An ode to the greatest venue in the world

Read my essay from 'Saint Vitus Bar: The First Ten Years, an Oral and Visual History.'

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Last summer I had a chat here with Nathaniel Shannon, a photographer who was compiling a massive book that aimed to document the first ten years of the greatest venue in the world, Saint Vitus Bar in Brooklyn. The ambitious project’s Kickstarter was closing soon and I was trying my best to get the word out. In the months following, I’d text him every so often. “How’s the book coming?” Partly to be supportive but partly because I wanted to finally see the damn thing. He’d fill me in on the many, many logistical struggles to get this thing across the finish line. It started to seem like it might never actually see the light of day, the Apocalypse Now of music books. But then, last week, a very heavy package showed up at my door. Inside was a wooden box with a skull painted on it.¹ I opened the clasp and inside was one of the most comprehensive rock books I’ve ever seen.

I have been flipping through this thing for an hour and I don’t feel like I’ve even scratched the surface. It will take me days to fully go through this. Over 330 pages, more than 100 contributors, god knows how many photos and posters. Lots of shows I helped book, lots of shows I attended, lots of shows I’d forgotten I attended, lots of shows I wish I attended. (I am embarrassed to say that I fell asleep the night of the famous Nirvana show and woke up to several dozen texts that said, “GET DOWN TO VITUS RIGHT NOW!!!!”) Packed with interviews, essays, and blurbs from notable music folks like Walter Schreifels, Dominic Palermo (Nothing), Chelsea Wolfe, Geoff Rickly, and on and on and on. And it was edited by Kate Napolitano, the brilliant editor behind my book SELLOUT. 

I was asked to contribute a story for the book and wound up penning an uncharacteristically sentimental essay about the famed “secret” Descendents/Hot Water Music show there in 2012, which was sort of a watershed moment, both for the bar and for me personally. There is another essay about this show in the book, by co-owner Arty Shepherd, which fills in some gaps from his perspective, so you get the full story.

Looking at this thing now, I just feel so, so grateful. Grateful to have witnessed the rise of this very special place, grateful for all the nights spent there, grateful for the generous people who run it, grateful for Nathaniel for compiling it, and grateful that my name is in it forever. What an honor.

I am reprinting my aforementioned essay below, with permission. Grab your own copy while they last. Also, in case you hadn’t heard, some fucking idiot called the NYC Department of Buildings and had Vitus shut down mid-Mindforce show back in February. So anything you buy from their store is a help to them during this interim while they work to reopen.

At Home with Nathaniel Shannon (St. Vitus Bar: The First Ten Years)

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THUNDER IN THE NIGHT FOREVER

I’m not a religious person but I can recognize an act of God when I see one. And on September 8, 2012, I witnessed something Biblical when I looked up and saw the Brooklyn sky being torn apart. Thick, ominous clouds had converged over the Williamsburg parking lot where thousands of people were gathered for Riot Fest’s first and only attempt at launching a New York date. It was still afternoon but it suddenly turned dark as night. Everything was crimson and black. It felt apocalyptic, like wrath was upon us. Tornadoes with winds over 100 miles per hour touched down in parts of Brooklyn and Queens that day, ripping up roofs and powerlines. I’d lived in New York my whole life, but that was the first time I’d ever seen such a thing. 

The festival paused all operations in an attempt to wait out the dangerous weather. Hot Water Music and Descendents were still scheduled to play. Through an act of good fortune, I found myself in Descendents’ cramped trailer, catching up with guitarist Stephen Egerton. Drummer Bill Stevenson sat in the corner writing out a set list in hopes that their set would only be delayed for a short while. But eventually, a festival employee barged in to break the news: The remainder of the day was canceled.

“Ah, damn,” Stephen said. “We practiced hard for this, too. We really feel like playing tonight!”

And I blurted out, “Well, hell, my friend Justin has a bar down the street where maybe you could play.” St. Vitus co-owner Justin Scurti happened to be standing there against the wall, too nervous in the presence of Milo Aukermann to even blink. “Hey, Justin, think these guys could play at your place tonight?” I remember Justin nodded his head and mouthed “sure” but nothing came out.

The next thing I recall, the two of us were trying to hold back 500 people from pushing their way through the Vitus doors. We had somehow moved the headliners of Riot Fest, a festival intended for thousands of attendees, into a 225-cap venue. Word had gotten around, and we were overwhelmed. Hot Water Music and Descendents both played to a room that was so packed it felt like the walls were going to burst. The air inside was so hot and steamy that the woman next to me fainted before Descendents even took the stage. 

Everyone who survived that sweaty, impromptu mess left feeling like they’d witnessed something life-changing. The show became the stuff of local legend and even netted a few national press write-ups. St. Vitus had been open for just over a year at that point, but I would argue this was the day it was officially christened. It was the night it fully clicked for everyone that St. Vitus was a special place, and special things could happen there. That special things should happen there.

The Vitus staff took lots of chances on me and the wild ideas I brought them over the next decade. One time I asked if we could throw a secret Against Me! show at midnight, after the band finished playing a sold-out Webster Hall in Manhattan. Another time I brought in Saves the Day, who performed their beloved album Through Being Cool start to finish until four in the morning. Some club owners are uptight when presented with anything that might inconvenience them. But David Castillo, George Souleidis, Arty Shepherd, Justin Scurti, and the rest of the Vitus crew always welcomed it as an opportunity. Not once did I ever hear Castillo say, “We can’t.” It’s just not in his vernacular. Instead, it was always “How can we make it happen?”

I was merely one of many. Plenty of more well connected industry hustlers have ushered a staggering list of bands through the Vitus doors—from Anthrax to Texas Is the Reason, Refused to Converge, Sunn O))) to blink-182, Megadeth to Thursday, and this other band some people are familiar with called Nirvana. The roster would be impressive for any venue, let alone a tiny hole in the wall at the ass-end of Greenpoint.

It’s hard to explain what makes St. Vitus such a unique place to witness live music. It’s about as unremarkable from an architectural standpoint as it gets—a plain black box with a short stage and some scattered Satanic paraphernalia. Just wood, steel, and wires. My mother has been there once, for my book release party, and called the place “a black hole where time stops.” But at the risk of sounding overly whimsical, there is just something magical that exists within that darkened little space that can’t be captured by any photo or video. You have to be standing in the room, staring ahead at the skull and crossbones behind the stage to understand it, to feel it. 

I like to think the walls have absorbed the energy of every band that has ever played there. When Dave Grohl pounded his drums and when Matt Pike shredded his guitar and when Laura Jane Grace howled into the microphone while being crowd surfed from wall to wall, it all remained there. None of it ever left the room. A few performers who have graced the stage, sadly, have been outlived by it. The world may have lost Power Trip’s Riley Gale and Planes Mistaken for Stars’ Gared O’Donnell, but their spirits live on at the corner of Manhattan Ave. and Clay St. To step inside St. Vitus is to become part of a decade of rock history. It is a mecca for hardcore, metal, and punk—a vital New York institution—and it is sacred in some way. Whether you’ve been there once or you’re a regular at the bar, you’re part of it, too.

So when I say that it was an act of God that a tornado hit Brooklyn that day, I mean it. I believe with my whole heart that those sinister clouds and mighty winds were the universe’s way of forcing people over to St. Vitus, making sure the world knew that this little black box in Greenpoint was a special place where, on any given night, magic could happen.

I owe so much to St. Vitus, and am grateful for these last ten momentous years. May the place outlive us all.

1. Please note: I don’t believe the the wooden box set is the standard issue version available online. I might’ve gotten a special one because I’m a fancy boy.