In the mid-90s, my buddy Scott went to work for a new venture called New Jersey On-Line, now better known as nj.com. As I was a fellow music nerd and a Hoboken resident, Scott hired me as the fledgling site’s Maxwell’s correspondent. I added booker Todd’s numbers to my Rolodex:
…and in late 1995 began writing dispatches for a page they called “@ Maxwell’s.”
It seems I only did five entries—I don’t remember if that was due to a website redesign, or the Maxwell’s ownership change. Anyway, here’s a slightly-edited version of my first Maxwell’s column, at the tender age of 26.
My First Trip to Maxwell’s
I had landed my first real job. (You know the Great Adventure coupon on the side of the Coke can? I wrote that, my friends.) I was living in Plainsboro, New Jersey, at the northern tip of the 609 area code. Sheila lived with her folks in Westchester County. We decided to meet at a halfway point—Hoboken. I had heard tales of this mystical place, once the laughingstock of New Jersey (which is arguably the laughingstock of the United States). Neither of us had ever been to the Mile Square City, so I suggested we meet at the only place in town I had heard of—Maxwell’s, the legendary rock club. All I knew about Maxwell’s was that the Feelies played there a lot, and Springsteen filmed part of the “Glory Days” video there. If my friends and I had been a little sharper musically during high school, we probably would have headed up the Turnpike fairly often for some memorable Maxwell’s evenings. But unfortunately, our musical tastes—how can I phrase this?—sucked. We never went to Trenton’s City Gardens. We never saw the Misfits. But oh, how we loved the Hooters. (“All you zombies, show your faces! All you people in the street!”)
I learned an important lesson that day: There is not a single road sign from a southern approach that acknowledges Hoboken’s existence. (Here’s a tip for you rookies—when you see the Holland Tunnel, hang a left.) Nevertheless, I arrived at Maxwell’s well in advance of the scheduled meeting time. I cautiously entered this hallowed yet unassuming shrine. I settled down at the bar and scanned the decor. I was shocked to discover… it was nice inside! Stained wood, brick walls, tasteful lighting, lots of windows. A classy restaurant and bar. Where was the smoke? The graffiti? The vomit? I have to admit, I was disappointed. I sipped my beer, and pondered the possibilities. Had Maxwell’s gone soft? Had the gentrification of Hoboken ruined this post-punk Mecca? And where the hell was Sheila?
I tentatively wandered through Maxwell’s, looking for indications of its musical credibility. Digging for sedimentary levels of coolness. And then I found it—the Holy Grail of my quest—the jukebox. You can tell so very much about an establishment and its patrons by the contents of the jukebox. We’ve all seen the country jukeboxes, Irish pub jukeboxes, and oldies jukeboxes. And every single jukebox in the country contains the Doors’ Greatest Hits. They roll off the assembly line with the disc firmly inserted in slot 39. But the Maxwell’s box was different. It was all indie singles, from the best bands in the world. Beat Happening. Superchunk. Unrest. (I’d go on, but you’re bound to disagree with one of my picks, and never trust me again.)
It was one of those rarest of moments when I knew in my heart that “These were my people.” Every once in a while, you’ll find a record store, book shop, restaurant, or whatever, and you’ll know that the owners and the customers are on the same wavelength as you. A place where you’re always comfortable. (Once again, I’d go on, but I fear a lawsuit from that guy who wrote the Cheers theme song.) And I instantly knew that Maxwell’s was one of those places. With the tragic demise of Pier Platters records and Blackwater Books, Maxwell’s may be all Hoboken has left for us. The few, the proud, the aloof.
Sheila did show up, eventually. We later ate at Arthur’s Steaks, where they’ll give you a very large piece of meat for a very small price.
It’s four years later now, and I’ve been living in Hoboken for a year and a half. It wasn’t my choice—New Jersey state law dictates that all college graduates are required to move here. But I don’t mind. Maxwell’s is still one of my favorite places. (Turns out the bands play in the back room! Who knew?) I’ll be sharing my observations here every week. Hope you’ll tune in.
Awww, that was cute!