Death Cab for Cutie are one of several local bands who usually split their local shows between high-profile appearances at the spacious Showbox and old-time's-sake gigs at the Croc. The Supersuckers are another, and their booking agent Julianne Andersen says much of the appeal is knowing that the Croc will attract a sell-out crowd and that her band will be treated well. "For the Supersuckers, it's kind of like playing their living room," she says.
The Supersuckers illustrate the loose connection among the local clubs that has strengthened the scene; when frontman Eddie Spaghetti and company want to showcase their country side, they'll diverge from the Croc/Showbox axis and play the Tractor Tavern in Ballard. Add to these clubs the garage and punk-oriented Graceland (in the old Off Ramp space) and the dance and hip-hop heavy I-Spy, and Seattle's club climate has never seemed so steady (though two longtime clubs, the Fenix and the OK Hotel, recently succumbed to earthquake-related damage).
Manager Constance Dorgan.
Related Content
More About
"Any competition is a very friendly competition," says Sit & Spin's Meinert. "Rarely is there conflict."
Andersen suggests that Seattle looks especially appealing compared to the more established, less congenial club scenes in New York and Chicago, and hints that the Crocodile has been a primary influence. "The clubs in Seattle were built around the live music scene," she says. "The Croc's the jewel in the crown, pretty much."
FOR ALL THE POSITIVITY floating around the Crocodile during its 10th anniversary month, there's also an air of wistfulness. The high-tech boom of the past few years has dramatically altered the neighborhood, turning Belltown from a sleepy, artsy neighborhood perched at the edge of downtown to a condo-riddled playground for the nouveau-est of the nouveau riche. Expensive restaurants abound; you can't throw a drumstick without hitting a joint where entr饠prices start at around 20 bucks.
"Belltown has been getting developed in a way that breaks my heart," says Dorgan. "A lot of the good, artistic people who lived here are gone."
She and her sister Constance lament the conversion of potentially historic buildings to cookie-cutter housing units. "I'm glad there are more people living in Belltown," Constance Dorgan says, "but I'm sorry to see all the buildings go."
The only member of the Croc's 30-plus staff that might enjoy the gentrifying of Belltown is Kevin Watson, whose security duties have become less arduous. "In the last year and a half, there've been a lot less problems," he says.
Even if the neighborhood continues its transition from eccentric to civilized, from rough-hewn to streamlined, you get the sense that the Crocodile will march forward with the same offbeat charm that's taken it this far. Watson's still an anachronism at the door—a polite, efficient club security guard with a warm smile. Wood and Constance Dorgan are nearly inseparable, lurking at the edge of the crowd to ensure everything's running smoothly. Anderson's perched behind the bamboo-framed soundboard in the back of the band room, twiddling knobs and remaining nearly invisible to the crowd. In the back bar, manager Val Kiossovski leads a group of efficiency-minded bartenders—including Theodore, the beanpole-thin blond dandy—who admonish anyone in line who isn't quick to order their drinks. And when the long night is over, you can make your way past frenetic publicist Frank Nieto, who seems to have befriended half the audience, and come back in the morning to have brunch in a restaurant run by a slightly gruff, goateed guy named Babe (DuFresne). It sounds more like the makings of a Fox sitcom than the formula for business success and longevity, but it's worked so far.
"I'd like to see it here another 10 years," Stephanie Dorgan says a bit hesitantly. "It's a good thing for the community. It's not all about me. I'm lucky to be the conduit for it."
Asked how she responded to her sister's announcement 10 years ago that she'd given up law to open a rock club, Constance replies, "I thought it was a good idea." Then, looking around a room filled with mismatched furniture, abstract art, and band posters, she adds, "Who knew it would turn into this?"
rmartin@seattleweekly.com
