From Club Kid to South Side Socialite

Every generation has its halcyon days — those Summers of Love or Studio 54 escapades — that define a moment in time and describe the revelers who indulge, imbibe and subscribe to the prevailing notion of what it means to be young, vibrant and decadent. When I arrived in St. Louis nearly two decades ago, I was a fresh-faced farm boy from rural Kentucky – the penultimate overachieving, extra-curriculared do-gooder from a Southern Baptist upbringing. My youthful goals included getting good grades and getting into a good school, (which I did), but it didn’t take long for me to discover decadence.

My first few weeks of college were an awkward attempt to find a place in a predominantly white and extraordinarily uptight culture of presumed affluence. I wore polo shirts and crisp khakis and attended keggers on frat row. Very quickly I determined that mine was not a life to be spent with aspiring Ivy Leaguers and the legions of legacies. For one, I was gay as a goose, and institutional homophobia, as well as AIDS hysteria made for a difficult coming out experience. That’s not to say that I was utterly forlorn; a beer barrel belly buster at 2 a.m. and the prevailing notion that “it’s not gay if you don’t kiss” provided a few fraternal flings.

In time, Brokeback Beer Bongs on Frat Row were quickly replaced by midnight showings of the Rocky Horror Picture Show in University City. In those days, The Loop had a reputation for being “dangerous,” which I learned was St. Louis parlance for “predominantly black and/or poor.” I have Black cousins and my family had no money, so U-City seemed normal in comparison to the Abercrombie academia of college life. The camaraderie inherent to Rocky Horror helped me make friends with a wild bunch of misfits who dropped acid and danced to S’Express at Animal House, a North County dance club for those under twenty-one. I felt an instant kinship with the punks with pierced noses, whose disdain for jocks with popped polos was as fervent as mine.

Within a few months, I was running wild, in prototypical after school special style. Thanks to a graduate student whom I vaguely resembled, I was armed with a fake I.D. that made me eight years older, five inches shorter, 25 pounds lighter and 100 percent more Jewish. I quickly found my way to the “alternative” bars and nightclubs that St. Louis had to offer. Over the following years, my khakis were replaced with corsets and crinolines. I became a club kid in eight-inch platforms —a hot mess walking, or at least attempting to do so.
In the early-mid 90’s, downtown clubs offered Monday night drink specials and Tuesday night drag shows. The weekend crowd floated from Fallout (née Twist) to 1227, which - along with many of the bars on Washington Avenue - changed names, themes, and crowds every few years. There were a number of police raids, overdoses and a robust amount of revelry in spaces that are now well-appointed wine bars and tasteful boutiques.
Wednesday nights were, by far, the most insane night of the week. On what is now a grassy knoll on St. Louis University’s campus, a tawdry little dance bar called Nights offered a $5 all-you-could-drink drink special. Needless to say, when the bar closed at 1:30, business at Denny’s (on Hampton) picked up, even as the die-hard and dead-drunk stumbled, mumbled or rolled down Vandeventer to Magnolias to dry out or find more mischief.

On Sundays, there was Clementine’s, a leather bar (with a strict dress code) that reeked of sweat, regret and poppers. Its dress code has long since been forgotten and when the bar remodeled several years ago, its former sleazy appeal was replaced with Pottery Barn décor. The bar’s Sunday crowd and its reputation for serving the stiffest drink west of the Mississippi still (deservedly) persist.

There were some legendary parties in those days. The Knights of Pythias hosted an annual Halloween bash where drug-dealing drag queens, high as a kite socialites and masked muscle men mingled in vacant downtown spaces that are now condos starting in the 220s, although 420s would seem more appropriate if one considers history versus property values.

The Central West End was home to many a late-night and absolutely illegal after-hours party scene. Pre-Rave and Après-Faces (R.I.P.) these parties offered smart bars, intense techno and a discriminating guest list. By that, I don’t mean race – these parties were as mixed (gay/straight, black/white, etc.) as any party I’ve ever attended in this city. In the days before MySpace, cell phones and e-mail, finding the best party in town required a bit more work as being in the know meant knowing the right people.

I graduated from college (miraculously) and made my way to the penultimate nightlife destination: New York City. I got a job at several nightclubs, dressed up five nights a week and very quickly burned out. I tried to make me go to rehab, and I went home, home, home.

Lest this be some cautionary tale, I’d like to note that while blogging, bike riding and Buddhist retreats occupy my free time now, the person that I once was occasionally reappears for the benefit of charity. From time to time, I’m out and about in any matter of ridiculous getup fundraising for organizations focused on HIV/AIDS, art education or other worthwhile pursuits. Bedecked and/or bedazzled, I find myself hobnobbing with the parents of the aspiring Ivy Leaguers who used to tax my weave. Fortunately, youthful disrespect has been replaced with a rapprochement with those whose lives are so seemingly different from my own.

Traipsing about these days, I see that very little has changed. Young people are still sporting flipped collars and flip flops (why must young people always wear absurd shoes?). The gay bar scene still caters to select crowds on select nights and the racial divide has yet to be bridged. Still, on any given night, particularly on the Southside and the Central West End, it’s easy to find a mixed crowd of revelers, partygoers and hot messes.
Over the past twenty years, I’ve seen the marginal become practically mainstream - and young people, of all communities, have many more options to commingle, party and socialize with like-minded people, regardless of sexual orientation. It’s easy to see hipster gay boys on their first date at The Royale or a bachelorette party dancing in the windows at Novak’s. AMP has hosted wedding receptions and after-parties for every conceivable combination of gender identities. It doesn’t matter who you sleep with when a DJ spins at The Upstairs Lounge, Atomic Cowboy or Sol Lounge.

The beat goes on, as one famous lady once said. If the past few years are any indication of what’s to come, I’m fairly sure that the party has just started.

You can e-mail Rob Thurman at rob@robthurman.com