Crib Notes

Mayor of Ponce raises a glass to those who deserve it

It was a sad weekend for Atlanta scenesters who saw the official passing away of Decatur Social Club and the un-official death of Lenny’s. Techno may have been the cause of DSC’s demise, and poor ol’ Lenny’s has seemingly been done in by corndogs.

Ironically, these two Friday night traditions split the dishes a few years back when promoter Preston Craig took his KISS indie-rock dance party outside city limits, lured away by a 4 a.m. bar call. The move proved brilliant as the summertime Azul patio became a Friday late-night staple.

It was a wonderful four years of sweaty dancing to “Deceptacon” on top of the bench seats inside the cramp, dark restaurant. No matter what show you went to that night, you were sure to converge in Decatur for after hours drinking of cheap PBR pitchers and cheaper shots of Jager. Its where your MySpace friends came to life. DSC got you laid, made you friends, lost your cell phone and/or camera, and hopefully caused irre-hep-table damage to your liver and brain cells.

And that’s only if you were doing it right.

DSC embodied everything I love about this city. It was about dancing and fun and just getting out of your head. It remained wonderfully inexpensive, when it certainly could’ve taken advantage of its popularity. DSC wasn’t about bottle service and V.I.P. tables; it was just about having fun.

But all great things have to come to an end. Sadly, DSC moved away from Iggy’s “Lust for Life,” and into its Challenger space shuttle, techno remix phase. Its final frontier, I suppose.

DSC, you will be missed.

Getting on the horn to see what the good word was this weekend, it was pretty obvious no one wanted to attend this year’s Corndogorama. It was a tough pitch: $20 to see the same local bands you’ve seen for years. It was a weird feeling — suddenly, going to Corndog was not cool.

EDITOR’S NOTE: According to Lenny’s booker Bean Summer, the club has no plans to move or close before its lease expires in two years. Also, stay tuned for coverage of Preston Craig’s new weekly East Atlanta pub crawl.

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The Mayor of Ponce went to Oysterfest last week, and left feeling all clammy about it.

Cresting the hill on 10th Street, I see a mass of people surrounding Park Tavern. Mass as in thousands. Thousands as in plural. I think to myself, this isn’t going to be a day in the park.

Since the exodus from Buckhead, it’s the first Oysterfest held at the crown jewel of Atlanta – Piedmont Park. I figure I better attend the event since it might be the last one for a while at the park. Because of the dire drought conditions, the blue-haired aristocrats who run the Piedmont Park Conservancy have already shooed away the Dogwood Festival, Gay Pride, Screen on the Green and the finish line to the Peachtree Road Race. If the elements don’t ease up, I fear they might do away with actual people. The 186-acre park will just be a wildlife refuge with swing sets. (more…)

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Editor’s note: If you haven’t read self-proclaimed Mayor of Ponce J. Winter’s latest Nightcrawler columns, click here and here. And check out one of his older columns below. Even without photos, we think you’ll get the picture.

Fri., Jan. 11

It’s 6:30 p.m. and the text reads, “Louis goes on at 7:45.” It’s from Butch Walker. I’d better hustle if we’re going to make it to Buckhead.

“I’ll be upstairs,” his next text reads. Funny, because it conjures up an image of him waiting for my arrival above his Ruby Red Studios with candles and suggestive music playing. He buzzes me in, and thankfully, it’s just Butch. No candles or Keith Sweat. As a matter of fact, there’s not much of anything.

Butch is back in town taking care of a few things after the Malibu beach house he was renting from Flea burned to the ground along with ALL his possessions. His Midtown pad is empty except for a couch, a baby grand, and now, a mayor.

We hop in his rental and bounce to Buckhead. It’s a fairly anticipated show at the Roxy with San Diego’s Louis XIV, Canadians Hot Hot Heat, and Britian’s Editors. It’s like the U.N. of corporate rock.

Backstage we head up an extremely tight spiral staircase into a tree house of sorts that overlooks the stage. Paul, the Hot Hot Heat drummer, is looking out a window into the crowd and notices someone, “It’s that dude! He’s at every one of our shows.”

I already know before I look. Sure enough, front and center, it’s former Creative Loafing cover boy and current Atlanta mystery Kenny Crucial. I explain to Paul that it’s an honor to have him at your show, and the only reason Kenny is so weird is because he’s Canadian. Awkward silence.

Louis XIV absolutely kills its set. Onstage, lead singer Jase Hill is drinking wine of out of the bottle. You can’t take your eyes off him. He’s half wizard, half Jim Morrison.

Free backstage Budweiser is great, but we need drinks. The front bar is definitely “Cougarville,” and rock star Butch isn’t the only one getting recognized. A cute little blonde whom I’ve seen around starts chatting me up. Butch buys us a handful of drinks and we set up shop to watch his boys Hot Hot Heat. Aside from having to follow Louis XIV, the sound isn’t right and Steve Bay’s disheveled vocal pattern is definitely an acquired taste.

Plus, he kind of reminds me of Sideshow Bob. (more…)

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