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

