Exile on Mohawk Street: Where Men All Go To Sit Alone Together

I've (thankfully, I suppose) never been asked to write an obituary before, let alone one for a building. I am a 28-year-old dude who currently resides in Buffalo, NY. I am in a rock and roll band that practices above Mohawk Place – a crumbling downtown dive that's seen more Rock Glory than Del Preston. A few weeks ago, we were informed that the venue would be closing forever, and we'd have to have our shit out by the First of January.

I haven't always resided in Buffalo, but as long as I've been old enough to get in, Mohawk Place has been a sort of musical oasis. When was eighteen, I was stranded out in the Wasteland Exopolis that is SUNY Buffalo's North Campus; my spirit was dissatisfied. One time, I took a long trip downtown to see Explosions In The Sky at Mohawk. I'd never really known Buffalo's city center before, and the whole business district was deserted and cold, crumbling and desolate. But in the middle, this little music venue offered a little love or light or heat or whatever, and it seemed to redeem the whole Sad Deal outside.

After I became old-enough-to-drink, I'd moved to Allentown, and was discovering a vibrant local rock scene – groups were ripping it up at Mohawk: Johnny Nobody, The Found, Thrill Me!, Handsome Jack, Chylde, DJ Planet Thor – excellent musicians whose talent was perhaps only exceeded by their ability to party. I was stumbling home way too much and extracting every little ounce of jouissance I could from life, when I should probably've been finding a job.

Years later, I was living and working in NYC. The City was difficult and alienating, and if I was going to go out at night with less than a $100 in my pocket, I was gonna wind up back at the studio apartment, broke, sober, and alienated as ever. But when I'd come back and visit Buffalo, I'd head to Mohawk with whatever change I'd set aside, and be greeted by faces I knew, and free shots, and general revelry. It was like that show Cheers, but with LOUD MUSIC.

And now I'm in Buffalo again. I rehearse music upstairs at the place, and it's sorta like having been given the keys to a little city that sits at 47 East Mohawk St. (Though, to be completely honest, I don't actually have my own set – I have to sit out on the step 'til one of the other dudes arrives.)

Anyway, this is already probably the longest thing I've ever written for this blog and I'm uncomfortable with the fact that I haven't said any jokes, so I'm gonna wrap up with a quote from Tim Kinsella:

“I must admit I've always preferred a theater that men all go to to sit alone together than any version of home I've ever known.”

Welp. Cheers, Mohawk. You provided some great times, some vague pretense of refuge, and some hilarious voids where great memories should be. I'm'a pour out my 40 now.