There was the punk “rawk” star that had led Black Flag and come to us as the frontman of the Rollins Band. He was an incredibly focused individual, not given to idle conversation. When he arrived to play a gig in 1989, Ben Pridgeon (my bar manager and gifted bassist for the Squids) and I were engrossed in the final minutes of a Lakers-Celtics showdown.  Curt Schieber, who was still promoting most of the national shows as “No Other Presents,” hadn’t yet arrived for his usual promoter duties: doling out per diem meal money as well as hospitality items like booze, water, snacks and towels, and making sure the technical sound and stage needs were met (all parts of the contract “rider”).

Often the band would have a tour or road manager that procured the items and went over the details of the show, but in this case, Henry took care of his own business.

After whizzing past us behind the bar, absorbed as we were in the NBA finals, he shortly returned and intensely inquired about the promoter’s whereabouts, as well as the aforementioned contract rider items.

I couldn’t tell if he didn’t like basketball, hated bar owners or was just devoid of human emotion. He seemed cold and hard, almost robot-like, even though he was incredibly dynamic once he hit the stage. I came to realize after subsequent Rollins Band shows that the no-nonsense, down-to-business man was one side of Henry.

The other Master H.R. was the spoken word genius, who, when he arrived without a band in tow, was always affable, humorous, warm and downright charming.

I knew he had something to say when I read the lyrics to the Black Flag album “My War!” I may be alone here, but I’m not good at picking out words sung by Cookie Monster-like punk lead vocals. The dude was hilarious and his message was on point when he came to us as Henry Rollins, word artist. I almost felt guilty about the Wheaties box parody we had behind the bar. It was a picture of him affixed to the cardboard that said “Henry, Portrait of a Cereal Eater.” He actually found it funny. It disappeared at some point and I always wondered if someone gave it to him.

He also dated one of my friends and longtime employees. This brought him to town a few times when we weren’t doing business, which led me to believe that the real Henry was the second one, charming, intelligent and humorous, although when my friend saw his video for the song  “Liar,” she said he was speaking the truth.

After playing my room in one form or another at least five or six times, Henry’s popularity increased enough that he needed to play a larger space. He stopped by Stache’s before a Rollins Band Newport gig to see if anyone wanted to be on his guest list.

I was feeling disrespected by him because I was not included as a co-promoter of the show. Often when an act would outgrow Stache’s, I would promote or co-promote a show in a larger space, provided that the act’s agent included me. Poi Dog Pondering, Buddy Guy, Jon Spencer and Jesus Lizard were a few of the acts that always made sure to bring me along. This time, I wasn’t.  So when Henry stopped in, I asked him to step into my office for a private conversation.

When I told him I thought I should have been included in the deal, he said “It’s only business – it’s nothing personal, Dan.”

“Henry, in this business, everything is personal,” I said.

He did apologize for my hurt feelings, since there was nothing else that could have been done at that point.  I held it against him then, but looking back, I think his was an honest oversight. And I had far too many good experiences with people like Henry Rollins to dwell on the few setbacks.

The son of a North Carolina radio DJ, “psychobilly godfather,” serious road warrior and armchair politician*,  Mojo Nixon and I go way back.

I saw him at one of Curt Schieber’s “No Other Presents” concerts at the Newport. He was opening for the Pogues, still paired with Skid Roper on the washtub bass (and other instruments). Curt probably had a hefty bar tab to pay that night.

I remember Mojo beating on a huge plastic water jug — the kind that offices use for the water cooler. He was singing “Mushroom Maniac,” and instantly, I felt a kindred spirit.

For anyone unfamiliar with the genius of Mojo Nixon, I need only give the titles of some of his “hits”: “Don Henley Must Die,” “Burn Down the Malls,” “Debbie Gibson is Pregnant with my Two-headed Love Child,” “Bring Me Head of David Geffen,” “Elvis is Everywhere,” and “When Did I Become My Dad?”

I saw him in the Queen City (Cincinnati) in the Reagan years. He was ranting about Nancy being an astrology cultist.

“We all know that star worship is the work of the Devil,”  he said. “So repeat after me: Nancy Reagan sucks Satan’s dick!” Even the obvious frat boys in the crowd were chanting along.

In the 1980s, he popped up on MTV with mini-rants and guest appearances, which landed him in bigger rooms than mine. But from the mid-90s until Little Brother’s closed, he played my rooms roughly once a year. From For a time, he lived in Cinci and hosted a libertine Libertarian-ish radio show on WLW.

I have my own band, “The Wahoos,” and we are a big hit at the Columbus Community Festival. Nuthin’ like a free festival to bring out the crowds. We once opened for Mojo Nixon and the Toadliquors. Mojo actually got there early enough to catch our set and gave us a great backhanded compliment. He said “ya know, when a promoter opens the show, they usually suck real bad. But you guys didn’t suck too bad at all!”

I ought to put that in the band’s press package.

When he did a “Bingo for Mojo” for local station CD101 at Chelsie’s (a club that often competed with mine for shows), he came to Stache’s later that night. I asked him how it went and he said “well, you know – too many radio weasels.”

Another time he came to Stache’s after a gig at campus club The Newport and jammed with local blues dudes the “Men of Leisure.”

He was also quite the ladies’ man. He tried to pick up one of my female bartenders by showing her pictures of his newborn baby – a truly suave gentleman.

The Moj also made a great impression on my Mrs. He came to town to play on three separate occasions when she was saying goodbye to a job – great comedic timing.

Mojo retired from the road around the time I closed Little Brother’s, although I hear he’s coming out to play a couple of Texas gigs with Dash Rip Rock and the New Duncan Imperials – another bar tab I’d hate to be responsible for. He  hosts several shows on satellite radio about “outlaw country music,” NASCAR and politics.

For just a couple more days, you can get most of Mojo’s catalog for free on Amazon, including a live performance of his latest mega success, “What’s Up Judge Judy’s Ass?” – a dark and scary place, I’m sure, having once been a participant on that infamous TV show. (Someday, through the wonder of the blogosphere, we’ll go there.)

* Campaign slogan: “Put another Nixon in the White House: Mojo Ain’t No Dick.”

At both Stache’s and Little Brother’s, we lit the stage and bar and allowed the audience to sink into the silent black nether regions. Besides, the furniture was kinda shabby and the Stache’s carpeting is best left forgotten.

One night of music at Stache’s was darker than any other.

Tex-Mex chanteuse Tish Hinojosa had played Stache’s a number of times over the years. Her warmth and charm, the beauty of her voice and the soulful humanity of her politically conscious lyrics made her a joy to both work with and watch.

Her last Stache’s gig came as I was actively looking for a new location. (And for those who don’t know or remember, Humpty Dumpty didn’t jump, he was pushed. )

After a short set, all of the power in the building shut down, leaving the place pitch black.  A quick trip outside confirmed that we weren’t alone. The whole block was without juice.

But the timing was magically fortunate — the trio was in between tunes, and had actually planned to stroll the club and play a completely unplugged segment of the show when the lights went out. The crowd stayed calm and joked about my not paying the power bills as my employees dug out candles. The beer was already cold and we had lots of ice on hand. As they waltzed into the crowd wielding an acoustic guitar, bass and accordion, the show went on as though the power outage had been scripted.

The three musicians promenaded and polka-ed through the aisles, serenading the audience members, who acted as the light crew with flashlights and lighters. They stopped for a while near the pool tables, then at the short wall that separated the bar from the club. Just as they got back to the stage, yeah, you got it, the power returned.  The stage was again bright, the sound system, A.C. and the cash registers all returned on cue.

Tish ordered three cervezas for the band and they finished their performance. On almost any other night at the club, that long of a power outage might have cleared the room. I can’t imagine Jesus Lizard or Laughing Hyenas pulling that off.

Side note: Also in the audience that night was the elderly couple that owned the former public library building that would soon house Little Brother’s. I was their tenant for three years before they sold the building to the Simon Legree who brought the place to its end.

Irony was to be the night’s theme, as Chris Smither, the noted songwriter and road warrior, was playing. He and I discussed sobriety, the program of Alcoholics Anonymous and the fact that neither of us could completely accept a “higher power” a.k.a. God. He told me what a friend told him. I don’t recall his words exactly, but this is the gist:

A normally intelligent man is told the following:
1. Yogurt makes you invisible.
2. Your wife is cheating on you.
3. There exists an omnipotent being who brought the entire universe to life and holds sway over our destiny.
That seemingly intelligent guy then asks for proof of the first two things.

Yet Chris has lived the last 24 years without the assistance of drugs and alcohol, often on the road, playing places like mine.

The title cut of Smither’s new album was called “Leave the Light On (I’ll Be Home Soon).” He played it last, as he started his encore. I went outside to admire the fabulous lights of the Short North. On all of High Street, only one arch was not lit – the one that sat directly in front of our door.

I went back inside. Smither had just finished.I told him about the lights.

“I think this is God’s way of saying she doesn’t exist,” I said.