(Fighting Gravity was a crowd pleaser at The Bayou. They’ll perform December 7 at The NorVa.)
By Rick Mersel
Unfortunately, what initially appeared like promising waves, with perfectly smooth double sets rolling off the sun-spangled ocean, had flattened almost completely by late afternoon. I traded my two-toned green and fluorescent orange WRV surfboard for my original blue Morey Boogie Board, aiming for easier but bumpier shore break rides. After scraping my knees and chest on the jagged sand a few times, I concluded that my efforts weren’t worth the scratchy torment on my body. Gritty and irritated, I trudged out of the muck as the air faintly reeked of sunbaked fish. The beach was scattered with the usual assortment of beachgoers—the couples, the college kids, and those with too much money or too little purpose.
My father balanced on a beach chair under a precariously placed wobbly umbrella, discussing the Radisson Hotel with Dave Furman, founder of Farm Fresh Supermarkets and a partner in the hotel just a few blocks off the Oceanfront. Dave, a fit, gray-haired gentleman of 74 at the time, was bemoaning the state of their Food and Beverage operation. The Radisson partnership was actively discussing changes and devising pans for a new bar concept to the left of their substantial pool and pool deck area.
At the time, I worked as a regional booking agent for Cellar Door Entertainment, led by Kathie Moore and Mike Jones. They had absorbed my DJ business, Off The Record Entertainment, and alongside providing disc jockeys, I dove into booking bands, including emerging artists like Hootie & the Blowfish and The Dave Matthews Band. At 24, somewhat restless, I preferred staying out until dawn. There were many foggy late nights, bartenders who sometimes remembered my name, and girls unmoved by my “try-too-hard” charm. My dad, watching from under the umbrella, pitched me to Dave. “He’s out every night,” my father remarked, referring to my time in bars and nightclubs. “You should pick his brain.” I wiped off the sand and rattled off a few suggestions. I offered some music trends and mentioned a few bands that were blasting through the speakers at the bars on the Oceanfront “Block”. These bars included Chicho’s, Hammerheads, and The Edge and the bands included Rage Against The Machine, Jane’s Addiction, Faith No More and a new group of artists out of Seattle collectively called Grunge bands.
I could see Dave nodding, pretending to be interested, more intrigued by the illusion of insight than the actual information. Still, he invited me to dinner the next night with the hotel’s Regional Food and Beverage Director and his partner, Leonard Strelitz. Leonard, owner of Haynes Furniture, carried the kind of presence that could seal or break a deal with a single glance—the Jewish John Wayne, as I imagined him. I’d spotted him at events with my parents, always towering over everyone, always intimidating.
Dinner offered nothing special—steaks, crab cakes, the same dull plates served in every upscale restaurant in the city. Between bites, although a bit unnerved, I managed to sell them on my vision, repackaged in the same confident tone I had used earlier on the beach. Leonard threw out a few questions that sounded more like a job interview, testing me like he always did, but eventually, they grew more interested in what I was saying. Before I knew it, I found myself on a plane to Tampa for the National Nightclub and Bar Convention with Dave and their Food and Beverage Director. Thrilled with the free trip, I eagerly joined them. We sat through moderately engaging seminars from “experts” across the United States, many of whom echoed, word-for-word, the recommendations I had given earlier. Thanks to this expert corroboration, Dave recommended to his partners that I conceive a concept for their new venture inside the hotel.
I didn’t need to rack my flimsy, hazy cerebral matter for long to develop a notion for this new bar and restaurant. I had just spent six and a half years in New Orleans attending Tulane University as an Economics major, working for two radio stations, and attempting to figure out my entire future. I had every intention of returning to The Big Easy but ended up starting Off The Record Entertainment after working that summer for an established DJ company in Virginia Beach. Feeling that I could build a better business model than my former employer, who still exclusively used vinyl records and turntables, I purchased several sound and light systems, replaced my vinyl with CDs, procured a used vehicle to cart around the production gear, set up shop in the back of Eddie Garcia Jr.’s office next to the HQ on Virginia Beach Boulevard, and embarked on a unique path with an unknown destination. The entertainment company thrived, landing both private and military contracts, and as I mentioned earlier, I had been absorbed by Cellar Door Entertainment.
Despite my initial success, something gnawed at me. As the great Satchmo and later Harry Connick Jr. put it, “Do You Know What It Means to Miss New Orleans?” I constantly wavered between returning to New Orleans or continuing to grow my business and venture with Cellar Door. Nawlins had taken a firm grip on my soul, and I often felt like I had left behind a phenomenal girlfriend, one whose absence I’d regret. Now I had the potential opportunity to collide both of my worlds. If I could not be in my hallowed land, I would build a shrine to it right here in Virginia Beach. Every night my friends and I could pretend we were running and reveling through its sacred heart.
I secretly recreated the magic and chaos of my New Orleans life. We would commission an artist to paint an exact mural of my home off Magazine Street in the Garden District on one wall. I would reimagine the devilish, nefarious times spent slipping in and out of the macabre southern shadows of Mardi Gras on the opposite side, by the pool tables. The back bar would mirror Bourbon Street, where I’d fill my essence with Hurricanes, Hand Grenades, and my “Happy Drink,” a 151 and Coke. The sunken dance floor and stage would, of course, evoke the Grungy Swamp, with a ceiling draped in Spanish moss, collected from Seashore State Park and a giant paper mache Jester mask conjuring a Voodoo backdrop.
I needed approval from the gatekeepers of the hotel, EJ and Randi Strelitz. Fortunately, I shared a kindred spirit with EJ, Leonard’s son—a huge Saints fan who also loved New Orleans. Randi, EJ’s wife, proved more challenging. She demanded a detailed thesis on the proposed venue. When I told her over lunch at Surf Rider on Newtown Road that the place would be “cool,” she pressed for a better explanation. I quickly responded, “It’ll be really, really cool.” Somehow, this simplification convinced her, and we set about creating The Bayou Cuisine and Potions.
Likely due to my still medically unidentified but self-diagnosed brain disorder, I craved consistency in chaos. EJ handled most of the marketing for Haynes Furniture and taught me about the profound difference between institutional and promotional advertising. He emphasized the importance of setting and being consistent with the story we wanted to tell. Even if chaos was the brand, consistency in marketing mattered. Promotional advertising, EJ advised, should only aim to keep loyal customers happy, or as he put it, “give flowers to your girlfriends.” With that in mind, we quickly built our story.
Leveraging my connections at Cellar Door, especially with Kathie Moore, we booked five bands a week, consistently featuring cover bands playing primarily alternative and grunge music. Luckily, we locked in the most popular cover band at the time, The Killroos, fronted by the stunning silver-voiced Liana Ramirez and the local Grunge God, Brian Miliken, to perform every Tuesday night. We owned Tuesdays in the market, often drawing over 800 people each week. Our average Gen X patron, in their early to mid-20s, grappled with their future careers and relationships. They could usually afford to go out three nights a week, so they hit the bars on Friday and Saturday, and by Tuesday, their raging hormones and restless inner voices pushed them back out in search of companionship. None of us had life figured out yet, but with $2 Jager Shots, charming staff, pitch-perfect cover bands, a raucous atmosphere, collaborations with 96X, The Coast and WNOR, and riveting DJs spinning what would become the legendary music of the time, The Bayou provided just the place to help us all find the answers we were chasing.
In addition to the post-show visits (often debaucherous) and occasional brief performances in our sweaty little bar from legends like Aerosmith, Def Leppard, The Scorpions, Alice Cooper, and Marilyn Manson—who were staying at the hotel and performing at bigger venues nearby—we occasionally focused on up-and-coming artists. Acts like Better Than Ezra, who played a week before their debut album hit #1, Edwin McCain, 7 Mary 3, The Lemonheads, Vertical Horizon, and Warren Zevon also graced our stage.
As Warren Zevon received multiple posthumous Grammy Awards tragically passing away due to cancer in 2003, I could not help but to think back to the moment I burst into laughter as we were exchanging insults outside of his hotel room entrance. We had arranged for him to stay in the Penthouse Suite of the hotel before his performance. We were honored and ecstatic to have him perform on our generally small and intimate stage. EJ was a big fan of his music and I had just watched him on the Larry Sanders Show a few days prior. The premise of the episode was a struggle to have Warren Zevon perform his biggest hit “Werewolves In London” on the pretend but authentic late night television show. Warren refused and there was an argument with humorously extreme arm and hand gestures exchanged between the two men.
During the day of the performance, I had received a call from Mike Jones who had helped me secure Zevon. Mike had stated that Warren needed sleep and he was not to be disturbed. Naturally, the uninstructed maid service was unaware of this strict request and twice during the day banged on his door to dispatch their tidying tasks. I received another frantic call from Mike who had emphatically demanded that Warren receive no other interruptions, or he would abruptly cancel his show. I quickly called the GM of the hotel to inform him of the seriousness of the request. Apparently, he did not understand this pressing and consequential appeal and failed to inform the poor young housekeeper who eagerly thumped on Warren Zevon’s hotel room door to dispatch her duty less than an hour later. She was met with exasperated anger from the exhausted rock star, and I received another aggravated call from Mike. This time it was to inform me that Warren would not be playing that night and the show was cancelled. I frantically slipped on my shorts, my Tulane baseball cap, and my worn Bayou sweatshirt with our fancy New Orleans style logo and bolted out of the door of my house on 26th Street several blocks away from the hotel. I bypassed the GM’s office because I instinctively knew my somewhat measured temper would turn into a Vesuvius eruption and made my way up to Warren Zevon’s room to intrude on him for the fourth time that day. This time I was on a mission to save the show.
I waited outside of his suite and then threw caution to the wind as I reluctantly tapped on his door. He came storming out, I explained who I was and pleaded my case using my expansive lawyer training from viewing every episode of “LA Law.” My drama series education did not work, and Mr. Zevon was firm that he would not be playing due to the excessive intrusions. I explained that I understood his stance but that the multiple disturbances were made by untrained or uninformed hotel workers. He was staunch in his position and as I watched his ponytail swing back and forth in his frustration, I began to antagonize him by suggesting he was only punishing his fans. He started to acknowledge my point but did not cease on his resentment. I was gaining confidence in my argument and fired back. At that point we were both intimidating each other with our body language and gestures. It then registered in an instant that we were both imitating the argument I had watched on The Larry Sanders show a few nights before with our exaggerated gesticulations. I broke the tension with a genuine, profound guffaw. This immediately startled Warren and I explained to him the cause of my amusement. His tensity subsided for the moment and he actually sniggered as we came to a gentleman’s agreement that he would play the show that evening. I promised him that unless some catastrophic incident befell me that he would not be barged in on again.
Before Malcolm Gladwell published his well received book “The Tipping Point,” we had real world knowledge of this concept. Our philosophy was to take very consistent initiatives and to have the confidence to stick with our hopefully valid instincts. We applied this notion to a handful of original regional bands. If we were accurate on our acknowledgement of a bands perceived talent, then others would appreciate the same artistry. The two bands that we undoubtedly had the most success applying this lofty theory were the Too Skinnee J’s and Fighting Gravity.
I believe Ketch Kelly, proprietor of Mitty’s night club in Newport News, introduced the Too Skinnee J’s to Kathie Moore after viewing them on a Star Search-esque television program out of New York. She called me up and without hesitation convinced me to book them for one of our off nights. Their combination of a ’70s space vibe with modern alternative rock and a Beastie Boys rap influence was intriguing. I showed up at The Bayou without expectation and the 50 people in attendance that evening were on the ground floor of a revolution. I watched through my crystal ball and saw a peek at the future and rebooked them the following month. The 50 people at that show, many which had attended the first show, were now fully engaged at the performance and their sound. The following month those handful of captivated fans had jumped on the pre social media coconut telegraph and the crowd ballooned to 150. After that initial surge we would have a thousand-person deep line wrapped around the hotel every time they played. The masses of ravenous champions were eagerly awaiting to see The Good, The Bad and The Skinnee!
We did not have to build Fighting Gravity from scratch. They were an established college band out of Virginia Tech called Boy O Boy who focused on Ska with a heavy influence by The Police. They had boundless energy and would often put the stage in jeopardy as they leaped and bobbed through their lively, bouncy set. They often played at Peabody’s and Rogue’s to very enthusiastic, young crowds including myself. By the time The Bayou had swung the doors open for business, Boy O Boy, upon a trademark search, were forced to change their name to Fighting Gravity. As a result of the search, it was discovered that a record label from the Mid-West owned the Boy O Boy moniker. The name change coincided with a more alternative and jam influenced musical change. Keeping an unyielding clutch to their ceaseless zeal, they became more melodic and tuneful in their approach. The development of their new style and their name change gave us the perfect opportunity to apply our consistency philosophy. We believed in Fighting Gravity and the dynamic members of the band and sunk our Goldschlager flavored teeth into building them as a brand and establishing The Bayou as their home in Virginia Beach. Equaling or surpassing the enthusiastic throngs of the Too Skinnee J’s, Fighting Gravity quickly recaptured their original devotees and assembled a new legion of committed fans. The anticipation of a monthly Fighting Gravity show at The Bayou had as much excitement behind it as their actual exuberant performance.
Like a shooting star that bursts through the atmosphere and explodes leaving a flickering trail behind it, The Bayou could only last for a short time. Like other bars and establishments that lasted for only a handful of years including Moulin Rouge and Studio 54, The Bayou, in a much smaller way, defined the times. In our case it was the Mid-’90s Grunge era. All of us, including patrons and employees, in that short period of time, used The Bayou to try to figure out where we were going and who we wanted to be. It was the place where we grew up, hooked up, broke up, got fucked up and learned to love each other. We knew the world sucked but took solace in each other and made great art, amazing friendships and a true home that will always live in our hearts to the grungy beats of Nirvana and Pearl Jam.
WANT TO GO?
Fighting Gravity
December 7
The NorVa
Guest writer Rick Mersel is AEG and The Bowery Presents’ vice president and talent buyer for the Mid-Atlantic, including The NorVa and The National. He lives in Virginia Beach.
