I love live music. I love when sound waves completely fill a space, when I can feel the vibrations in my chest, when I can look up and watch a performance — an artist in the zone, transcending. I love the community feeling, the thrill when one feels connected. I love discovering something new, something I’ve never heard: a sound reminding me that innovation isn’t dead. And I fucking love to dance.
When I arrived in Vancouver, I was excited to check out the music scene. It’s the Pacific Northwest, after all, and I know there’s great music here. I started looking for bars and clubs with a good live music setup. I know Vancouver has larger venues — the Commodore, Rogers Arena, BC Place, etc. — where bigger acts can play, but I was (and still am) looking for a spot featuring local artists that successfully marries music and community.
The Electric Owl is a good smallish concert spot, but that’s really all it is. The Libra Room on the Drive attracts some pretty awesome jazz, but the band is relegated to a corner surrounded by tables. It’s a sit-down spot, and nothing more.
One night, after some searching on Yelp, I wound up at The Railway Club. It’s a cool little place, cramped in an attic sort of way, and has some legitimate character. I love the toy train looping around the track on the ceiling, the dim red lighting, and somewhat dingy carpeting. The band performing that night was what I would call a jam band: a cute, yet quirky girl singer jumping, bounding, and body-rolling propelled by the sounds emanating from her bandmates. They were fun, if not technically perfect; it was impossible not to move, and I found myself grinning as I watched sweat and spit flying.
This is the first bar I’ve been to in Vancouver where a stranger said hello to me (excluding drunken come-ons). We got to talking, and I asked him where he went to hear local stuff. He responded with a non-answer: the Railway Club sometimes, but he said that mostly the good local stuff is underground.
An underground scene means an exclusive scene that’s hidden from the masses.
I’m gonna be frank: I think the term “underground” is bullshit. An underground music scene means an exclusive scene, one that’s hidden from the masses. I understand the romance of such an existence for the musician and their “true” fans — only seeing bands that know and appreciate you — but it leaves the rest of us out in the cold. It also means the music can only go so far, and will only ever reach a set number of ears. It’s impossible for a bring-people-together music scene to thrive when the majority of the good stuff is kept out of reach.
There’s a spot called Kingston Mines in the States that’s open until 4:00 a.m. every day. It’s got two stages, and the funk, blues, and Motown are absolutely incredible. You’ll find old biker dudes, aged trophy wives, and enthusiastic twentysomethings — among others — bopping along to the jams, populating the dance floor, gyrating their hips, and leaning against the bar conversing. The tiny kitchen in the back cranks out towers of onion rings until 3:00 a.m. daily. It’s a completely unselfconscious spot, and it’s fucking magic.
I have no desire to dwell on the past. Kingston Mines is merely an example of what I think is lacking in Vancouver — a place where artists can share their music with anyone and everyone. My plea to the Vancouver music community is to let outsiders in. Venues need to know that there are plenty of music lovers out there, and that if you foster a music scene, people will come. And they’ll spend.
