Little Brother Blogs

Henry Rollins, as I knew him when he played Stache’s, was practically two different people.

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.

Question: Why did you move from the “Olde North” (2404 N. High St.) to the longer portion of the Short North?

Answer: Humpty Dumpty didn’t jump, he was pushed.  George Sicaris, my first and favorite Greek landlord was told by the city to fix up the buildings housing us and Monkey’s Retreat, or tear them down. (They were falling down together.) He opted for the latter option and erect a strip mall.

To George’s credit, he gave me $5,000 and a year’s head start to move on. We were offered the use of a great building (1100 N. High St.) that was originally a library with a beautiful edifice. I used to admire it back in my cab-drivin’ days, while sitting across the street at the then Big Bear grocery (now Family Dollar)

Question: Why did you change the name when you moved? (Probably my most-asked question.)

Answer: Stache’s was officially Stache and Little Brother’s from the time that it opened. The original Stache was Jim, who had a moustache. His co-owner, Kenny, was short, thus nicknamed “little brother.” After Little Brother’s opened, I ran into his wife at the grocery store, who said she was so glad he was finally getting some credit.

My reasons for using it were several. One, I had been a little brother growing up and had used “Little Brother Presents” when promoting shows at other places, like the Newport or Alrosa Villa. Plus, also, too (to borrow a Scrawl album title), my older, shorter brother, Terry Dougan, who died suddenly in 1991, was a fan of the club. His last words to me were “see you at NRBQ” (at Stache’s). I know I felt his spirit there whenever they played Little Brother’s, and whenever someone covered a John Prine song.

On an ordinary weekday in 1987, a large man with a bullhorn and a thick Russian-Israeli accent blocked traffic at the corner of 15th and High Street, the busiest corner on the Ohio State University campus. He bellowed out to students and other passers-by, “All the way from England: Badfinger! Very good band! Tonight only at Stache and Little Brother’s, 2404 North High!”

He passed out fliers and harangued people for several hours, using his bullhorn at point-blank range. He then went mobile in a beat-up luxury sedan, continuing to promote Paul McCartney’s favorite band with his electronic megaphone up and down the High Street drag.

The man was Pete Herman, the owner of Stache’s for nearly two years, and a black cloud on the Columbus Music Scene.

During Pete’s tenure, Curt Schieber continued to promote shows at the club as “No Other Presents” while running Schoolkids Records. These shows included acts that came from England, France, Germany and all over the globe. Joey Molland, the principal remaining member of Badfinger, though from England, was living in Columbus at the time.

Curt, in fact, saved Stache’s with his shows while Pete constantly alienated customers with his bizarre behavior and desire to change the club.

Before buying Stache’s, Pete had worked in a topless joint where he became familiar with laws that forbade patrons from touching the dancers. The fact that this was specific to strip clubs was lost on him. Ray Fuller, a staple of the local blues scene, played the room regularly. When couples would get up to slow dance during one of his ballads, Pete, worried about losing his liquor license, would physically separate them, reprimanding them with a stern “NO TOUCHING!”

At closing time, he would parade around the room, armed with a golf club and his signature bullhorn, barking “By order of the police, you must leave the building!” He proudly boasted of once using that golf club on a woman who was sitting on a man’s lap and “playing with his schmekel.”

He refused to allow bands to play music over the PA between sets, insisting that people put money into the jukebox. And he would often berate them into playing Frank Sinatra or Elvis Presley, music he “understood.”

He made sure that customers were clear that he didn’t understand much of the music Curt or other local promoters brought in. When customers called to find out who was playing, he would oddly proclaim, “Pretty Boy Boy Floyd, Baby Face Nelson, Pussy Galore and Booty Looty Mutha Fucker!” The last band, he claimed, was “Rock Hudson’s House Band” – his homophobic humor coming through.  He would also often tell people “you want to know who’s playing? You come down and find out for yourself.” From time to time, booking agents our touring acts would call, interested in playing the club, and they would be received in the same warm manner as the customers.

My purchase of Stache’s began when I asked him at a sold out Marshall Crenshaw show to put a little gin in my gin and tonic. “Smile,” I said. “At least you’re making money tonight.”

He snapped back “You think I’m  making money? You buy the goddamned place!”

I said “How much?”

He said “What you give me?”

I shot a number at him and he said “you give me $X as down payment and we will do it.”

I stepped outside to catch my breath, and saw the neon sign in the window of Dick’s Den across the street: “Why not?”

Just then, my friend Dave Dornbach walked by and I said, “hey Dave, didn’t you just buy a bar in Cleveland?”

He said yes.

“I think I just bought this one,” I told him.

It took another six months to get Pete to agree to my original figure on paper.

Months after I took over and Pete was gone, I got a signage fee bill from the City of Columbus, which claimed the new name of my bar was “Mississippi Lunch.”

It seems that Pete had, for one brief weekend, gotten tired of “punk rock barbarians” and tried to change Stache’s into a disco with go-go girls.  The name of this establishment was to be “Mississippi Lounge,” but when he phoned in the name change, the person on the other end heard “lunch” instead of “lounge.”

It cost $40 more to change it back to Stache and Little Brother’s.

To his credit, he was a pretty easy act to follow.