FALCO''S NEST She walked in, Falco''s Nest open to the indie music scene. Johnny Falco being the second club owner with the balls to do it. Most venues around town treated punk like taboo: pogo dancing leading to underaged drinking, leading to drunken fist fights, leading to police raids and shutdowns. Johnny moved here from back east, got to know the punk scene in Toronto, told her about living in the Lawrence Hotel, rooms like two bucks and change a night, a Sabbath cover band called Never Say Die stayed down the hall, the band living on potatoes and soup packets. Getting to know them while bowling with empty ketchup and beer bottles in the hall, driving the landlord crazy. She loved hearing Johnny tell about the Toronto scene: the Viletones, the Demics. Bands like the Diodes, Cardboard Brains and Teenage Head out of Hamilton, venues like Larry''s Hideaway on Carlton. Johnny saying he wished he''d been on the coast to catch the Furies before they split up, loved their sound, getting out here a couple years too late.
Photos were tacked up behind the bar: him standing arm in arm with Frankie Venom, another one of him and Daniel Rey, producer for the Ramones, one with Carole Pope out front of the Concert Hall. Lachman over at the Buddha was first to do it in Vancouver, bringing the sound to town. The Young Canadians, still called the K-Tels back then, put on a hell of a show, followed by the Subhumans. The Buddha had been packed ever since, Lachman still trying to live down the night he kicked out Hendrix, back in the club''s R&B days a decade earlier, Lachman telling anybody who''d listen the guy just played too loud. Falco''s Nest had been catching the Buddha''s overflow since opening its doors eight months back. Johnny usually short on cash, but long on ideas, showcasing new talent, giving bands a chance to jump off the hamster wheel of shit gigs available to them. The local papers called both clubs a spawning ground for a new terrorism on the sensibilities, but Vancouver''s punk scene didn''t read the dailies -- fans flocking from as far as Mission, giving the "No Fun City" image a good shake. Not sure who Johnny had booked in tonight, she walked by the posters plastered across the storefront window.
Hoping to duck Marty till later, she''d come to hear some music, have a beer with Johnny then drop in at the Buddha, catch some of D.O.A.''s second set. The guys sometimes letting her sit in. Her Flying V locked in the trunk, just in case. She stepped into the warmth and the smoke. The biker blocking the door was Stain, big as a bear, tattooed arms hanging from under the Hellrazors MC vest.
Fingerless gloves and fingers thick as brats. Never charged her the cover. Everybody else paid two bucks to get in, half a buck less than the Buddha. The way it went at Falco''s, if Stain didn''t like your looks, it cost you three bucks to get back out. The two bucks went to Johnny, the three going to Stain. She gave Stain a hug, kissing his cheek, then scanned the room. Black walls, exposed ceiling, graffiti and more band posters plastered on every wall. Johnny''s idea of decorating.
The floods shone on four skinny guys setting up on the crappy stage of nailed crates. Lead, rhythm, bass and a guy keeping the beat. "Marty here?" Stain shrugged like he hadn''t noticed, no love lost between him and anybody else dealing dope in here. Johnny''s rule: Stain broke up the fights, warned him when the cops or anybody looking like an inspector walked in the door, but he didn''t make trouble with Marty Sayles, the drug-dealing landlord. For that, Stain got free beer and nine bucks an hour, triple the minimum wage. A decent mid-week crowd tonight. A couple of guys from the Braineaters, Zippy Pinhead over talking with Monk, another Hellrazor. Frankie thinking Zippy was one of the hottest drummers around, right up there with Robert Bruce, not something she''d admit to her own drummer, Joey Thunder.
Underage kids in torn denim and leather milled around the stage, sucking on beer bottles, set to pogo. An old rummy stood propped against the far wall by the co-ed can, getting out of the cold long enough to stop the shakes, Stain giving the guy a pass, sometimes slipping him a couple of bucks, showing he had a heart. Once the old guy warmed up, he''d move on. "Hey ya." Folding her hands on the bar, Frankie smiled at Johnny Falco, the Carling O''Keefe neon flickering behind him like it might go out. "Hey yourself." Smiling back, he reached in the cooler, drew out a dripping stubbie, knowing her brand. Sliding the OV across.
"Who we got tonight?" Frankie nodded at the stage. "Middle Finger -- drove in from Calgary, their van conked out front, out of gas." The one with the bumper sticker and freaky dog. Frankie saying, "They any good?" "Real good, yeah. Here the rest of the week." She slapped a buck on the bar, Johnny sliding it back. Bands, bikers and friends drank for free. Johnny''s rule.
Pocketing the buck, she thanked him and tipped the bottle up, her eyes on his. Johnny asking how she was doing. "Getting by, you know. Working on some new tunes." Telling him the Waves were putting some original stuff down, tight on a half dozen covers now. Johnny asking what she was doing for rehearsal space. Frankie telling him about the barn out on Zero Avenue, Marty Sayles owning it like he owned this three-storey shithole, letting the Waves practice out in the boonies. One of the perks for running his dope and going out with the guy.
Her bass player, Arnie Binz, edged his way through the crowd, coming from the back room with a couple cases of beer, Arnie working here three nights a week. His flop up on the top floor, with a shared bathroom at the end of the hall. Worked here since getting canned from the 7-Eleven night shift -- caught stuffing comics into his guitar case -- the job he landed after he got busted driving the gypsy cab. Arnie set the cases on the bar, gave her a smile. Told Johnny he ought to switch to cans, easier to carry. Johnny said he''d think about it, sending him back for more. Middle Finger kicked it off. Johnny passed beers to hands reaching across the bar, stuffing dollar bills into his old-style National register, brass with a crank on the side.
The dollar and cents flags popped up every time he hit the lever, opening the drawer. Frankie bopped her head, the guitar player slaying some licks, shrieking into the mic about confused teens. The crowd was getting into it, pogoing, screaming and drinking. Three tunes in, she felt the need to pee; Frankie sipped her way to the co-ed can, knowing better than leaving a beer unattended. Slapping Monk''s outstretched hand, she made her way across the floor, said hey to Pinhead, weaving past jumping bodies, shoving open the door, the filthiest can this side of CBGB. Fifty bands had passed through Falco''s Nest since Johnny lifted a toilet brush. Anytime somebody complained, he''d say, "That''s punk for ya." Johnny took the bottles from the case, putting them in the big cooler.
Realized he forgot to tell her Marty Sayles had been in, not sure if he''d gone, the guy pissed off on account of the back rent. Johnny telling him he''d have it in a day or so, same thing he always told him. * Sucking a breath, Frankie stepped in. Freaky loo sprayed in hot pink over the mirror, paint that had dripped down the wall and over the glass. Get Modern or Get Fucked scrawled across the ceiling. A lone bulb hung from the center of the room, a dead fluorescent tube horizontal over the sink, two toilets, only one with an enclosed stall, a urinal and a plugged-up sink, soapy brown scum floating in it. Toilet paper unfurled like crime scene tape across the floor. Graffiti all over -- the voice of the people.
Frankie''s eyes adjusted to the dim, a guy in a sport jacket stood pressed against the wall, his head tipped back, Adam''s apple bobbing, the guy groaning over the pounding music. A girl on her knees, giving him the business. Frankie thinking ewww, people having sex in this place, worse than joining the mile-high club. Halfway through saying "Get a room," Frankie recognized him, turning it into "Jesus, Marty?" Hearing his name, Marty Sayles focused his eyes, his hands on the girl''s head like he was holding himself steady. The blonde craned her neck, her lipstick smeared, eyes of someone on opioids. There it was, her way out. Frankie put her free hand on her hip, acting pissed, saying, "What happened to having dinner?" Marty pushed the head away, fumbling at his pants, saying that was later. "How about take a fucking number.
" The blonde made the mistake of getting up, putting her hands on her own hips. Frankie threw the bottle and missed. An explosion of beer and glass against the tiles. Setting the blonde off, shrieking and rushing at Frankie, her fingers up like claws. Growing up on the Eastside, Frankie knew how to scrap, put some hip into it and threw a fist. Caught the blonde on the beak, but didn''t stop her. The claws coming again. Hit her again and snatched a fistful of blonde, twisting her head around.
Getting her shoe up, Frankie sent her sprawling to the wet floor, the blonde smacking her head on the scummy toilet, the girl sagging down, legs flopping on the floor. Stuffing his shirt in his pants, dress shoes slipping on beer suds, Marty caught himself against the wall, yelling, "What the fuck, Frankie!" High on coke and the poppers he took off some pusher Zeke beat up, Marty pulled himself together, wondering where the fuck was Zeke. The blonde was useless to him now, lying flopped across the toilet, her hair in the bowl, streaks of blood showing like dark roots. "Look what the fuck you did." "You.