Cheap machine-made fog formed a whispy haze that lingered around the middle of the room, and that was the least disorienting part of stepping into the 89th Street Collective for the first time. Walls were knocked down, the stage was moved– it was like going into your childhood home and the new owners put a Jacuzzi in your bedroom.
All of the changes seemed to be for the better. There's more floor space and a larger stage, the PA system sounded great, and they built an enclosed patio out back for us dirtbag smokers. But there are a few things that never changed, and that's what brought out the nostalgia kick in me.
I tried to order a cheap beer and a shot, but was swiftly informed "No liquor!" It was Tafv behind the bar, who served me Lost Lakes and rotgut whiskey a decade-plus ago in the same venue. The bathroom, which was once given the dubious award of being the most disgusting club restroom in the country, was still a warm and cramped sauna of piss, one I had to uncomfortably share with a man made of all whirling elbows in his attempts to change into the black band t-shirt he just purchased from the merch table.
The headlining band was Daughters, a band I hadn't seen since 2006, when they played in this same room when it was known as The Conservatory. It was a decent crowd then, but Sunday night was sold out, a blend of younger people who I've never seen in my life but probably go to shows every other night, and a bunch of people who I saw in 2006 on a regular basis who probably go to shows every other month, if that.
During the opening acts, I passed the time how I did at so many Conservatory (and Green Door) shows: smoking with friends outside. At least now there was a little fenced-in patio out back, which beats being clustered upon the front entrance on a section of North Western that is most heard about on police blotter. Same ol' buds from back in the day, but we all have less hair or more weight, less time and more problems.