Today we move
We move from our (hopefully) last Boston practice space.
It all started on the Charlestown/Somerville line. In the winter of 2000 we started practicing in a space that was to this day the best of them all. The room was on the first floor. No need to fuck with an unreliable, overused freight elevator or hundreds of rickety stairs when dragging our ton and a half of gear to the room after a late show. The room was large. Very large. And there was parking. Which, as everyone knows, is king in Boston.
After a couple years we had to ship out. They tore the old building down and last I heard were building condos. I haven't been back to the lot since.
So we packed up and went to Fenway. Pretty much all of the bands we grew up with and hang out with have practiced at this underground hellhole. It's not noticeable to the untrained eye. It's nestled between a liquor store and a parking garage in Fenway near the Landmark center.
The ramp going down into the sweltering, flood-prone maze of rooms had quarter inch slats screwed to it to hinder anything with wheels from rolling with ease. So even though you had the aid of the simple machine known as the ramp, you had to drag your hundred pound cabinet over mini speed bumps that would tip cabs over and ruin your effort.
The rats and floods were biblical in proportion. The room cooked like a brick oven. The trash would pile in the hallway until it was vomit-inducing. The worst part of all though, was no parking, and the proximity to Fenway park. During a game loading out for practice or a show was a Herculean task.
Soon the option came to move to another space up the street, near Berklee. We jumped at the chance since anything was better than Fenway.
This is the current space as of press time.
This place is even more hidden. It's almost like the door to the netherworld in Beetlejuice. You have to go up to Little Stevies, draw a door on a brick wall and knock three times. Magically, a door opens up and leads down a steep flight of stairs into a dank series of nondescript hallways. Now you're about thirty feet under Boylston st. But you must venture on down another set of stairs. Down down down until you can't go down any further. Pass the eternal puddle of water that seems to leak from nowhere and walk to the very end of the hall. This is our current room.
The smell changes from week to week.
"Ugh.. it smells like moldy sausage"
"WHOA ... it... it smells like if cheese could fart"
"Dude. I have no clue what that even smells like."
So today I welcome the move. Today we move into my basement. We have yet to build the room, but it's going to be great. Finally after slugging it out for seven years with shitty locks, ferret-sized rats, shady landlords, lost keys, rent check after rent check, we can finally have a practice space that isn't reminiscent of a set from C.H.U.D.
To all our past spaces.... good riddance.
It all started on the Charlestown/Somerville line. In the winter of 2000 we started practicing in a space that was to this day the best of them all. The room was on the first floor. No need to fuck with an unreliable, overused freight elevator or hundreds of rickety stairs when dragging our ton and a half of gear to the room after a late show. The room was large. Very large. And there was parking. Which, as everyone knows, is king in Boston.
After a couple years we had to ship out. They tore the old building down and last I heard were building condos. I haven't been back to the lot since.
So we packed up and went to Fenway. Pretty much all of the bands we grew up with and hang out with have practiced at this underground hellhole. It's not noticeable to the untrained eye. It's nestled between a liquor store and a parking garage in Fenway near the Landmark center.
The ramp going down into the sweltering, flood-prone maze of rooms had quarter inch slats screwed to it to hinder anything with wheels from rolling with ease. So even though you had the aid of the simple machine known as the ramp, you had to drag your hundred pound cabinet over mini speed bumps that would tip cabs over and ruin your effort.
The rats and floods were biblical in proportion. The room cooked like a brick oven. The trash would pile in the hallway until it was vomit-inducing. The worst part of all though, was no parking, and the proximity to Fenway park. During a game loading out for practice or a show was a Herculean task.
Soon the option came to move to another space up the street, near Berklee. We jumped at the chance since anything was better than Fenway.
This is the current space as of press time.
This place is even more hidden. It's almost like the door to the netherworld in Beetlejuice. You have to go up to Little Stevies, draw a door on a brick wall and knock three times. Magically, a door opens up and leads down a steep flight of stairs into a dank series of nondescript hallways. Now you're about thirty feet under Boylston st. But you must venture on down another set of stairs. Down down down until you can't go down any further. Pass the eternal puddle of water that seems to leak from nowhere and walk to the very end of the hall. This is our current room.
The smell changes from week to week.
"Ugh.. it smells like moldy sausage"
"WHOA ... it... it smells like if cheese could fart"
"Dude. I have no clue what that even smells like."
So today I welcome the move. Today we move into my basement. We have yet to build the room, but it's going to be great. Finally after slugging it out for seven years with shitty locks, ferret-sized rats, shady landlords, lost keys, rent check after rent check, we can finally have a practice space that isn't reminiscent of a set from C.H.U.D.
To all our past spaces.... good riddance.
posted by Hooker at 4:58 PM
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