Secret places with special meaning

In my time in Athens I’ve been able to satisfy most of my musical wishes, whether it’s to see R.E.M. perform a surprise performance (twice, both times with the original four), watch longtime Classic City bands relive past glories (Pylon, Love Tractor, Time Toy), or hang out, have a beer and meet some of the town’s more venerable musicians (Patterson Hood, the guys from Cinemachanica).

I’ve seen old legends (the Buzzcocks, Robyn Hitchcock), new phenoms (Black Lips, Hold Steady) and big names (My Morning Jacket, Beck) play in front of sometimes no less than 500 people, no more than 20. I saw The Whigs way before they were on Dave Letterman. I saw Dead Confederate play at a Boulevard street fair with 10 other people.

But one thing I never did was go to the Secret Squirrel. For a good long time I had no idea where it was, and then I  had no idea how it worked. I knew several who went, but it was only recently, when I discovered the Dan Deacon show (three days after it happened), that I decided it was next on my list.

Consider the task checked.

With A Sunny Day in Glasgow set for the Squirrel, I made plans to be there, and was more than satisfied with the results. I tended to not make it out anymore than I thought it would be – it’s a room hidden from obvious sight, where bands get up and play while the ruler of the house (an interesting guy named Mercer) asks for donations for the bands playing each night. It’s a hidden gem, where just attending a show makes you feel like you know something others don’t.

I remember when I was just out of college in Washington D.C. and my friend Rich and I came across an underground bar at 3 a.m. that had an out-of-worldly feel. It was lit with pink, white and green Christmas lights (it was early November at the time), with arms and legs of plastic babies reaching out from the low ceiling. The bartenders made mixed drinks so poorly they were actually something to behold, and the clientele ran the gamut. It was endlessly fascinating, and we discovered later it was called Hell (it was underneath a bar called Heaven so it all made sense). To this day I still recall that night as clear as day.

I had the same feeling at the Squirrel, standing in a dark room watching seven guys wearing cat masks going noise nuts with their instruments in front of 25 people. After a three song set (maybe it was just one?), a guy sitting on the ground said “You guys have just blown my mind.” I felt the same way, but more because of being in a place where any of this can happen in the first place.