The adventures and various works of a photographer, road tripper, former patron of the local arts, aspiring app developer, and late night coffee drinker and conversationalist.
A little over fifteen years ago, I produced and released a compilation of recordings from Alex Pogosov's and my open mic at Bill's Records. This CD, ultimately numbering around 200-250 copies, was conceived as a means of promoting the weekly gathering at Bill's and featured performances by a number of our regulars up to that point in time. More than a decade and a half later, I've had that promotional album cut to vinyl, fulfilling a long harbored fantasy dating all the way back to childhood. I'm just barely old enough to (dimly) remember actual records being played on the radio, and when I was three and four years old I wanted to make one of my own. Today's manufacturing on demand services have now made that possible.
The Lost Art showrunners in 2010. Photo by Lilly Penhall.
I kicked off 2009 with a truly incendiary show at the Vampire Lounge. Two nights later, I was back for a night featuring Severed Sol. I honestly don't remember why I went to that show, as the name Severed Sol conjures up absolutely nothing in my memory, and my only notable photos from that night were a few throwaway shots of model/photographer Amber DeVille posing with a lit candle. I continued to hit up the Skillman Street Pub fairly regularly, and I began to slowly broaden my circle of venues a bit. I had a new sometimes-companion to some of the shows now, the two of us spending quite a bit of time together. That person was the Cassie B. from my 2008 birthday party and the December 20th show at Lola's. Despite certain acquaintances' insinuations to the contrary, Cassie and I were never more than just best friends – I wasn't her type, and as for me, my affections definitely lay elsewhere, with a lovely lady in the scene who shall remain unnamed. Cassie accompanied me to performances by bands such as Red Pyramid, Sidekick Mafia, and the Opus Flux, and in March we made a weekend trip down to Austin during the SXSW festival. During the Austin trip we stopped in at Headhunters and saw a performance of the Blue Flames, a band which, I was pleased to learn, hailed originally from Dallas.
With the recent heavily researched, long gestating content I've put up recently (and with more still on the way), it's time to take a step back from high effort material. I've been thinking for some time that I should get around to recounting my days in the local music scene, specifically my nine-ish years spent as a photographer of local bands. There are references to those days all over this website, and curated examples of my work from that time period are easily accessible via my Live Photography galleries. But I've never taken the time to tell the tale in full and to discuss how I got into the scene, who my principal collaborators were while I was in it, and why I eventually ended up leaving it. I've decided that now is the time for that story to be told.
This is part of a continuing series of posts exploring locations of former DFW musical landmarks and the stories behind them.
Tombstone Factory show flyer, 1986
During the mid to late 1980s, the Fort Worth metal scene was on fire. While Dallas had its coffee shops, punk clubs, and new wave hot spots, a burgeoning rock music scene with its own distinctive identity was gaining currency on the west side. Of course, these two cultural movements did not exist in a vacuum, and as geography would suggest, there was indeed crossover between them which was evidenced by the existence of certain venues and a sharing of some of the principal players, fans, and musicians. But, broadly speaking, the west side of town was the more metal, a more welcoming place for headbangers and longhairs and for those interested in a more hardcore style of music. On the far westernmost edge of town there was Joe's Garage, but for those who were perhaps unenthusiastic about the long drive, there was the Tombstone Factory.
The story of the Tombstone Factory's origin has become legendary, repeated vigorously and vociferously in person, online, and via the printed page. It has been shared via anecdotes and reminiscences and secondhand accounts, circulated year after year both by word of mouth and electronically, echoed again and again in blogs and social media posts and print articles to an ever widening audience. It has found increasing legitimacy not only among those who were actually there, but among those who have since come afterward. Yet the full story of the Tombstone Factory – and its surprising antecedent – has never heretofore been told. Where the building came from, the reasons behind its construction and unique design, how it actually came to get its name, and what it actually was in its previous life – these are questions whose answers have until now been obscured by local mythology, conjecture, or even outright misinformation, for decades. The actual history is as surprising as it is unexpected, involving creatives and participants from very different communities with barely any connection between them save the one which resulted, indirectly, in the Factory's well-known name. That is the story that will be told here, and it begins in a most unlikely place.
The first fifty years or so of the twentieth century were the heyday of Dallas's "Theater Row." If you're not familiar with that term, it refers to the now long gone entertainment district that once comprised approximately four blocks of Elm Street, just to the west of pre-Central Expressway Deep Ellum. For several decades, this stretch of Elm between Akard and Harwood was lined with theaters showcasing the latest in modern entertainment. Before the ascent of Hollywood, a theatergoer might find a vaudeville show or Nickelodeon-style film to his or her liking. By mid-century, it might instead be a big budget Cinerama feature showing inside one of multiple big picture palaces. The brightness of the marquees and street lamps illuminating the night sky gave Theater Row the nickname of Dallas's "Great White Way."
Looking down Theater Row in 1942
Continue reading "A night at the Majestic, March 1913"
