In retrospect, the way in which Saratoga is superior as a vacation destination to Decatur is simply the nightlife. While the Arts Festival was an overwhelming revelation of accumulated talent and visual splendor, the music scene after hours was really in no way comparable to the downtown venues of Saratoga Springs. Even though Decatur, GA. has a much larger base population than our northern, upstate NY counterpart, there was little evidence of the late-night downtown crowds that Saratoga features on a year-round basis, particularly on weekends and holidays. We didn’t have a lot of time to explore, but it seemed that if you wanted to find live music of any variety, or dance clubs, or performance art, you would probably have to venture into Atlanta proper rather than find it in Decatur itself.
Maybe we missed it, but we did not find anything resembling the famous Caffe Lena Coffeehouse in Saratoga (which is actually one-of-a-kind, in any case), nor the type of live music you can find in Saratoga at multiple places like: Bailey’s Cafe, Gaffney’s, City Tavern, One Caroline Street, Dango’s, 9 Maple Ave., Putnam Den, or The Metro. We did not hear pounding dance beats coming from the sedate street fronts of the core district of Decatur as you would in passing Thirteen, the upper floors of City Tavern, the formerly famous backroom at The Metro, or the subterranean enclaves of The Mine, or The Pavillion.
There was no equivalent to the crowded pedestrian sidewalks you will notice in the core of our Broadway district well past sunset, much less the late night mob scene to be found on Caroline Street, Phila Street, Putnam Street, or Maple Ave. in ‘Toga town. Melinda and I ventured out after 11 pm (our kids remaining back at my sister’s
place to hang out with their cousins) on that Saturday night before Memorial Day, and were surprised how little activity there was downtown in that hour before midnight, when Saratoga is just starting to get revved up.
We did find a cool place to hang out for the evening called The Brickstone Pub, however. It was a mix between the post-hippie, collegiate ambiance of The Tin ‘N Lint combined with the brick-walled interior of the old, departed Professor Moriarty’s,
which is now the Mexican-flavored restaurant The Cantina. The difference was that
the central drinking & eating area was over two-stories high, with exposed brick walls, and it felt like an old warehouse/speakeasy, very cool. The heavily-tatooed barkeep made a great recommendation for a south-of-the-border tequila that I’d never heard of, clear and smooth, not much of a bite, and we chased a couple of those down with locally-brewed beer that was just great. Before long the lack of live music did not matter as much– the recorded background tunes were just fine. The closing time was a relatively early 1 a.m. so we couldn’t get too rowdy, compared to Saratoga’s famous 4 a.m. close time, which I haven’t experienced in recent decades, but used to enjoy in my harder-partying youth. The hotel was only a blissful stroll of 2 blocks away– how civilized NOT to have to drive.
My conclusion is that the elders and trend-setters of Decatur have not embraced or encouraged their downtown to attract or feature the same kind of legendary nightlife that pulls nocturnal crowds into Saratoga like moths to a bonfire. They prefer it more sedate, more daytime-oriented, and don’t try to compete with Atlanta’s presumably lively late-night scene. They are probably nowhere near as tourist-driven as Saratoga either, with its convention center and multitude of newer hotels. Any visitor to Saratoga Springs, if they are looking for excitement after dark, will not be disappointed and have to slink back to their lodging– particularly on a Saturday night! Still, we made the best of it, and ended up loving the Brickstone Pub and its
quirky staff.
***
The musical impressions I came away with, then, were more due to the daytime music at the Gazebo-on-the-Square I mentioned in my last post, and the CDs that my son and I picked up at the iconic record store there in Decatur. On the trip home, instead of listening to the Sirius/XM stations like The Spectrum which had guided us south, we played a lot of the “new” CDs we’d just acquired. Notable among them was the southern flavor of raspy singer Brittany Howard and the group she leads called Alabama Shakes– a South Carolina-based band that was YouTube famous before ever releasing their premier album, dubbed “Boys and Girls”…great stuff.
The irony is that the local (Capital District) station up north that I have extolled on this site in the past– WEXT, The Exit, 97.7 FM– had been the first station in the country to play this band’s current signature hit Hold On, about a year ago. Decatur CDs & Record Shop was the first place I’d seen it for sale. (As an aside, WEXT can also claim to be the first station in the nation to play Adele, and Mumford & Sons, both now ubiquitous, and award-winning– something to be said for independent radio, still..)
When we first entered the record shop on Ponce, I wasn’t sure I recognized the
tune playing inside at the time– the grey-bearded proprietor (maybe just a bit older than me), calmly informed me, “that’s The Heartless Bastards…” so I quickly snapped up that CD too. Another soulful chick singer, fronting a nasty bluesy band from Cincinnati, named Erika Wennerstrom– featuring another tune in heavy rotation on both WEXT and WEQX (Vermont)– Parted Ways. Both of these 2 CDs were almost worn out by the time we got back. I also dipped into the historic pot of recordings
with a Greatest Hits Collection of The Beastie Boys (in honor of the recently departed Adam Yauch, RIP), and an early Led Zeppelin reprint on disc, their first album in fact, heavily drenched in black blues. Miles went for a couple of Ben Harper CDs he hadn’t seen in stores before, hence we ended up with 8 or 10 new discs to add to our mutual collection, both classic and new releases. So our takeaway from the Decatur music scene, in other words, was more in the category of recorded music than live–
I could’ve spent a thousand bucks in that CD store, but we were running out of loose cash and hours in the day by the time we stopped by.
***
I would be remiss if I did not recount the cultural and historical tour my conscientious sister Lisa P. Gordon provided us on Sunday, after the previous night’s pleasant tequila haze had faded away for my wife and me. All nine of us (four Gordons, and five Perrases) loaded into 2 vehicles for a quick 15 minute ride into the soulful core of Atlanta for a trip to the part of the city where Martin Luther King had been raised in the Southern Baptist tradition, and the very church where his father and grandfather had preached before him– Ebenezer Baptist, on Auburn Avenue, which is now of course a National Historic Site. Sadly, the church was also the place where MLK’s mother was shot and killed during a Sunday service a few years after her son was assassinated. There was a solemn but revitalizing atmosphere about the church– a sense that this humble parish had become such a pivotal proving ground for one of the nation’s finest and most inspiring orators, as well as the genesis for the Civil Rights movement itself. There were great pictures and archives of the King family, and stirring videos of various speeches King had given, and reminiscences of the turbulent 1960’s era when the movement was spawned. Next door was a Memory Garden with an Eternal Flame, and just down the block was the home MLK grew up in, also a treasured national site now. Across the street from that were several of the classic “shotgun shack” examples of housing that were built to handle the population explosion of Atlanta and other southern cities in the turn of the century and depression eras. A larger, newer version of the current Baptist Church was also in that area, surrounded by gardens, and appearing to lend elegance to an otherwise somewhat rundown district beyond it. My kids and Lisa’s two seemed to be profoundly moved by the experience of visiting the area, which is saying something for white American teenagers of the current day. Since we had already (on an AAU basketball tournament trip in 2005) seen the site of Martin Luther King’s killing at that infamous hotel in Memphis, Tennessee, this seemed to complete the cycle, to see where his life had begun. Heavy stuff, for what was mostly a light-hearted vacation.
***
After that we were all hungry and got a taste for some southern barbecue, heading back toward Decatur, at a place on the fringe of the city, near the MARTA line, called Fox Brothers Barbecue. As with any eatery made famous by word-of-mouth– the line was long, and my notorious patience was short, but the food was worth the wait. My boys devoured ribs galore and all nine of us went home stuffed an hour later, a fine southern afternoon tradition… and a great way to reaffirm the spirit of life and rejuvenation!
****
There was a trip to neighborhood pool to cool off, another late supper snack and much discussion of what Indigo’s upcoming college career at Elon in North Carolina would entail. There was reminiscence about mine and Lisa’s mother Phyllis who had spent the last five years of her life down in Decatur, having passed away last fall, rest her soul. There was one more night of beer and beverages in the backyard at
Scott and Lisa’s house, and a leisurely Memorial Day morning of preparing to hit the road. Picture-taking and hugs seemed to take a few hours, and we were reluctant to leave. My daughter in particular had decided it was a cool place to live and thought we should buy a place there, though I just rolled my eyes at that idea.
In retrospect we should have left earlier, because I had wanted to spend a good part of the day meandering along the Blue Ridge Mountain Parkway, a gorgeous scenic route spanning the western highlands of North Carolina and Virginia. With a late (almost noon) departure from Decatur, it was late afternoon by the time we cut north of Charlotte on Route 77 and got up into the upper region of North Carolina near Mount Airy (great name), and cut off the highway near Galax (another one), Virginia. The relatively short section of Parkway we experienced that day was GORGEOUS, and the views to the east gave me a new appreciation for what The Appalachian Mountains and “The Piedmount” were all about. My family got tired of me skidding to a stop for every historical marker, preserved cabin, and scenic overlook. The speed limit on that road was about 45 mph, and for good reason– a twisty 2-lane with lots to see. As it began to get dark and the enormity of the trip still ahead of us to upstate New York began to set it, I hightailed it through Floyd, Virginia to get back to Interstate 81 and resume our momentum back home. We had a great late meal at a Hardee’s in Troutville, VA., just north of Roanoke, where we had stayed the first night on the way down. But now we just wanted to get home. So with Miles as co-pilot up front and the other three watching the most recent Pirates of the Caribbean on the DVD layer in back, we busted up 81 as fast as possible in the long dark night, with only a couple of rest-stops for several hundred miles, up thru a narrow stretch of West Virginia and then into the long vertical stretch through Pennsylvania. Truck traffic was heavy but I figured most tourists were home already from the Memorial Day weekend, while we were aiming for a Tuesday morning arrival back in upstate NY. Bella would miss another day of school, but her 8th grade year was pretty much complete so we had given notice of that beforehand.
Without recounting all the jangled nerves and kvetching and stiffness and discomfort and semi-comical discord that ensued, and even with my wife taking the wheel for an hour or two to give me a break for some very un-restful shuteye…let’s just say that by 4:30 a.m. I knew why airplane travel had been invented, and why marathon driving with 5 people in the car was not a good idea. My daughter woke up at one point on the floor of the back seat howling “WHY AREN’T WE HOME YET!! I WANT TO BE IN MY OWN BED!!”– as we all did. She doesn’t remember that sequence, but the rest of us do.
I stopped at a rest area in central PA. at 4:45 a.m.– still dark and murky as we hit the bathrooms, not speaking to another anymore. Retreated to a silent Chevy Tahoe, shut my eyes for about 15 minutes, and then just gave myself some Reiki and a peptalk, readying for the final road assault. At 5:15 I resumed the drive, craving coffee but settling for warm water instead. The first morning light had cracked the horizon as we started out and by the time we neared Wilkes-Barre the daylight of dawn was breaking through the mist in a phenomenal way, but only Daryn in the third-row seat was awake to see it– the others were snoring. Once we got north of Scranton and southern NY was on the radar we stopped for a glorious breakfast just south of the state border. We’d been in the car twenty hours by then, and it was a moral victory to see Binghamton noted ahead on the highway signs. Melinda took over for a hundred miles north of there, and towards Schoharie she jostled me to
take another tag-team turn.
Long story short (or not)– my nerves were so shot I got off the wrong Thruway Exit
within a half-hour of home and had a hard time finding my way across the Mohawk, to head north into Saratoga County. Frankly I had to pee so bad for the last stretch I thought I might explode internally before reaching Middle Grove, but stubbornness would not let me stop. When we pulled in at 10:45 a.m it had been exactly 23 hours of car time, and thank God we did not live any further north.
Everyone ran for the bathrooms or their bedroom while Daryn and I emptied out the rental SUV. After a blessed shower I collapsed on the bed…and tried to decompress.
I had no work scheduled that day and planned to sleep till I could sleep no more. But Melinda had been listening to the radio and wouldn’t you know the dreaded beeping sounds of a National Weather Service Alert Bulletin had severely warned those in our area to prepare for a TORNADO WATCH. She woke me up to tell me this! My heart still jittery, my back and neck muscles twitching and cramping up, I
got up to batten down the hatches and stow away hanging plants and lawn furniture and whatever else might blow away in the oncoming storm. Then we watched the
Weather Channel, coupled with the local stations cutting in with emergency warnings, and all of the neighboring towns were in the path of the “potential” tornado!!
WHAT THE HELL! I thought– in my delirium I remembered a cartoon episode of
Pecos Bill from the Walt Disney shows of my youth, riding so fast on his magic horse that he whipped up tornadic winds in his wake…. had we dragged the southern storms up from the Georgia region behind us??? The 2 pm storm did not strike as predicted, but blew through just north of us, a few miles away, that false alarm ruining my nap. The 4:30 pm storm, however, hit with a vengeance, and once again, Daryn and I were the only ones awake to see it, raging across our backyard, and bending trees almost flat. The power went out briefly, and worse yet, the cable was out almost all night, cancelling my viewing of the early NBA playoff game that was supposed to be my solace that evening. There was hail, there was Weather-Channel-esque excitement, heavy rains and high winds, but the house did not get blown away and we survived to tell the tale, as I’m finally doing now.
I’m a little late in doing so, but that’s how I lost a few days in late May. Will resume in late June, quite soon!!
Copyright Wayne Perras, 2012