Farewell to Frederick's
By Daniel Durchholz
SPECIAL TO THE POST-DISPATCH
Sunday, Feb. 19 2006
The room is empty now.
Over the piano, three women painted on the cinder-block wall stare at
no one.
The singing deer head is silent. The bubble machine, which broke some
months
back, has already been removed.
The beer signage and other pop culture detritus - a Johnny Cash poster,
the
head of a Star Trek Borg figure wearing a paper Steak 'n' Shake hat,
various
Christmas decorations, a giant cardboard spark plug ("improved spark!")
-
remains for now but soon will be put into storage or returned to
whoever left
it behind.
Original paintings, some of questionable taste, will come down, as will
the
chalkboard drink menu that for the past few weeks has carried the
slogan, "The
end is near (screw that, let's get drunk)."
Until it is unplugged or emptied of CDs, however, you can still play a
bootleg
recording of Uncle Tupelo's "I Drink Stag" on the jukebox.
The liquor bottles behind the bar have dwindled to a few. From the
ceiling
still hangs perhaps the dirtiest sweat sock west of the Mississippi as
well as
the room's signature decorating choice - a selection of women's
undergarments
donated to the cause or, um, left behind.
Bereft of patrons, the place at 4454 Chippewa Street has the look of a
slightly
naughty rumpus room - more or less what it was. True, it was a
business, a bar
and a place where both local and touring rock and country bands could
play.
But thanks to its host, Fred Boettcher Jr., better known as Fred
Friction,
whatever was going on inside Frederick's Music Lounge always had the
feel of a
private party that everyone could attend.
A lounge dividedcannot stand
Frederick's is shuttered and, pending a few dotted i's and crossed t's,
will be
sold. The familiar South Side hangout is owned by Friction and his five
siblings, left to them in 2000 by the late Fred Boettcher Sr., who ran
the
Music Lounge in his
own inimitable fashion for 16 years. Though other avenues were
explored,
selling the building, including the attached house where Friction
lives, proved
to be the only way each of them could finally receive their full
inheritance.
Left somewhat in the lurch, however, is the St. Louis music scene,
which has
lost another venue where original music was valued and nurtured.
"That was one of the things that Freddy did right," says Paul Stark,
who until
recently managed the bar's business affairs while Friction booked the
bands and
worked the room. "He found bands that nobody knew, they came to St.
Louis and,
even if they had really poor attendance in the beginning, he kept
bringing them
back and it would grow from there."
Certainly the musicians appreciated Friction's taste and loyalty. It
wasn't
unusual for them to come by on off nights and, even when Friction
attempted to
wave them in for free, offer to pay anyway - a sure sign of respect and
a
desire for the venue to remain solvent.
"I said from the stage one night that I thought Fred contributed more
to St.
Louis culture than anyone from the Kiel Group ever did," says John
Wendland,
who played at Frederick's with his bands Rough Shop and One Fell Swoop.
"I was
serious about that. You lose a little something every time a place like
that
goes away. It was a diamond in the rough, and I don't know if people
appreciated it the way that they should have."
Attendance was never consistent at Frederick's. Some nights, more
people were
on stage than in the audience. The equipment, too, was sometimes found
wanting.
"The stage was small. The PA could feed back and be a real bear to work
with.
The mikes sometimes were ungrounded," says Chris Grabau, who played
there with
Magnolia Summer, Waterloo and other bands. "But it didn't matter. When
you went
to Fred's, you went because there was music there, but also because
there was
this community and this whole vibe that went beyond the music."
Inspired by Cicero's
"Community" is a word you hear a lot from people who went to
Frederick's
regularly. In a sense, that community had been looking for a place to
meet ever
since Cicero's moved from its original location - the basement that's
now
Blueberry Hill's Duck Room.
"I wanted to re-create the feel of the old Cicero's - that camaraderie
- but in
a place that didn't have graffiti on the walls and had clean toilets,"
Friction
says. "We accomplished that, and we got something done in the past five
years
that I'm very proud of."
Even before he ran Frederick's, the rail-thin Friction was a familiar
figure,
thanks to his stint as drummer for the Highway Matrons and as an
itinerant
spoon player who sat in with anyone and everyone. He says the thing
he'll take
from Frederick's is "a lifetime of memories from everybody who has come
through
these doors and people that I've met from across the country - who've
been here
and gone and come back and decided that this tiny little space was
where they'd
prefer to play. There was something here that wasn't all about the
money, and
that is very gratifying."
Bob Reuter, who played the Music Lounge as a solo act, with his bands
Kamikaze
Cowboy and the Dirty South, and often hosted Noiseday Hootenanny, the
bar's
open mike night, agrees.
"At Frederick's, the musician is king," Reuter says. "There was a green
room -
originally Fred's living room - where bands could hang out, drink,
smoke and
God knows what all. Occasionally, the tip bucket would spontaneously
get sent
around when attendance was light, just so the touring band could make
some gas
money to get to their next stop. Bands drank for free, which made no
sense from
a business standpoint, but was one of the points Fred stood firm on."
The bar had its quirks. For a while, the only way to enter was to ring
the
buzzer on the front door and explain why you should be allowed in.
Another
experiment was to replace the cover charge with an "exit fee" that
encouraged
patrons to leave behind whatever they didn't spend at the bar.
Patrons may not have taken to the exit fee, but they did take to
Frederick's.
For them, it was a place to hear some music, hang out with regulars and
be
themselves.
"Someone called me a couple of weeks ago and asked me, 'What kind of
crowd do
you get there?'" Friction says. "I said, 'Well, you know, late 20s,
early 30s,
40s.' They said, 'More of a mature crowd?' I said, 'No, an older crowd
that
likes to act immature.' We've always been blessed with a clientele that
likes
to act like they're 4 years old, but they're respectful of others. They
know
when to stop."
The moment passes
Last Saturday night, it was time to stop for good. But not before
giving the
place a fitting send-off. About a hundred people - regulars as well as
newbies
- crowded into Frederick's for one last time.
As opening bands Fertilizer Bomb and the Saps played, Friction was
nowhere to
be seen, preferring to hang out in the green room and drink with
friends and
the headlining group, Two Cow Garage.
A couple of the celebrants asked Friction for some hair clippers and
proceeded
to give themselves impromptu Mohawks, then drew on their foreheads with
magic
markers. In short, it was a typical night.
When Two Cow Garage, an Ohio band that Friction had "raised like kids,"
hit the
stage, they adapted Centro-Matic's "Gunmetal and Engines," a tribute to
the
band Slobberbone, to express affection for Friction.
As they played, Friction made his entrance, looking dapper in a coat,
tie and
wraparound shades.
"There are places and there are places and there are places," bassist
Shane
Sweeney said from the stage. "But, sometimes, places become
transcendent parts
of a community. Everybody I know in St. Louis, I met at Frederick's."
As their set roared toward its conclusion, Friction joined them onstage
and
announced, "We're out of Stag. I think you all know what that means."
The staff hugged and cried as Friction held his wife, Kathleen, on the
dance
floor and the band played the Beatles' "Don't Let Me Down."
Friction called for one more song, at the bartenders' insistence. The
band
obliged, offering Poison's "Talk Dirty to Me."
Friction returned to the stage and essentially tackled the band,
knocking them
to the floor and crashing into the drum kit. Somehow, they kept
playing.
Friction gathered himself and dived into the audience, crowd surfing
back to
the bar where he was handed a beer, which he downed while still held
aloft.
It was a moment, to be sure. Too bad for everyone who loved Frederick's
Music
Lounge, it was the last of its kind.
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