Empty cellar blues Geno's comes blinking into the sun after 22 years BY JOSH ROGERS

I’ve been noticing it for a couple of weeks now. What? Whassat? Come again? I keep having to ask people to repeat themselves. Usually it’s the initial consonant sound of words that gets left off or confused in my ears: Get me a beer, please sounds more like Hettie DeBeers sneezed . . . I like to think that my growing case of tinnitus is linked to a dank hole in the ground in downtown Portland. I’m just one of many rock-and-roll fans over the years who have ruined their hearing at Geno’s Pub, and like many, I’m sad to see it go. On Sunday, March 20, Portland’s oldest rock venue celebrates its 22nd anniversary and its last night of operation. As I noted two years ago in a Phoenix article that attempted to cover at least some of Portland’s music history, "a rock club going out of business, fading away, or being forcibly shut down, is nothing new in this town." It’s merely a turn of the page when a club closes, but Geno’s is like the close of a whole chapter.

In that story ("Rock Archival," March 21, 2003), which coincided with the 20th anniversary of Geno’s, I listed a fraction of the bands that had played the club in its early days: DOA, Blood on the Saddle, the Fleshtones, GG Allin, the Queers, the Chesterfield Kings, Lou Miami and the Kosmetix, the Kopterz, the Pathetix, Bates Motel, the Hopelessly Obscure. Anybody who’s ever glanced through the listings section of a local paper during the last few years couldn’t have missed ads for more recent staples: Eggbot, the Marvels, Dead Airbourne Goats, the Points, the Pontiffs, Big Meat Hammer, Lady Kensington and the Beatlords, Long Black Veil, Hollerin’ Man. Names like Kip Brown, Jordan Krantz, Richard Julio, Nancy Chalmers, Angelo Howland should all be familiar to regular patrons.

But any list is woefully incomplete and selective. Everyone has their own memories of the place. Here are some of mine.

My most distant memories are from before I was legal. I’d heard stories about Geno’s, and it sounded a bit rough. If I had to walk down Brown Street late at night my feet would work a bit faster as I passed the entrance at unlucky number 13 — the doorway seemed like it was not so much installed by a contractor as hewn out of a gnarled, ancient tree in some forgotten, darkly primeval past. As it turns out, the doorway was simply bow-shaped because it represented the "pickle barrel" of the former occupier’s namesake: the Pickle Barrel Deli. I was also (at least partially) wrong about the rough-and-tumble image. After turning 21 and working up the courage to descend into 13 Brown Street’s murky depths, I found a friendly bar, just rowdy enough to keep things interesting.

There were many people who made that place special, not least of whom is owner Eugene "Geno" D’Alessandro Sr. But for me, I’ll always think of Barbara Moran when I think of Geno’s. Barb, bartender and booker there for about 15 years, personified the club: friendly, punk rock, and occasionally just a little bit scary (didja ever see Barbie and the Bruiserz?). Seriously, though, Barb: salt of the earth, like a rock-and-roll den mother to half of Southern Maine.

I remember the fake wood paneling. Old band promo photos on the walls — some bands you knew, some you’d never heard of — bad hair and outrageous outfits. Ancient, crumbling calendars and fliers plastered on almost every vertical surface. The mural on the wall next to the stage, a latter-day folk-art tribute to pop culture and rock and roll. I heard a rumor once that there was an older painting underneath it. The PMA should hack it out of the wall and put it on display. They could hang it next to the giant WPA mural "Woodmen in the Woods of Maine," by Waldo Peirce, which was saved from the wall of the Westbrook Post Office when it was demolished.

Geno’s itself, though it contained so much rock history (some of it still playing gigs), wasn’t a museum piece. It was a living, breathing club always up for new things. Poetry nights jostled with foosball tourneys, goth discotheques, and dramatic performances. A certain trashy breed of punk may have been the mainstay, but all sorts of folks rubbed shoulders at Geno’s: from fey indie acts to alt-country bands to oboe-fronted jazz combos.

My only real band, the Franklin Mint, played some of its first shows there, sharing bills with Tin Tin’s Rocket and Sleepy Bo’ Weevil. There’s nothing like low-grade video of your band playing in front of a carpeted wall (made to look like bricks with the aid of some Sharpie markers) to massage the old rock-star ego.

Geno’s was a must for any new band, and I remember catching some great shows there. I remember an enthused crowd throwing devil signs at Eldemur Krimm, singer (and towering figure) Fred Dodge resembling one of the load-bearing posts that sometimes blocked the stage view. I remember bemusedly watching a small gaggle of groupies doing the "hippie dance" during a set by the great A Giant Robot. I remember Ogre flattening the crowd with a wall of sound while I worked the door at the Phoenix’s 2003 Best Music Poll party. I remember trying to work out the ratio of instrument switches to on-stage arguments during a wonderful Extendo-Ride concert. I remember one of the Hot Tarts’ first few gigs there: ragged, teetering, funny, sexy, at every moment threatening to collapse. Pure Geno’s. With songs like "Booze Money" and "Do Me," the Tarts almost seemed like they were born and bottle-fed by Geno’s. I just read that the Hot Tarts played their first CD-release party there a few days ago. Full circle, I guess.

I’ll miss the dinge. But most of all I’ll miss the din.

Josh Rogers can be reached at joshrogers1@gmail.com

Geno’s 22nd Anniversary Final Show features Big Meat Hammer, the Marvels, the Pontiffs, and the Joe Mazzari Band on Sunday, March 20 at Geno’s, Portland. Call (207) 772-7891. Geno’s assures us that they’ll be opening up in a new location soon. Stay tuned.