requiem for aldo's
I am beyond sad right now. I got a call from my sister informing me that Aldo's, my old stomping grounds, burned down the other day. I feel like I lost an old friend.
I grew up in a typical northeastern New Jersey town where guidos and burnouts ruled the roost and the airwaves. Local establishments catered to their musical tastes while those of us artsy, sensitive types were left in the cold desperately wanting more than spandex-clad hair bands and whiny sing-through-the nose clubbers warbling about "Maria" in every other song.
On the other end of the spectrum, there was Top 40 which didn't quite cut the mustard with me either. And despite my blue-collar Jersey upbringing, I was never empowered by the melodies of Bruce or Bon Jovi. In case you were wondering, it's not a law or anything. In fact, I barely know any of the words to "Thunder Road" and I can chime in only on select parts of "Born to Run." At Fatso Fogarty's and Molly's, my friends screamed along to "Rosalita" while I sullenly held up the nearby wall.
The worst were the fraternity parties my friends dragged me to at the New Jersey Institute of Technology. None of us even went to that school but my friends had surmised that boys outnumbered girls about four to one at this and most other engineering schools. Yeah, that was fun for a questioning dyke to be dry humped to the tunes of Gloria Gaynor and K.C. and the Sunshine Band by a drunk frat boy who hadn't seen a girl all week.
What is up with the disco at frat houses?! I can't stand it on its own but it's even worse when accompanied by sweaty boys in baseball caps drinking Busch beer. Not only do they need to update the music library, but their dance moves need an overhaul too. They've really run those variations of "Doin' the Butt" into the ground.
And while I'm on my soapbox, boys, exnay on the sandwiching of and vigorous rubbing against unsuspecting girls. It's both presumptuous and invasive, don't you think?
Good God, I don't think I've ever known such misery as those fucking parties. So I put my foot down and stopped going. I reached out to different friends and we began frequenting Aldo's and The Loop Lounge in Passaic. To some, these were the weirdo bars to be avoided. They complained of the leather-clad pierced regulars. Instead, I embraced them and cursed my bland J. Crew-heavy wardrobe. I too wanted to use Armor All to clean my clothes!
The critics also pooh-poohed the dark lighting whereas my eyes hungrily gobbled up the sight of the holograms dancing on the wall and the pyschedelic screens above the dance floor providing well-timed blasts of color through the dark smoke. I felt at home. The music engulfed me. I felt comfortable, free and happy.
For the first time, I wasn't a wallflower. No one ever had to ask me, "Who died?" because I was never pissed, bored and leaning against the wall counting down the hours to last call. I didn't want the night to end. I knew every song that came on and became fascinated by the ones I didn't. I discovered new, exciting sounds and genres.
When I wasn't at the club, I'd listen to the now-defunct WLIR 92.7 religiously because the playlists and sensibilities were similar. Between my Columbia House membership, trips to Sam Goody and jaunts to Tower Records and St. Mark's Place in the Village for the hard-to-find stuff, my CD collection swelled.
On Fridays, I'd bust out the black clothing, rock the curl and head out to Aldo's for 50-cent drafts with my friends. I don't think you could ever consider me a giddy person but I came damn close to it in this atmosphere. When the smoke rolled out onto the dance floor and the strobe flickered in time to the pulsing beat, I'd just lose myself for a few hours. I wrote about it not long ago as a matter of fact.
And now it's gone. I haven't been there in a few years but obviously my affection for the place has not waned. Luckily no one was hurt in the fire but the club is wrecked. With any luck, they'll rebuild. If so, my ass will be on a NJ Transit bus tout de suite. Until then, I'm listening to my Aldo's-inspired iTunes playlist. Here's a sampling:
:: The Bottom Line... Big Audio Dynamite
:: Ball of Confusion... Love and Rockets
:: Cuts You Up... Peter Murphy
:: The Boy with the Thorn in His Side... The Smiths
:: Welcome to Paradise... Front 242
:: Nonstop Violence... Apoptygma Berzerk
:: Fool's Gold... The Stone Roses
:: I Beg Your Pardon... Kon Kan
:: Once in a Lifetime... Wolfsheim
:: Another World... Beborn Beton
:: Thieves... Ministry
:: Peekaboo... Siouxsie and the Banshees
:: This Corrosion... Sisters of Mercy
:: Head On... The Jesus and Mary Chain
Come back soon, Aldo's.
I grew up in a typical northeastern New Jersey town where guidos and burnouts ruled the roost and the airwaves. Local establishments catered to their musical tastes while those of us artsy, sensitive types were left in the cold desperately wanting more than spandex-clad hair bands and whiny sing-through-the nose clubbers warbling about "Maria" in every other song.
On the other end of the spectrum, there was Top 40 which didn't quite cut the mustard with me either. And despite my blue-collar Jersey upbringing, I was never empowered by the melodies of Bruce or Bon Jovi. In case you were wondering, it's not a law or anything. In fact, I barely know any of the words to "Thunder Road" and I can chime in only on select parts of "Born to Run." At Fatso Fogarty's and Molly's, my friends screamed along to "Rosalita" while I sullenly held up the nearby wall.
The worst were the fraternity parties my friends dragged me to at the New Jersey Institute of Technology. None of us even went to that school but my friends had surmised that boys outnumbered girls about four to one at this and most other engineering schools. Yeah, that was fun for a questioning dyke to be dry humped to the tunes of Gloria Gaynor and K.C. and the Sunshine Band by a drunk frat boy who hadn't seen a girl all week.
What is up with the disco at frat houses?! I can't stand it on its own but it's even worse when accompanied by sweaty boys in baseball caps drinking Busch beer. Not only do they need to update the music library, but their dance moves need an overhaul too. They've really run those variations of "Doin' the Butt" into the ground.
And while I'm on my soapbox, boys, exnay on the sandwiching of and vigorous rubbing against unsuspecting girls. It's both presumptuous and invasive, don't you think?
Good God, I don't think I've ever known such misery as those fucking parties. So I put my foot down and stopped going. I reached out to different friends and we began frequenting Aldo's and The Loop Lounge in Passaic. To some, these were the weirdo bars to be avoided. They complained of the leather-clad pierced regulars. Instead, I embraced them and cursed my bland J. Crew-heavy wardrobe. I too wanted to use Armor All to clean my clothes!
The critics also pooh-poohed the dark lighting whereas my eyes hungrily gobbled up the sight of the holograms dancing on the wall and the pyschedelic screens above the dance floor providing well-timed blasts of color through the dark smoke. I felt at home. The music engulfed me. I felt comfortable, free and happy.
For the first time, I wasn't a wallflower. No one ever had to ask me, "Who died?" because I was never pissed, bored and leaning against the wall counting down the hours to last call. I didn't want the night to end. I knew every song that came on and became fascinated by the ones I didn't. I discovered new, exciting sounds and genres.
When I wasn't at the club, I'd listen to the now-defunct WLIR 92.7 religiously because the playlists and sensibilities were similar. Between my Columbia House membership, trips to Sam Goody and jaunts to Tower Records and St. Mark's Place in the Village for the hard-to-find stuff, my CD collection swelled.
On Fridays, I'd bust out the black clothing, rock the curl and head out to Aldo's for 50-cent drafts with my friends. I don't think you could ever consider me a giddy person but I came damn close to it in this atmosphere. When the smoke rolled out onto the dance floor and the strobe flickered in time to the pulsing beat, I'd just lose myself for a few hours. I wrote about it not long ago as a matter of fact.
And now it's gone. I haven't been there in a few years but obviously my affection for the place has not waned. Luckily no one was hurt in the fire but the club is wrecked. With any luck, they'll rebuild. If so, my ass will be on a NJ Transit bus tout de suite. Until then, I'm listening to my Aldo's-inspired iTunes playlist. Here's a sampling:
:: The Bottom Line... Big Audio Dynamite
:: Ball of Confusion... Love and Rockets
:: Cuts You Up... Peter Murphy
:: The Boy with the Thorn in His Side... The Smiths
:: Welcome to Paradise... Front 242
:: Nonstop Violence... Apoptygma Berzerk
:: Fool's Gold... The Stone Roses
:: I Beg Your Pardon... Kon Kan
:: Once in a Lifetime... Wolfsheim
:: Another World... Beborn Beton
:: Thieves... Ministry
:: Peekaboo... Siouxsie and the Banshees
:: This Corrosion... Sisters of Mercy
:: Head On... The Jesus and Mary Chain
Come back soon, Aldo's.
Labels: music, new jersey
posted by curly mcdimple @ 11:55 PM :: permalink :: ::
