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.
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"
One of my favorite pursuits, albeit one I don't speak about very often, is to search for "found footage" of local events and happenings from days past. These can be on VHS, Hi8, miniDV, 8mm, or 16mm film - in short, on any format I can view and possibly archive. It's rare that I actually find anything, but once in a great while I do stumble upon something interesting. I've decided to start uploading some of these to the YouTube channel as I come across them, and today I'm pleased to announce the first two of said uploads.
Continue reading "DFW music scene found footage"
This is part of a continuing series of posts exploring locations of former DFW musical landmarks and the histories behind them.
Direct Hit Records logo
It’s 1994, and you’re in the mood for some local flavor. The DFW music scene has come into its own, and Deep Ellum is a hoppin’ place on the weekends. Local music has been taking off on the radio, and the composers and performers of said music are gaining real traction with the teen- and twentysomethings sets. Some bands are even getting signed to national labels and their music is beginning to be stocked in the big name, big box outlets. But on this particular day you’re looking for something a bit less mainstream and a bit more underground in ethos. You pile your things into the car and head out in the direction of the historic Exposition Park strip. It’s in one of those areas where people are supposedly afraid to go thanks to a reputation for being crime-ridden, but this particular carve-out is said to be safe. You pass by Forbidden Books and The Bar of Soap, negotiating the never-ending road construction, and arrive at a small retail store on Parry Avenue, sandwiched inside a row of businesses just across the street from the entrance to the fairgrounds.
