stones, Grand Young Day, the yearly cover band gigs) during one of those Tuesday night Mammy wammy-jammys. It’s the people who made that bar, the people who gave it life, and the people who are leaving it with the reputation, the great vibes and endless possibilities lying ahead.

So yeah, I’ll miss the SPMC being there. I’ll miss Mammy Tuesdays. I’ll miss the old guard, my old pals, my favorite artists, my insider privileges. But you know what? I’m not going to count the Turf Club out quite yet. There’s no doubt that it will never be the same, but that doesn’t mean nothing good will ever happen there again. Bands and artists that Rob booked are still on the docket, and they deserve our support. Some of the old Turf staff remains, good people like Dave Rickert, who helps book, always has a friendly smile, and makes a damn good day drink. Word has it that Ol’ Yeller front man/soundguy Rich Mattson may take over booking on Tuesdays—how cool is that? And neighborhood people, regular folks, people whose faces you know by heart but you’ve never spoken a word to—friendly, familiar rock ‘n’ roll background—they’ll all still be cloistered around a half-full pitcher of Summit, laughing at the Green Day song playing on the juke or the drunken fool playing pool. Rob and the gang will be sorely missed, but they’d be the last ones to tell you to never darken the place’s door again, people. That’s the legacy of the SPMC—and he and the gang would want you and I to keep that flame a’ burnin’. In the meantime, the staff and the Mammy Nuns will move into their next exciting phase, with new shows, new venues, new adventures lying just around the corner. Thanks, Rob, Leah, Dave and the rest ... lead on, brothers and sisters. We’re right behind ya.

National and local artists/fans react to the changes at the Turf:

The Tuesday night crowd, the SPMC people—musicians, fans, bartenders, the fabulous Leah Rule, writers, bouncers (are there bouncers at the Turf? Door guys, I guess. Never noticed them doing a lot of bouncing)—know a definition of the word “support” that no car ribbon magnet could ever duplicate. Tuesday nights made my whole work week tolerable. I guess that explains why I suddenly quit my day job on Friday. But my defining memory of the SPMC at the Turf is obviously the Mammy Nuns. The way they can bounce from hilarity to brilliance within one verse of a song. The way Rob unselfconsciously plays ringleader and keeps his fellow geniuses in check on stage. The way musicians would come to see him play, trying to get gigs at the Turf, and then come back even when they were already booked. He looked like a different guy every single Tuesday, and I was a happy witness to the way his songwriting blossomed over the last couple years at an age that is way too big of a number for American Idol. I am heartbroken, miserable, distraught, inconsolable. But I’m holding out hope that there will be a Tuesday night soon that finds me sitting at a Turf Club table with Rob and Leah, watching Ol’ Yeller. Ideally, the Mammys will be on the bill. Life goes on, and it ain’t time to die yet, dammit.
Terry Walsh
2AM, Belfast Cowboys

It takes a bit of touring before you can find that club in each city that becomes your “home.” The Turf Club had become that place for me and my band, a club where we always felt welcome and appreciated, where we felt good about playing music and having friends and fans there along with us to enjoy a good evening. I’ve always said that so much of the music each evening comes down to how the band feels about their surroundings when they hit the stage. Rob and everyone at the Turf Club always made sure we had a good time and that’s why my Turf Club memories will always be good ones. Thanks!
Steve Wynn
Dream Syndicate founder
Solo artist
auxiliary member, Golden Smog

Yeah, I think it was about the time that they demolished the old 24 bar when the SPMC first popped up and that 24 scene sort of migrated over to the Turf—Whiskey Sour Notes, Beangirl, etc. I guess what sticks out in my memory most are all the weird theme nights. The craziest one I can think of was the Alice Cooper/ZZtop cover night. I don’t really get the connection, A to Z maybe? I sang “I’m the Coolest” by Alice Cooper, and even though I was really a fat drunk with a horrible hair cut, somehow when you were around Rob Rule and the SPMC nights at the Turf, you felt like you really were the coolest.
Glen Mattson
Kingdom Of Ghosts
The Glenrustles

It’s 11 hours from my house to the Turf Club. Why did we drive there twice a year for eight years? The Turf Club/SPMC family provided the place and atmosphere for live, original music. Never mind the giant, leaky air conditioner—thank you Rob & Leah and all the drunken musicians.
Terry & Jamie Rouch
The Roach Brothers, Indiana

Every now and then when I’m feeling particularly blue, I sometimes think about how few places there are in the town where I live that I feel absolutely comfortable. Except for the Turf Club. For the past 10 years, I have been fortunate, like so many others, to have a place that personifies the heart and soul of the free thinkers of the Twin Cities music scene. In cement, always present, without a doubt, if I wanted to surround myself with people that were like-minded, full of philosophy, or vastly without, I knew where to go and that I would find them there ready to fulfill my unspoken request. Rob Rule and Dave Weigart, for creating and nurturing this masterpiece, I will be forever indebted to you.
Dana Thompson
Solo artist/Minor Planets

I became hooked on “Three Chords,” and tacos 9 months ago. The Mammy Nuns are great tongue-in-cheek rock ’n’ roll, and Raleigh’s tacos are the best. The Burrito Bash was one of the funnest events, with favorite bands such as Little Man, Kruddler and Ol’ Yeller. The playground known as the Turf is the best place to hear local rock music and meet and hang out with friends. I’ve developed many friendships with fellow music lovers there who share similar socio-political and arts views. Rule and Weigart and other staff are the most supportive folks around musicians and journalists. The place has tons of heart which makes it special.
Cyn Collins
Freelance writer

We played the TURF a couple weeks ago (the last Saturday in March) with Slim (Dunlap), and everyone—especially Rob—was totally bummed. It’s very sad when a great venue changes. Luckily the SPMC seems to be a pretty committed bunch and I’m sure many more great gigs are in our future. Cheers!
Walter Salas-Humera
The Silos

It’s hard to come up with one example of why I love the Turf club. Overall, the Turf has been like a second home to me and Accident Clearinghouse. We played there about once every two months, have done our New Year’s show there every year for the last seven years, with two exceptions, and whenever we put out a record we did the release at the Turf. Why? Because they took care of us. They treated us like friends, or, better still, like family. We knew everyone there and they knew us. We had fun together. If we played a good show, it was an awesome show at the Turf, and a bad show was still tolerable, because of all the support from the folks there. None of this really captures what I’m feeling, though. It’s hard to put into words what a place and the people associated with it really mean to you. Maybe the best is just to say Thank You, for everything, to everyone. We love you guys, and we’ll miss the Turf greatly.
Quillan Roe
& Accident Clearinghouse


I’m really glad I got a chance last summer to fulfill my dream of fronting the Mammy Nuns for a Tuesday night performance! And little did John Ewing and I know when we did our “Summer Side of Life” Ode to Gordon Lightfoot on a Hazy Dave Sunday that there would be no more summerTurf Club shows to write home about. St. Paul has lost a lot of incredible vibe, Donna Dee at The Manor, Casey’s, etc. Maybe Captain Dave (Weigardt) can re-open the Edmund Fitzgerald in his own basement, a more true “Members/Clowns only” kind of hang. In the immortal words of Wiggy himself,”Alright, you guys, I’m gonna start trying to get us all out of here!”
Tom Siler
Larme’ De Colere
ex-Tulip Sweet/The Odd

How could such a cool place be brought down so quickly? Even though this 15 year old was only able to enjoy one concert at the Turf Club (the Ike Reilly band), it was a mind opening experience. It was such a peaceful environment, it was the happiest bar I have ever came across, and it was the kind of place where the people drowning their sorrows in alcohol looked like they were having a good time. It seems all the good places where people can go to escape and listen to some good live music are getting brought down. I wanted to take a little venture there when I turned 21, but I guess I can’t now, and it’s a sad thought. Maybe I’ll just go to an Irish pub, what the hell. But I just don’t think it’ll feel the same.
Bryan Hallett
15-year old local music fan

One more note on the SPMC: I found a great site dedicated to the club on line, hosted by SPMC member/Mammys fan/local rocker Jon Rayl. There aren’t many posts up there yet, but I think it could be a great web-meeting place for SPMC members, fans and the curious to hook up and share memories, anecdotes, and post/gather info on upcoming SPMC/Mammy events. I hope to see scads of messages up there soon. Thanks to Jon Rayl. Here’s that URL. That’s it for me this week, gang. Tune again next time for more trippin’ with the Ergo© Time Machine and new CD reviews. Huge ups to the artists/fans who contributed their Turf memories to this piece. Until we meet again—make yer own damn news. ||

If you have local music news/gigs/events/CDs you’d like to see listed in this column, or you’d just like to complain that you’ve been experiencing serious hunger pangs since Raleigh’s Tacos vacated the Turf, send replies to: (NEW E-MAIL!!) Tmygunn777@peoplepc.com.