3B
Wednesday, March 29, 2017 // The Statement
BY JACKIE CHARNIGA, DAILY STAFF WRITER
I
t’s a Friday night and my best friend is in
town, so you know what that means, my
sympathetic critics: This girl walks into a
bar.
It was VulfPunk Night at the Blind Pig, and the
menu featured cover songs of Vulfpeck and Daft
Punk by four bands, two of which we actually
sampled.
My first trip to the Blind Pig may also be my
last: This little piggy is on the market. The
building was listed by Swisher Commercial
just last month, and given that its neighbor
Circus was sold to a New York firm
earlier this year, the longstanding bars of
Kerrytown are one by one losing ground.
That’s a shame, because as a venue, the
Blind Pig is a grungy ’90s time capsule,
from the neon sign in the smudged windows
that gives it that seedy tattoo-parlor feel.
The lack of a coat check is disconcerting
in the Michigan March weather, but that’s
OK, the bars on the windows are purely
decorative — We end up piling our coats by
the window. “It’s Ann Arbor,” a friend says
with a shrug. “Who’s gonna take ’em?”
I order a $4 whiskey sour — the weakest
of my life — before seeing the clever use of
an iconic poster of Johnny Cash, flipping
off any patron who tries to pay with a card.
Shit. They hold my drink behind the bar
as I trot downstairs to use the ATM and
see a similar “Cash Only” tee on one of the
overburdened bartenders. Ah, you got me
this time, Johnny.
Back upstairs, there’s a guy in a top hat gyrating in
glow-in-the-dark pants. The dusty mirrors on both
sides make the room seem bigger, but the sloped
ceilings and black paint make the upstairs feel like
a basement. Specifically, your grandmother’s, based
on the disco ball and wooden fan on the ceiling.
It’s hot in the crowd, so we hit the stairs for
the visibly less-crowded basement bar, the 8 Ball
Saloon. A particularly grotesque ’80s jazzercise
tape plays from a television mounted behind the
bar as we wait for our drinks, which are whipped
out with lightning speed. It’s 25 cents cheaper
down here, for no reason we can think of, and the
added garnish of lemon feels like a prize.
Speaking of garnish, Christmas lights are a nice
touch to the man-cave decor. It seems less like a
saloon and more like your buddy’s game room. I see
in the corner of my eye, past the rows of booths and
dart boards, a vending machine, and a South Park
arcade game.
Walking downstairs, we find photographs along
the walls that go back decades. I can’t help but
think everyone in the pictures looks like they’re
having more fun than I’m having now — or have
ever had in my entire life for that matter.
No one in the Polaroid history of the Blind Pig
looks tired, or bored. No one is checking their
phones, because they’re tethered to cords back in
their apartments or dorms. The slogan, “When
was the last time you were Jägermeistered?” is the
centerpiece of one collection. It certainly has been
a while, I muse.
Apparently Halloween goes over big at the Pig,
especially back when people actually dressed to
scare. In a particularly haunting collection from
1989, there’s a photo of a girl positively drenched
in blood that will certainly be featured in my
nightmares.
We don’t realize at the time, but the first band,
the Paddlebots, will be our favorite, mostly because
the trombone player looks like my roommate’s
boyfriend. I’m on my third sour, feeling nothing,
and am glad I didn’t try to order anything with
more than two ingredients. There’s free popcorn
here, another comparison to Circus two doors
down. “It’s so people don’t vomit,” my roommate
says, popping some into her mouth. “The popcorn
sucks up the booze.”
The club, known for hosting an early Nirvana
gig, has also seen performances by R.E.M., Sonic
Youth and Soundgarden. The funk-music lineup
playing tonight, however, is why I think I’m about
two decades too late to enjoy the Blind Pig. The
musicians are clearly talented, but I feel
trapped in my disdain as the current of
those seriously feeling themselves surges
around me. What’s playing is basically
what you’d hear at any co-op party, but
at least I don’t pay $8 for that privilege. I
stand in Debbie Downer protest, sipping
my drink as the audience rocks like a sea
of Bobo dolls with big smiles plastered on
their faces.
The pseudo-funk blares as the stage
lights cut through the crowd, burning
my corneas, to justify the sunglasses
worn by every member of the band trying
desperately to live up to their name, Act
Casual. All that was missing from this
generic college-party scene was a beach
ball, lazily kept aloft by the beanie-clad
and bespeckled crowd.
Though it’s eons away from my taste,
the music certainly has people dancing.
The tempo is fast and urgent, the crowd
writhes beneath the seizure-inducing
lights. Abruptly, it slows, and my friend
says it’s like coming down from a high.
“It’s like coming down from a high,” a voice
echoes behind me. Two guys are reading over my
shoulder, clearly not absorbed by the performance
in front of us. That’s what I get for taking notes on
my phone.
Heralding the Floridian restaurant music is
the lead singer, who besides interjecting with an
occasional catch phrase hasn’t done much with his
microphone. “Let’s get funky,” he sings, about as
funky as string cheese.
A metronome beat holds down the fort during the
third and final sound-check until we hear the bong
of a clock strike. Drumsticks count down the start
of yet more funk-a-licious tunes, now accompanied
by auto-tuned vocals, but we’ve had enough. We
turn to leave, using the cold night to sooth our
aching heads.
ILLUSTRATION BY EMILY HARDIE
COVER PHOTO COURTESY OF BENTLEY HISTORICAL LIBRARY
Girl Walks Into, and then Immediatley
Out of: The Blind Pig