My Little Corner of the World: Memories of Maxwell’s

It was 1997 and I felt like an ass. I’d moved to Hoboken from central Jersey three years earlier. It was closer to my job, closer to my East Village girlfriend, and there was Pier Platters and Maxwell’s: a world-class record store and one of the best rock clubs anywhere. Except Pier Platters—which was on the same street as me fer crissakes—had since closed. And now Maxwell’s had changed hands and was some kind of stupid microbrewery with shitty blues bands. Oh, and the girl had just run off with some pretentious, floppy-haired, poetry-writing prick. Why the fuck did I live here?

Now it’s 16 years later and I kind of feel like a jerk again. Because it’s Maxwell’s last day.

Hoboken had quickly regained some normalcy for me. Todd Abramson saved Maxwell’s, jettisoning the beer tanks and bringing back the rock. Tunes, while not the indie-label mecca that Pier Platters was, has been a terrific, thriving record store here where I’ve made many fantastic friends. And I’ve met and lost a few women in the interim too.

But the new loss of Maxwell’s is a crushing blow to me, creating a huge hole in my existence.

I simply can’t understate the importance of Maxwell’s and Pier Platters in my life when I was 25. As a college DJ at WRCT in Pittsburgh, I’d been lovingly reprogrammed to only trust all things indie. But after graduating in that pre-Internet world, it was increasingly difficult to keep up with the underground music scene; I felt my “cred” slowly slipping away. Thankfully in central Jersey, where I’d grown up and then landed my first job out of school, there was Princeton University’s WPRB and the Princeton Record Exchange. Moving up north, I knew I’d have another solid indie foothold in Hoboken.

I’d been to Maxwell’s three times before moving to Hoboken: Once for drinks with my college pal Sheila, and twice for shows. My high-school buddy Jeff, a fellow music nerd, had turned up at my farmhouse basement apartment in Plainsboro, after a Hawaiian sojourn, with outrageous Jewish dreadlocks and a desire to hear some music without ukuleles. On August 28, 1992, we drove up the Turnpike to see Tar and the Jesus Lizard. The bands were loud and powerful, there was a mosh pit, and I bought a cool Jesus Lizard t-shirt with Mickey Mouse riding an atom bomb.

For the next show, my Pittsburgh pals the Karl Hendricks Trio were sleeping on my floor and were opening for the Mekons at Maxwell’s. I arrived with them, and I guess I carried in an amp or something, because soon I was being offered a free meal in the club’s restaurant section. This place ruled! (And especially so for a young guy subsisting mainly on ramen noodles.)

So Maxwell’s was a known, trusted quantity when I finally became a Hoboken resident. It helped that I was familiar with some of the already fading lore. I’d been a Feelies fan since high school, when Jeff and I had seen them open for R.E.M. at New York’s Felt Forum. I’d seen a video for “Beat Hotel” by the Bongos on a bizarre local TV station called U68. Also during high school, I’d written down “Black & White — the dB’s” on a little scrap of paper after hearing the song on WPRB on the little AM/FM radio in my bedroom. Since college I’d been a big fan of Hoboken-based filmmaker John Sayles, and he’d directed Bruce Springsteen’s “Glory Days” video, partially set in Maxwell’s. (For us MTV-weaned ’80s teens, that was a pretty big deal.)

Then there was this band called Yo La Tengo. In college I was often writing down names of bands on folded-over Post-It notes. (I was clearly the Big Man on Campus, as you can see.) Then my next time at the radio station, I’d look them up in the record library and give it a spin. I’d read a review of Yo La Tengo’s New Wave Hot Dogs album, I think in a Tower Records magazine. So I played a few of their songs on the air and was digging them. One day the phone rang in the station during my shift; I picked up and Ira Kaplan from the band was on the line. They were coming by the station later, so I took a message or gave him the address. Then I geekily, excitedly told Ira I liked their records, especially “Orange Song.” He thanked me but to this day I feel like a dope for singling out what I later learned was a cover, of an Antietam song. Oh well.

Now it was 1994, I lived in Hoboken, and I could go to Maxwell’s whenever I liked. The shows were cheap—six or seven bucks—which I could easily afford, even on my assistant-editor salary. Everything I’d heard was true—when bands from around the world (“the world” usually meaning the U.S. and U.K.) came to this area, they’d play Maxwell’s instead of some club in Manhattan. This is back when there were clubs in Manhattan. I saw so many great bands, so many great shows. Favorites I’d never seen before. Jonathan Richman—on a Sunday afternoon! Marshall Crenshaw! Giant Sand, and a new band they spawned called Calexico! Robyn-freaking-Hitchcock! Alex Chilton! My beloved Uncle Tupelo had broken up, but in 1995 I saw the members’ new bands, Son Volt and Wilco. (I initially thought Son Volt would be the ones to “make it.”) Superchunk, Luna, Daniel Johnston, and on and on and on and on.

We weren’t in the Hoboken music scene’s—ahem—”glory days” but there were still many excellent local musicians making great records, and I saw so many of them play at Maxwell’s. Kate Jacobs. The Schramms. George Usher. James Mastro. Laura Cantrell. Freedy Johnston.

And friends’ bands got to play there too. Always so cool to see a buddy up on that great stage. Brian and his band Higgins. Different Brian with Stuyvesant. Ed and his Wild Deer. Eddie and Ground to Machine. Efrain, solo. And I’d meet members of bands, and some of them became friends too. It was just that kind of atmosphere.

A few memories:

• For a very brief spell in the mid-’90s, I was the Maxwell’s correspondent for the new website nj.com. Get into shows for free and write about them? Sounded like a dream. Reviewed Ben Lee, Polvo, Son Volt. Had booker/soon-to-be-owner Todd Abramson’s number in my Rolodex. Briefly got to feel like a cool, connected guy.

• Also in the ’90s, still very much in the country’s microbrew era, I went to see Sonic Youth’s Thurston Moore performing a solo instrumental show. I was early (I’m usually early) and standing at the bar in the back room. Thurston approached and, shockingly, ordered a bottle of Bud. But that’s not… indie beer. I took a deep breath, and also ordered a Bud. It felt like a big moment, this blessing from Thurston. I’ve never looked down on Budweiser since.

• Summer 1996, I walk into the back room, a performer is already onstage, sitting on a chair, wearing a knit cap, strumming an acoustic guitar. A small batch of young fans (younger than me? I was only 27!) were sitting cross-legged on the floor, gazing up at the musician. I tend to despise when people sit on the floor at shows. You’re taking up more than your fair share of space, and besides, music is for standing. Still, this singer had a quiet, hypnotic intensity that made sitting seem like the right thing to do. These fans worshipped this Elliott Smith and soon I was entranced by him as well. Within a few years my friend Karen and I saw him at a packed Beacon Theatre in Manhattan. A few years after that he was dead.

• This must’ve been New Year’s 2001. (2000? No, 2001 makes a lot more sense.) Yo La Tengo takes the stage after midnight in gorilla suits. And so many other YLT Maxwell’s memories: getting a 7″ single as a parting gift, New Years ’99; backing Neil Innes of the Rutles; David Byrne joining them for a Japan tsunami benefit; and Hanukkah shows, so many Hanukkah shows, right from the beginning. I’ve been so nerdily proud over the years to live in the same town as Yo La Tengo. Spotting Ira and Georgia on the PATH train platform, or Ira on his bike at the post office, or them standing at the back of a hundred Maxwell’s shows, just as fans. Still, those gorilla suits kind of stick in my memory.

• I’d seen Peter Holsapple at Maxwell’s, and I’d seen Chris Stamey. But I’d never seen the long-broken-up dB’s anywhere. In the pre-Facebook days, I spent a lot of time on the messageboard of the dB’s website. Fans from around the country got to know each other a little. (I even made a great friend, Kath, over in Wales.) In 2005 the band announced that they’d reformed and would be playing two shows at Maxwell’s in September. How thrilling it was to see them (both shows, of course) and to meet a couple of my messageboard friends, who’d traveled just to see the band. And I only had to walk up the street.

• In 2008, another band reunited. The Feelies had been asked by Sonic Youth to open for them on the 4th of July in Manhattan. So of course the Feelies had to warm up at Maxwell’s. I’d been 17 the last time I saw the band; now I was nearly 40. So this was kind of amazing. That I got to casually chat with percussionist Dave Weckerman before the show (about his Daniel Johnston t-shirt) and then—years later—become quite friendly with drummer Stan Demeski and his lovely wife Janice, certainly says something about the intimate, welcoming vibe that exists at Maxwell’s.

I rang in the New Year several times at Maxwell’s: Luna (with a buffet dinner included!), Yo La Tengo, Roky Erickson, Ted Leo. I haven’t always had plans for December 31, so going to a great rock show within walking distance of my home always seemed like an excellent back-up plan. Which often became the primary plan. I always felt fine going to Maxwell’s by myself, on New Years or any of the other 364. Which isn’t to say I never went with friends, because I did that plenty: with Jeff, Joe, Sarah, Steve, Sarah Jane, Carl, Nancy, Jim, Liz, Doreen, Christina, Barry, Maggie, Charles, Christine, Chris, Leslie, Tom, Brian, Brian, Theron, Efrain, Becky, Becca, Nicole, Gabrielle, Libby, Leital, Rob, Liz, Matt, Patrick, Mike, Ellen, Niall, Alirio, Christine, Charles, George, Marcia, Jane, Lisa, Jennifer, Beth, Beth, Susan, Chelsea, Susannah, Jimmy….

But more times than not, I’d check the listings, notice a band I wanted to see, then go to Tunes and buy a ticket. “How many?” a million sales clerks have asked. Just one, thanks. I’d walk up to Maxwell’s—takes me 15 minutes, maybe 20—to see the show. Stand where I want, have a beer, look at the merch table between bands. Convenience and comfort.

And over the years, something really nice started to happen. This might sound corny but, I’d show up alone, yet never really was. I can’t think of the last time I went to a show at Maxwell’s and didn’t run into somebody I knew. Sometimes a few people, sometimes a lot. There’s this genuine sense of community, of likemindedness. WFMU, Weird NJ, Louise & Jerry’s, Tunes; writers, artists, musicians, neighbors. Familiar faces at a clubhouse, a home away from home. It’s funny, there’s this guy, I’d see this guy nearly every time I went to Maxwell’s. It was uncanny. Similar taste in music, I supposed. It became a running joke between me and my old roommate Joe; we decided this guy’s name was “Ted.” Hey, there’s Ted. Hey, you missed a good show, Ted was there. I even started to predict when Ted wouldn’t be there, for certain “harder” bands. Well, after 19 years or so, I finally met Ted. His name is Tim, which is actually pretty close. Really nice guy. Now we talk, we laugh, we drink, we e-mail. See you at Maxwell’s later? Yeah, I’ll be there.

Rumors for months. Christine posted something on my Facebook page but I refused to believe it. Then the announcement finally came, beginning of June: It was all over. Still, these two months have been really, really good, a chance to—sorry to be corny again—begin the healing. A chance to see so many bands and musicians from over the years one last time here. Kate Jacobs. Dave Schramm. The Health & Happiness Show. Chris Stamey. Freedy. Jon Langford. Reigning Sound. Swingin’ Neckbreakers. Ted Leo. The Feelies, always the Feelies. Finally met Steve Fallon, who started the place back in 1978. So many friends, so many familiar faces in the crowd night after night after night.

Early on, I started keeping a tally of the shows I’d see at Maxwell’s (minus some of those first opening bands—I kick myself!). As of today, I’d seen more than 300 different performers, many of them multiple times, Yo La Tengo an obscene number of times. Celebrated my last two birthdays there. Attending live radio broadcasts. Holiday shows. So many benefits. Mornings, afternoons, nights, some very late nights.

So what now? I’m not really sure. I’ll still see a lot of music; that’s what I do. A lot of rumors about owner Todd—who finally after all these years will nod at me when I enter, and that means an awful lot—maybe opening a place in Jersey City. That’d be a longer walk for me, for sure, but I could manage. In the meantime I’ll go where the music is: Manhattan, Williamsburg, Greenpoint, Bushwick, Park Slope, Gowanus, Staten Island, Jersey City, Garwood, Montclair, Boonton, Fords, New Brunswick, Asbury Park, West Long Branch, Philadelphia. I hear there’s a new punk club in Bayonne. And there are even a couple of other stages here in Hoboken.

But right now I’m going take a little time off, to remember, to mourn, to appreciate. So much has come and gone in my life in the past 19 years but I always had Maxwell’s. I felt so at ease in that back room. Handing over my ticket, getting my hand stamped. Buying a beer. Standing, waiting. The indescribable, indestructible joy of music, so much music. Encore if we were lucky. Eventually, though, the lights came back on. Thrilled exhaustion. Survey the emptying room, bottles, glasses, crushed cups scattered about. Grab a ticket stub from the edge of the back bar, if any were left. Buy a CD, buy a shirt? Linger, just a little. But finally it’s time to go, time for that quiet walk home.