By this point, I’ve logged entirely too many entries about the old Ritz on 11th Street on this blog. Suffice to say, it was a pivotal place for me, as a nascent music fan, in the 80’s. Since morphing into Webster Hall (its original name) in the 90’s, I still went a few times, but not with the loyal regularity with which I darkened its doors as the Ritz, although that had more to do with Webster Hall's booking policy than anything else. But as recently as this past May, I was still posting ruminations on the glory of the old ballroom.
It was recently brought to my attention, however, that Webster Hall is about to close for renovations. I realize the building is landmarked, but the last time I heard something was temporarily shuttering for the purposes of renovation, it never re-opened. I call it the Cedar Tavern syndrome.
And, as become so often the case, as Webster Hall is induced into a coma, of sorts, plans have been put in place to document its descent into dormancy in the form of yet another documentary. Read my friend E.V. Grieve’s story about it here, and check out the Kickstarter page (complete with trailer) here.
In watching that trailer, however, I bristle at the fact that the very word “Ritz” is only mentioned fleetingly. I realize the Ritz closed almost thirty years ago (jeezus), and only operated for about a decade, while it’s been Webster Hall since 1992, but I can’t help feeling that its tenure as the Ritz is way more significant. But, hey, that’s me … I’m old. Bite me.
In any case, just to balance out all the tear-stained reminiscence about its days as Webster Hall, I thought I’d share my favorite moments from my visits to it as The Ritz.
I think my first show there may have been the Circle Jerks with D.O.A., Redd Kross and Toxic Reasons opening in December of 1985. It seemed like a ludicrously grand venue to be hosting such a ragtag mob of ill-behaved, leather-clad nogoodnicks, but I was entirely amazed to be in that grand ballroom, surrounded by my like-minded brethren. As a geeky high-school misfit besotted with punk, hardcore and metal and routinely lambasted, by my pop-loving classmates, for my predilections, it felt like such a vindication to see Keith Morris of the Circle Jerks assume the stage (flanked by towering Earl Liberty on bass and Handsome Greg Hetson on guitar) sporting a Motorhead shirt and lording over a roiling mass of rambunctious mohicans. These were my people. I was finally home.
Further shows like a couple of Dead Boys reunion gigs, and a barnstorming homecoming by the Ramones (on the Halfway to Sanity tour, with Dee Dee still in the ranks) are equally seared into my memory. The shot below is that Ramones gig. I’m in that throng somewhere.
My favorite anecdote about The Ritz, however, involves one of a pair of shows in December of 1987, which featured Fishbone, The Toasters and Murphy’s Law. My friend Rob D. and I attended both of these Christmas gigs (hot on the release of Fishbone’s holiday EP, It’s a Wonderful Life), and the room was jam-packed with an army of punks, skinheads, rudeboys, rockers, hardcore kids, college types and all points in between. It was, as they say, the event of the season.
On both nights, each band whipped the capacity crowd up into a complete frenzy, but on the first of the two evenings, I remember being amidst the pit during Murphy’s Law’s frenetic set. The heat coming off the crowd was intense and the action was nonstop. I managed to weave my pipe-cleaner-like physique through the merry melee to the western side of the room, clinging to the bar as if it was the side of a deep pool. Sweaty and exhausted, I petitioned the bartender -- via a variety of complex hand-signals, given the stentorian din of Murphy’s Law at full throttle -– for a COKE! As if on cue, right as the barkeep was completing my order, lead singer Jimmy Gestapo (a moniker he has since tastefully renounced, truncating to simply “Jimmy G.”) heroically vaulted from the Ritz stage and onto the very bar to which I was leaning. Just as my cup of ice-laden Coca-Cola was put down in front of me, Jimmy started enthusiastically skanking down the bar, with limbs akimbo, flailing in time with the music. Just as I was reaching for my beverage, Jimmy brought his battle-weathered Doc Marten down on my cup with a splattering-STOMP. Fittingly or unwittingly, no soft-drinks were going to be consumed on his watch.
In the almost thirty years since that evening, countless people have invariably enjoyed countless evenings of similar experience within the hallowed halls of that building, regardless of its moniker. Who really knows what’s going to happen to the place when its new, corporate overloads take control, but one can’t help fear the worst. There’s a lot of soul, character and history in that space -– it’s one of the last few places of its kind in this city.
Can’t we leave well enough alone?
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