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Printable sonicfreak said: at least not in it's current form. Rumors have flown around for years about the demise of First Ave. and we'll just have to wait and see how this pans out I guess but Steve McCllelan who has been the manager of First Ave for close to 25 years, all through the Purple Rain days until two days ago was fired on Tuesday... [M]y fear is that it will become just like every other sterile Clear Channal lovin' club in town.
I've been doing volunteer work at First Ave. for the past 2 years. Steve McClellan, while a great guy, has never been interested in "that dance crap" (as he puts it). He's all about the concerts. And, as far as I know, he's staying on and still booking the shows. I doubt it will go the Clear Channel route, but your comment scares the sh*t (I don't know if swearing is allowed on this board, so I added an asterisk, just to be safe) out of me. First Ave. has been a HUGE part of my life, for the past 17 or 18 years. It's a friend, a lover, a reminder of Prince's early days... hell, it's my weekly workout.  I'd hate to see it change. If they wipe those stars off of the place, I'm outta there. This is upsetting, but I think things will fall in place, and the club will remain essentially the same. Maybe Minneapolis should declare it a historical monument, and not let anyone f**k with it.
Wow, Sonicfreak, your posting is giving me panic attacks. I knew Steve was going to be doing nothing but bookings, but I hadn't heard this other stuff. First Avenue, along with CBGB's in New York, is THEE best place to see concerts. And that's all. Luv & Peace, AleXXX http://www.juicycerebellum.com | |
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The First Avenue Massacre
What Steve McClellan's pink slip said by Jim Walsh The bulldozers finally came to First Avenue last week. As a handful of bystanders stood by, the plows methodically bashed into the landmark's walls until a heap of black concrete filled Seventh Street. Some brave onlookers jumped the barricades to grab shards of the building's fallen stars for their music rooms or mantles--a piece of the Mighty Mofos here or a Prince there--before it was all swept away to make room for the parking ramp that begins construction next month. Actually, none of that happened. What happened was, I walked into the club Tuesday night with my friend Brianna, who wanted to see Patti Smith for the first time. I was getting cash at the ATM when club manager Steve McClellan's ex-wife Cindy Lawson came to me and said I should go up to the office right away. She wouldn't say why, but the expression on her face said something was wrong. She banged on the office door and we walked in. Depending on the time of day or night, First Avenue's administrative area is either a bustle of activity or of businesslike concentration, but the mood this night was tomblike. I turned the corner and nodded at a sober-faced Dan Corrigan, longtime First Avenue photographer. He was in front of the window from which McClellan has been known to shout good-naturedly at folks leaving the club, sitting in a chair where countless musicians have spent after-hours bull sessions. "We play First Avenue because of Steve," Billy Bragg said a few years ago, and he has never performed on a stage in the Twin Cities that wasn't affiliated with McClellan. I walked into Steve's tiny office. Upon seeing me, he laughed and handed me a letter from the club's San Francisco-based owner, Allan Fingerhut, which said that Steve and business manager Jack Meyer had been fired for "disloyalty" to the club. Steve was folded up against his cramped desk in front of his computer. Posted on the bulletin boards in front of and behind him were pictures of his family, baseball cards, gig posters, a scathing review of Ike Reilly's album Salesman and Racists from this newspaper, and various motivational quotations, one of which read, "Success is a journey, not a destination." "Shit, I'm gonna cry," he said, and then he did, in a burst. Just as quickly, he shook it off, got it together, and talked about how relieved he is to be getting off the merry-go-round that has been his life for 31 years. The club has been through hell over the last three years, between internal club politics and brutal competition from Clear Channel. McClellan has tried to fight off that behemoth's encroachment the same way mom-and-pop record stores have tried to fend off the likes of Best Buy--tirelessly and, in the end, mostly fruitlessly. As he sent e-mails to friends and associates before packing up his computer, a few well-wishers--including longtime music scenester Mary Beth Mueller, who brought good news about her husband Karl's last chemo treatment that day--stopped in to find out what was going on. When Steve showed her the letter, her face went from ebullient to slack-jawed. Downstairs, the news hit some old-timers with a similar shock. To a backdrop of footage from historic peace protests and labor revolutions, Patti Smith sang such anthems as "Ghandi" and "People Have the Power." And it was impossible not to think of what McClellan--who got his start in public service with Minnesota Public Interest Research Group (MPIRG) in the '60s--has brought to the club in terms of a social conscience and true musical diversity. The Star Tribune headline the next day got it right when it called McClellan the "heart and soul" of First Avenue. "All I can say is, I woke up Wednesday morning hugely relieved," said the 54-year-old McClellan on Friday from a friend's home in Taylors Falls, where he was taking a break from phone calls, tying up loose ends, and thinking about what to do with the rest of his life. "All I know is, I have not been unemployed since 1966, and I have worked at the club since '73. I'm terrified I won't have health insurance, and with the kids"--he and Lawson have two daughters--"that's huge. But it was a huge weight lifted off me." For the record, McClellan will only say that it was "philosophical differences" with Fingerhut that led to his exit from the club. But though the burly man in shorts and suspenders may be gone from the building, part of him is still there. "I mean, I still wake up and go, 'Did I call the Yellowman agent?' And then I go, 'Wait a minute. I don't have to worry about that.' Although I am worried about some things," he says. "You know, there are shows I want to see, and I want to make sure they don't get screwed up. Burning Spear's wife has always dealt with me direct, and she knows Minneapolis, and she moves dates if I don't have the right date available. Quest tried to get her when Clear Channel went in there, and she said, 'Oh no, we're just happy with the people and Steve at First Avenue.'" He also worries about Richard Thompson, with whom he has had a long working relationship, and who performed at the club Monday, and about Jonathan Richman, who was scheduled to play last Sunday, but who called McClellan personally to cancel his show due to an illness in the Richman family. He says he knows he leaves the club "in good hands with Nate and Conrad and everybody." And his status in the music community and as a board member of the Cedar Cultural Center ensures that he's not about to fold up his tent and go away. "There's shows I want to do," he says, "because they're friends." So no, the building at Seventh and First is still standing. And yes, things change. Sonic Youth will play the Quest, you and I will continue going to First Avenue, and there may or may not be great music there for years to come. But what will not be there is the specter of Steve, ever grumpy and roaming the Entry and mainroom in search of warm bodies to talk to about how much he hates music and the state of journalism and why everybody wants to be on the guest list for the Strokes or Lucinda Williams but few turn out for the amazing world music shows he cares most about. What will not be there will be Steve's ever-ready earful, which was usually as entertaining as whatever he was putting on stage that night. Which is why I stole something from Steve's office Tuesday. It's an envelope, the one that contained his pink slip and which says on the front, simply, "Steve." I grabbed it to take some notes, and now it's in my collection of ticket stubs, flyers, and setlists--an artifact from the night First Avenue was gutted. | |
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is that in this week's issue of city pages? reminds me, i gotta get up and go run a few errands anyway and pick up a copy before i head back home.
damn, all of this saddens me a lot.  | |
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It is the issue of City Pages that hits the streets today. | |
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sonicfreak said: It is the issue of City Pages that hits the streets today.
ah! i shall pick it up...i also have the issue from last year that had a whole bunch of people givin their testimonials and memories about first ave. it's in my apartment somewhere... | |
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Coming soon to it's own story on the newspage I think:
Posted on Tue, Jun. 29, 2004 First Avenue owner vows he won't sell BY MATT PEIKEN Pioneer Press First Avenue will remain independent and locally owned "as long as I live," says Alan Fingerhut, longtime owner of the iconic Minneapolis music club. Fingerhut, who last week dismissed his artistic and business managers of more than 25 years, balks at the suggestion he's planning to sell the club to media giant Clear Channel or any other entertainment enterprise. "Clear Channel has no idea about my customer base," Fingerhut said Saturday from the club's office. "This is a family, ma-and-pa operation, and the funnest part is booking the groups. All the rest is work." Many in local music credit dismissed manager Steve McClellan for shaping First Avenue into one of the country's eminent live-music houses. McClellan brought in U2, R.E.M. and others before many had heard of them and opened the doors to the Replacements and Hüsker Dü as they came up locally, en route to international acclaim. McClellan, who began working for First Avenue in 1978, wouldn't comment on his split with the club, and Fingerhut refused to elaborate on the "philosophical differences" that led him to part with McClellan and business manager Jack Meyers. "He doesn't even think that I'm an owner, and I adore him for that, but that's Steve," Fingerhut says. "Even when we're arguing, you gotta love him." First Avenue has faced stiff competition from The Quest club, which has contractual ties with Clear Channel, in booking top touring bands, many of which have agreements to perform in venues connected with Clear Channel. Still, Fingerhut insists a loss of top-drawer shows has nothing to do with the club's financial setbacks. A former truck driver in the Army, Fingerhut sank "everything I had" — $100,000 — into turning a former bus depot into a nightclub. Since opening in 1970, lease payments had risen tenfold until he bought the property four years ago, Fingerhut says. Also, "labor costs" during the past few years rose $500,000 until he clamped down on them. Now, he insists, the key to financial rejuvenation is attracting broader audiences to the club's Friday and Saturday after-concert dance parties. Toward that end, Fingerhut has asked club managers to play more top-40 dance music and, through live music and DJs, attract fans from various musical genres. "I've always been on the cutting edge, but I think we've been over the edge," he says. "We're going to reach out to the same bands and the same audiences we've always had, but the genre of shows coming in was very narrow, and we need to spread it out. "This has always been my toy, and I want it to be enjoyable for the public," he added. "As long as I live, this is going to be my baby and my city's baby." | |
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