Save the Ottobar!

Double Dagger at the Ottobar, 2011 (photo by Josh Sisk)

I am obliged, in spite of the fact I haven't set foot inside in more than three years, to share that COVID-19 has endangered my punk rock home. The Ottobar is the place I spent my formative years, then a fair amount of my adult prime. It was my paycheck in college, and my watering hole throughout my 30s. To think of it closing is inconceivable.

I'm having this struggle between being expedient and being thoughtful as I write this. Time is of the essence, of course, to contribute. Yet I want to take time to consider and explain why this show space means something to me. And, as I write this, I realize how stupid it is to think it's an "either/or" situation.

The Ottobar originally opened in 1997 at 203 S. Davis St. in Baltimore, in a 3-story rowhouse amongst a block of courthouses and office buildings. The space had previously been occupied by Chambers, which was a rock club of minor prominence at the early part of the decade. It opened at a time when I was really coming of age; I'd gotten comfortable driving into Baltimore for shows, and knew enough about the city to get around and where to park. I saw some ridiculous shows in that building that felt full with 20 people in the room. At The Drive-In, Death Cab for Cutie, the White Stripes, Pg. 99, Yaphet Kotto, Braid, Le Tigre. I saw Mastodon play to a tiny crowd when all they'd released was their picture disc on Reptilian. I was there the night that Hank from the Miss got in a fight with Arab on Radar. It was the first place I got served regularly and without stress. I'd get dressed up for Salute to Satan; I'd get down and dirty for Easy Action or the Supersuckers. When Hank or Mark had to piss or step away from doorman duties, they'd hand me the door money and let me watch things for a few minutes...or sometimes longer. Especially after failing out of Maryland, it became my home away from home.

The Ottobar closed up shop at Davis St. a couple months after 9/11, and moved uptown to the former Club Midnight in lower Charles Village. I'd gotten to be friendly with a couple of the owners, and they asked if I wanted to lend a hand with the build-out at the new location. So I ended up helping assemble and paint the stage and front podium. The room wasn't so big to make it feel cavernous, but you could fit a 600 person audience in there. And starting with the first show at Howard St., they did.

An Ottobar crowd, circa 2003 (photo by Patrick Houdek)

I started working door there in 2002. I've already told a few of the stories in other posts, but, Christ, the things I saw and did. Turbonegro played the night of my birthday in 2003; my girlfriend got screaming drunk, and kept me from seeing all but two songs, so I threw a drink in her face. I DJ'ed between sets at half a dozen hardcore shows. I stage dove over and over during the last Charm City Suicides show. I watched Queens of the Stone Age play to a small crowd of radio contest winners on a Saturday morning, sipping Beam from the back of the room. I ate some speed and danced all night at Britpop Night. I learned how to play bid wiz and roll dice, and how to win amongst a crowd of drunks. We played 'til dawn, then woke up the next afternoon to do it all over again. And thank the maker this was pre-social media; none of us would ever get a straight job again. I worked there until I graduated college and got suspended from my job. I'd left my doorman post while having my first panic attack during a sold-out Converge show. It wasn't an unfair reaction, but I wouldn't go back for years.

I set foot back in the bar for the first time in four years for a Modern Life is War/Ruiner show. It felt like I'd never left, other than the people working the door. The dance floor still smelled like sweat and cigarettes and spilled liquor. My marriage was failing, yet the bar offered me stability I couldn't find anywhere else. I moved back to the city, saw Naked Raygun at the Ottobar my first weekend back, and started swinging by any time I was out after 9pm. I took my now-wife there for our second date; I couldn't name drop to impress her, since she had been going there for years as well. Until we left Baltimore in 2014, it remained our closest place to grab a drink, or to see friends, or to play pool, or to watch a band. Like I said already, it was home away from home.

And so it stands that in 2020, our second home, like so many others, is in danger of permanently going out of business. Ownership changed last year, with Tecla purchasing the bar from the former owners. What had been planned as a new era for the bar, 23 years into its storied history, has quickly soured as it became unsafe to go out and socialize. Tecla has created the below GoFundMe so we can help out in this tough time. I'll be contributing; it's the least I can do.