VIVA LA EMPIRE?
A few weeks ago
your illustrious Lantern Lights author took in the Sleater-Kinney
show at Sacramento’s latest bid to obtain something like big city
coolness—the Empire
Club. Now I’m a writer, and therefore a bit of a hermit by
nature (not to mention the ability to consume gregarious amounts of
alcohol with only minimal intoxication effects), so I may not be the
best person to speak about the aesthetics and atmosphere of an entertainment
venue. Frankly, give me some Hemingway and a pack of Camels and I’m
pretty much in orgasmic pleasure for long periods of time. But, considering
that the Empire is arguably the biggest thing to hit Sac-town nightlife
since Bennies started cooking hot dogs on the back patio, I’d
be remiss not to offer my two cents.
I must first commend the place for truth in advertising. I mean, when
we go to Tower Books, do we not expect books? When we go to Goldclub
Centerfolds do we not expect to pay a fool’s gold for centerfold
beauties? When we go to McDonalds
do we not expect food that only a creepy
clown would find palatable? As per these examples, the name of Empire
proved quite telling. An Empire—for those of you who smoked of
the pot before going to your high school history classes—is a
supreme power in governing, a territory ruled by absolutes with little
room for going outside the lines (in the case of Sacramento’s
Empire, this extends to going outside literally, but we will get to
that). Business has a long history of trying to name their establishment
in such a manner that people want to come in. Think of the hotel establishment,
the Welcome Inn. Not only does that title make me want to stay there,
but I’m a man who appreciates a good pun, so double bonus. Think
of In & Out Burger
and you know you’re entering a place where you’ll get a
quality burger with speed, efficiency, and (to the employees benefit)
a merciful short time to stand around mocking their paper hats. And
who can forget the Happy
Ending massage parlor? If you don’t bring something to wipe
up with you can hardly blame the establishment for not warning you (note
to the more horny visitors of this website, the last example was made
up, but I’m sure the back pages of the
News and Review can point you to some similar establishments . .
. ask for Keiko). My point is the Empire could have named their place
THE HAPPY NOTE, or DRINKY DRINKY ROCKY ROCKY, or for maximum welcomability
they could have even called it PUPPIES (cause what hardened heart amongst
us doesn’t feel welcomed by puppies),
but then they would have actually had to take their heads out of their
asses and figured out how to run an inviting business that actually
lives up to the name.
Instead,
you walk into the Empire and quickly realize that if you want to drink
alcohol your destination will be the tiny beer deck, sectioned off in
the northwest corner. The Empire will not have the drinkers mingling with
their number one demographic—pimply teens whom don’t realize
punk is dead, emo is shorthand for
not driven enough to commit suicide, and low self esteem isn’t sexy,
it just ensures your date will blow you if you buy them a three dollar
bottle of water. So wave your wrist branding to the security guard at
the beer deck’s entrance (you will know him by the large letters
on his shirt that read SECURITY, not to mention the extreme likeliness
that he’s working his follicle challengedness to look tough) and
jockey for one of the few tables that is surely taken already by other
people whom mistakenly thought that booze
= fun. Once the show starts don’t even think of taking your
drink and standing near the stage, because that might accidentally lead
to a good time. Those spaces will be reserved for the kids whom think
Good
Charlotte are the voice of their generation. Hey, Empire, I can solve
this problem for you. Three words: Over Twenty-One Show. I realize that
in today’s American society it’s a radical notion to think
that life goes on after nineteen, but if I wanted to go to a Hillary
Duff show, then I’d go to a Hillary Duff show (and immediately
afterwards I’d seek psychiatric help along with all the lovely pedophiles
I met outside). Let the kids do what they’ve always did—clumsily
feel each other up, get pregnant, and ensure that welfare has some new
cases to sign up tomorrow. Let me and my adult friends see Sleater-Kinney
in peace.
After two gin and tonics I naturally wanted a cigarette. Since a smoking
area was not clearly designated, I tried to go back outside to get my
nicotine fix and the chance to ponder in silence the impossible roboticness
(ed: link may be work inappropriate; Robo-Philes? Who knew?) of the beer
deck’s waitress (note to Troy: yeah she was still kinda hot, huh?)
Lo and behold, if I went outside I would not have been allowed back in.
Never mind the wrist branding that would make me instantly recognizable
as someone foolish enough to go in and actually want to return, apparently
a smoker going outside for five minutes would throw a wrench in the incredibly
difficult task of herding people into a club. Not yet defeated, I asked
one of the security guards where I might go light up, and he pointed me
to a door inside that lead to the back patio. Beautiful. Except at the
end of the long Shining-like
corridor I found a guy sitting in a chair to ban my access. He informed
me that the smoking patio would not open until 8:30, which was an inhospitable
hour and a half away. Why? I want to answer that question for you dear
reader, but this asshole wasn’t willing to answer it for me, so
the line of communication died right there. I do know that it is almost
unconstitutional and definitely inhuman to make drinking smokers go ninety-minutes
without a cigarette.
Especially
when most of us want to smoke when we’re uncomfortable. The Empire
has a raised, plexi-glassed balcony that towers over the back of the club,
from which impeccably dressed VIPs (I assume) lord over the floor like
Oswald in the
school book depository, and it definitely wasn’t making me feel
relaxed. People behind glass should be reserved for late night drive throughs
in bad neighborhoods and for the punk rock queens of the Lusty Lady booths
in San Francisco. Period.
I could go on, but space limitations prevail. Sleater were good, not great,
but good. Even they seemed to be going through the motions in a desperate
attempt to get the fuck off the stage and to their much more inviting
space at the Sheraton. Corin’s
comment that they “love playing Sacramento” reminds all of
us fans that Sleater-Kinney still have a way with sarcasm. And once the
show was over and our ears were done being assaulted by the crappy sound
system, the lights instantly came on with all the grace and subtlety of
Ashton Kutcher running up with a camera to announce you just got Punk’d.
Security guards surrounded the crowd like lions on the Serengeti
and pushed us towards the exit with only slightly less intimidation than
the LAPD used on Rodney King. My friends and I foolishly tried to exit
out the large double doors that we all came in, only to find that we were
being herded towards a much smaller door that ensured we all had enough
time to look around a thank Buddha we never had to come back.
Except maybe for the Courtney Love show (ed: or
not).
Questions, comments, that Empire waitress can respond to Lantern Lights
at mdp4220@inreach.com
Lantern
Lights #1
Lantern
Lights #2
