In the James Bond movie "Live and Let Die," Roger Moore's Bond is deliberately marooned on an island surrounded by dozens of hungry crocodiles. An Evil Henchman helpfully tells the spy how to disable a croc: "You just stick your hand in its mouth," he grins, "and pull its teeth out."
Evil Henchman might have added: "Surround the Crocodile with upscale condos and create a general sense of malaise in the independent music scene." That seems to be what happened to one of the last of Seattle's grunge-era club venues, the Crocodile Café, this past weekend. An uncaring world reached in and pulled the 16-year-old club's chompers out, and barring a huge infusion of cash -- from James Bond, from anybody -- it seems unlikely that the club will reopen.
It's a terrible loss to Seattle nightlife. A galaxy of future local stars -- including Nirvana, Band of Horses, Death Cab for Cutie and Modest Mouse -- once graced the Croc's tiny stage. Hundreds of up-and-coming bands, from the Strokes and the Decemberists to the Killers, played the club shortly before they broke big. (I was at that Killers show. They opened for Stellastarr*, played to maybe 30 people -- and got heckled. By me. Heh.) And superstar bands the likes of Pearl Jam, Beck, R.E.M. and the Beastie Boys took special pleasure in playing one-off "secret" shows at the club.
The Croc is survived by Neumos [0], Chop Suey [0], the Tractor [0], El Corazon [0], the Sunset [0]and a number of other smallish indie clubs, but none of them have the lived-in feel that the Croc had, nor do they serve up a first-class greasy breakfast six days a week. They're unlikely to host events like Sam Trout's "I (Heart) Rummage" artisan sale, or contribute as much character to genuinely unhinged variety events like the venue's "cover" nights -- in which dozens of local musicians from different bands would gather to play the music of the Cure, the Magnetic Fields and the like -- or the "Iron Composer" [1] competition, which pitted songwriters against each other in frenzied, lunatic combat.
Life goes on, I suppose. The Three Imaginary Girls [2] will find a new home-away-from-home, big-name bands will find another place to recapture the hardscrabble feeling of their prestadium years and we'll just go to Beth's for greasy hash browns. But we'll always remember what it was like to jump into the Croc's mouth, and stomp gleefully around its teeth.
So, yeah. Where the hell are we going to go tonight? Anyone?
We'd love to hear your stories about the Croc. Post a comment below and tell us about your favorite shows.
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