John hails from the Wheeling, West Virginia area and attempted to be that region’s Dwight Yoakam. He sings country music and he does it well.Actually, he sings country and western, but mostly country in the tradition off the heartbreak, honky-tonk style, like George Jones, Hank Williams, Hank Snow, Hank Kimball (well not really Hank Kimball). The hits rolled all night long – at least two sets’ worth of manly C & W, and the largely female audience licked it up.

These Sex and the City, and even a few Northern Exposure femme fe fans turned out and were turned on by sheer sincere, dare I say suave, style. Dudeman had that well-heeled professional puck of comely Corbettheads, seemingly willing to do just about anything to have some one on one times with him.

Gentleman John, and he (ask my wife) looked better in person than on the silver screen. He couldn’t have been more polite, funny, gracious and charming, the bastard. How dare he be a real human being and make himself impossible to hate.

After the show, everybody had all access to his charm and attention. Countless autographs and politely rejected flirtations. Then he politely collected his pay and hit the road, like any other country, crooning, Hollywood hunk.

I had one brief conversation with John in the parking lot after the show. But in that short talk he thanked me and my staff for our genuine hospitality, said that it was one of the best places he had played and that everyone working there had treated him and his band with respect.

I was speechless that a guy on the verge of real success in this crazy music business would take the time to show such gratitude, and speechless is something I rarely am.

He may have overshared about some big-league starlets, but when he was in the bush leagues, about to get the call up to the majors, he showed real class.

There was the punk “rawk” star that had led Black Flag and come to us as the frontman of the Rollins Band. He was an incredibly focused individual, not given to idle conversation. When he arrived to play a gig in 1989, Ben Pridgeon (my bar manager and gifted bassist for the Squids) and I were engrossed in the final minutes of a Lakers-Celtics showdown.  Curt Schieber, who was still promoting most of the national shows as “No Other Presents,” hadn’t yet arrived for his usual promoter duties: doling out per diem meal money as well as hospitality items like booze, water, snacks and towels, and making sure the technical sound and stage needs were met (all parts of the contract “rider”).

Often the band would have a tour or road manager that procured the items and went over the details of the show, but in this case, Henry took care of his own business.

After whizzing past us behind the bar, absorbed as we were in the NBA finals, he shortly returned and intensely inquired about the promoter’s whereabouts, as well as the aforementioned contract rider items.

I couldn’t tell if he didn’t like basketball, hated bar owners or was just devoid of human emotion. He seemed cold and hard, almost robot-like, even though he was incredibly dynamic once he hit the stage. I came to realize after subsequent Rollins Band shows that the no-nonsense, down-to-business man was one side of Henry.

The other Master H.R. was the spoken word genius, who, when he arrived without a band in tow, was always affable, humorous, warm and downright charming.

I knew he had something to say when I read the lyrics to the Black Flag album “My War!” I may be alone here, but I’m not good at picking out words sung by Cookie Monster-like punk lead vocals. The dude was hilarious and his message was on point when he came to us as Henry Rollins, word artist. I almost felt guilty about the Wheaties box parody we had behind the bar. It was a picture of him affixed to the cardboard that said “Henry, Portrait of a Cereal Eater.” He actually found it funny. It disappeared at some point and I always wondered if someone gave it to him.

He also dated one of my friends and longtime employees. This brought him to town a few times when we weren’t doing business, which led me to believe that the real Henry was the second one, charming, intelligent and humorous, although when my friend saw his video for the song  “Liar,” she said he was speaking the truth.

After playing my room in one form or another at least five or six times, Henry’s popularity increased enough that he needed to play a larger space. He stopped by Stache’s before a Rollins Band Newport gig to see if anyone wanted to be on his guest list.

I was feeling disrespected by him because I was not included as a co-promoter of the show. Often when an act would outgrow Stache’s, I would promote or co-promote a show in a larger space, provided that the act’s agent included me. Poi Dog Pondering, Buddy Guy, Jon Spencer and Jesus Lizard were a few of the acts that always made sure to bring me along. This time, I wasn’t.  So when Henry stopped in, I asked him to step into my office for a private conversation.

When I told him I thought I should have been included in the deal, he said “It’s only business – it’s nothing personal, Dan.”

“Henry, in this business, everything is personal,” I said.

He did apologize for my hurt feelings, since there was nothing else that could have been done at that point.  I held it against him then, but looking back, I think his was an honest oversight. And I had far too many good experiences with people like Henry Rollins to dwell on the few setbacks.

Why was the stage at Little Brother’s so damn high?

We didn’t set out to have a four-foot high stage. We had designed it at 3′4″ to accommodate some really big bass cabinets without those monsters touching the stage-top’s bottom and causing sound-reinforcement nightmares. But the fire inspector said we needed a foot between the cabs and the stage. We reminded him that the wires were passive, but he insisted that the code said there had to be one foot between them, so we complied.

Now, the down side was that the performers were farther away, thus shows felt less intimate. But on the nights that we sold lots of tickets, you could see from way in the back. And man, did it cut down on stage diving.

And the top question I find myself asked everywhere I go is… “Why were you on Judge Judy?”

Actually, it’s “why did you close?”*

I believe that the end began with my intent to sell Little Brother’s to two serious, fun-loving music fans from out of town. One guy had worked for an agency and been a live music promoter in college. The other had been a touring musician that played Little Brother’s with a band that was popular on CD101.

I personally felt out of gas, trying to keep up with crowds half my age that were interested in music I only half cared about. I often said “I’ve seen this movie before and I liked it better the first two times.” I didn’t dislike the the bands or the kids coming to shows, I just didn’t love them the way I had before.

These buyers had the love, desire, enthusiasm, and just enough money to seal the deal. Although a purchase agreement was drawn up by my attorney in fall of 2006, it was contingent on them being able to buy the building too.

My personal Simon Legree – the Short North landlord that owned the building (having purchased it three years into my tenantcy) – began the so-called “negotiation” thusly: “you buy this and the next building for $x,000,000 and we have a deal.” They were so put off by the man’s arrogance that they dropped the deal and ended up buying an old theater in Madison,Wisconsin. Back to my reality I went.

I found myself without a lease, a constantly changing market and less desire than ever to do my job. I negotiated a new one that would have increased my rent 15 percent over three years and was told that the paperwork would be sent. Weeks passed without a word. I never spoke to or heard from him again.

I was contacted by his attorney, the kind that makes people tell lawyer jokes, but he wasn’t funny and he sure wasn’t joking. He told me smugly how much he loved “women’s music” (foreshadowing the lesbian business they were lining up to take over the room?) and asked if I would leave peacefully or if they would have to throw me out. He asked me for back rent, though I didn’t owe back rent, only taxes and insurance on the property, which we’d struggled to pay every year since the landlord took over the building and added it to our expenses, but we’d always caught up on them as soon as we were able.

It has been good to have a break for the last couple of years and to have plenty of time to spend time with my son, away from the double insanity of the bar and music business. Perhaps I should thank the man. On second thought, maybe not.

Any more questions?

* We also released a lot of details about this situation in 2007 and 2008 at littlebrothers.com if you’re interested in more of the back story.

Question: Why did you move from the “Olde North” (2404 N. High St.) to the longer portion of the Short North?

Answer: Humpty Dumpty didn’t jump, he was pushed.  George Sicaris, my first and favorite Greek landlord was told by the city to fix up the buildings housing us and Monkey’s Retreat, or tear them down. (They were falling down together.) He opted for the latter option and erect a strip mall.

To George’s credit, he gave me $5,000 and a year’s head start to move on. We were offered the use of a great building (1100 N. High St.) that was originally a library with a beautiful edifice. I used to admire it back in my cab-drivin’ days, while sitting across the street at the then Big Bear grocery (now Family Dollar)

Question: Why did you change the name when you moved? (Probably my most-asked question.)

Answer: Stache’s was officially Stache and Little Brother’s from the time that it opened. The original Stache was Jim, who had a moustache. His co-owner, Kenny, was short, thus nicknamed “little brother.” After Little Brother’s opened, I ran into his wife at the grocery store, who said she was so glad he was finally getting some credit.

My reasons for using it were several. One, I had been a little brother growing up and had used “Little Brother Presents” when promoting shows at other places, like the Newport or Alrosa Villa. Plus, also, too (to borrow a Scrawl album title), my older, shorter brother, Terry Dougan, who died suddenly in 1991, was a fan of the club. His last words to me were “see you at NRBQ” (at Stache’s). I know I felt his spirit there whenever they played Little Brother’s, and whenever someone covered a John Prine song.

Especially to great live music in an intimate setting.

Jules Shear’s songs sold millions when recorded by Cyndi Lauper or the Bangles, but my wife and I shared him with a few dozen others at Little Brother’s. After politely dodging the advice and appreciation of barfly music experts at a well-attended show there or at Stache’s, I loved to dive into a dark, quiet corner to absorb the sounds of a Tim Easton or Happy Chichester.

I regret the nights when I didn’t just shut my mouth and open my ears.

That’s why I’m creating “Listening Hours at Bristol” every Thursday evening at 9 p.m., beginning this December 3rd at Bristol Bar, 132 E. Fifth Avenue. A mere $3 will provide your entry for local luminaries with national prominence.

Chris Burney will kick off the series. He and Sam Brown will share the stage to play tunes by The Sun for the first set (a story just appeared in Columbus Alive about the band’s ending last week). For set two, Burney will be joined by Courtney Jacobs (formerly of the Moist Star) to do songs by their new band Adult Fiction, and some country favorites. Yours truly will sprinkle a little spoken word in between sets.

Doors open at 8 pm, and you can park for free at Carl Zipf’s lock shop across Fifth Avenue. 21 and over.

On an ordinary weekday in 1987, a large man with a bullhorn and a thick Russian-Israeli accent blocked traffic at the corner of 15th and High Street, the busiest corner on the Ohio State University campus. He bellowed out to students and other passers-by, “All the way from England: Badfinger! Very good band! Tonight only at Stache and Little Brother’s, 2404 North High!”

He passed out fliers and harangued people for several hours, using his bullhorn at point-blank range. He then went mobile in a beat-up luxury sedan, continuing to promote Paul McCartney’s favorite band with his electronic megaphone up and down the High Street drag.

The man was Pete Herman, the owner of Stache’s for nearly two years, and a black cloud on the Columbus Music Scene.

During Pete’s tenure, Curt Schieber continued to promote shows at the club as “No Other Presents” while running Schoolkids Records. These shows included acts that came from England, France, Germany and all over the globe. Joey Molland, the principal remaining member of Badfinger, though from England, was living in Columbus at the time.

Curt, in fact, saved Stache’s with his shows while Pete constantly alienated customers with his bizarre behavior and desire to change the club.

Before buying Stache’s, Pete had worked in a topless joint where he became familiar with laws that forbade patrons from touching the dancers. The fact that this was specific to strip clubs was lost on him. Ray Fuller, a staple of the local blues scene, played the room regularly. When couples would get up to slow dance during one of his ballads, Pete, worried about losing his liquor license, would physically separate them, reprimanding them with a stern “NO TOUCHING!”

At closing time, he would parade around the room, armed with a golf club and his signature bullhorn, barking “By order of the police, you must leave the building!” He proudly boasted of once using that golf club on a woman who was sitting on a man’s lap and “playing with his schmekel.”

He refused to allow bands to play music over the PA between sets, insisting that people put money into the jukebox. And he would often berate them into playing Frank Sinatra or Elvis Presley, music he “understood.”

He made sure that customers were clear that he didn’t understand much of the music Curt or other local promoters brought in. When customers called to find out who was playing, he would oddly proclaim, “Pretty Boy Boy Floyd, Baby Face Nelson, Pussy Galore and Booty Looty Mutha Fucker!” The last band, he claimed, was “Rock Hudson’s House Band” – his homophobic humor coming through.  He would also often tell people “you want to know who’s playing? You come down and find out for yourself.” From time to time, booking agents our touring acts would call, interested in playing the club, and they would be received in the same warm manner as the customers.

My purchase of Stache’s began when I asked him at a sold out Marshall Crenshaw show to put a little gin in my gin and tonic. “Smile,” I said. “At least you’re making money tonight.”

He snapped back “You think I’m  making money? You buy the goddamned place!”

I said “How much?”

He said “What you give me?”

I shot a number at him and he said “you give me $X as down payment and we will do it.”

I stepped outside to catch my breath, and saw the neon sign in the window of Dick’s Den across the street: “Why not?”

Just then, my friend Dave Dornbach walked by and I said, “hey Dave, didn’t you just buy a bar in Cleveland?”

He said yes.

“I think I just bought this one,” I told him.

It took another six months to get Pete to agree to my original figure on paper.

Months after I took over and Pete was gone, I got a signage fee bill from the City of Columbus, which claimed the new name of my bar was “Mississippi Lunch.”

It seems that Pete had, for one brief weekend, gotten tired of “punk rock barbarians” and tried to change Stache’s into a disco with go-go girls.  The name of this establishment was to be “Mississippi Lounge,” but when he phoned in the name change, the person on the other end heard “lunch” instead of “lounge.”

It cost $40 more to change it back to Stache and Little Brother’s.

To his credit, he was a pretty easy act to follow.

The son of a North Carolina radio DJ, “psychobilly godfather,” serious road warrior and armchair politician*,  Mojo Nixon and I go way back.

I saw him at one of Curt Schieber’s “No Other Presents” concerts at the Newport. He was opening for the Pogues, still paired with Skid Roper on the washtub bass (and other instruments). Curt probably had a hefty bar tab to pay that night.

I remember Mojo beating on a huge plastic water jug — the kind that offices use for the water cooler. He was singing “Mushroom Maniac,” and instantly, I felt a kindred spirit.

For anyone unfamiliar with the genius of Mojo Nixon, I need only give the titles of some of his “hits”: “Don Henley Must Die,” “Burn Down the Malls,” “Debbie Gibson is Pregnant with my Two-headed Love Child,” “Bring Me Head of David Geffen,” “Elvis is Everywhere,” and “When Did I Become My Dad?”

I saw him in the Queen City (Cincinnati) in the Reagan years. He was ranting about Nancy being an astrology cultist.

“We all know that star worship is the work of the Devil,”  he said. “So repeat after me: Nancy Reagan sucks Satan’s dick!” Even the obvious frat boys in the crowd were chanting along.

In the 1980s, he popped up on MTV with mini-rants and guest appearances, which landed him in bigger rooms than mine. But from the mid-90s until Little Brother’s closed, he played my rooms roughly once a year. From For a time, he lived in Cinci and hosted a libertine Libertarian-ish radio show on WLW.

I have my own band, “The Wahoos,” and we are a big hit at the Columbus Community Festival. Nuthin’ like a free festival to bring out the crowds. We once opened for Mojo Nixon and the Toadliquors. Mojo actually got there early enough to catch our set and gave us a great backhanded compliment. He said “ya know, when a promoter opens the show, they usually suck real bad. But you guys didn’t suck too bad at all!”

I ought to put that in the band’s press package.

When he did a “Bingo for Mojo” for local station CD101 at Chelsie’s (a club that often competed with mine for shows), he came to Stache’s later that night. I asked him how it went and he said “well, you know – too many radio weasels.”

Another time he came to Stache’s after a gig at campus club The Newport and jammed with local blues dudes the “Men of Leisure.”

He was also quite the ladies’ man. He tried to pick up one of my female bartenders by showing her pictures of his newborn baby – a truly suave gentleman.

The Moj also made a great impression on my Mrs. He came to town to play on three separate occasions when she was saying goodbye to a job – great comedic timing.

Mojo retired from the road around the time I closed Little Brother’s, although I hear he’s coming out to play a couple of Texas gigs with Dash Rip Rock and the New Duncan Imperials – another bar tab I’d hate to be responsible for. He  hosts several shows on satellite radio about “outlaw country music,” NASCAR and politics.

For just a couple more days, you can get most of Mojo’s catalog for free on Amazon, including a live performance of his latest mega success, “What’s Up Judge Judy’s Ass?” – a dark and scary place, I’m sure, having once been a participant on that infamous TV show. (Someday, through the wonder of the blogosphere, we’ll go there.)

* Campaign slogan: “Put another Nixon in the White House: Mojo Ain’t No Dick.”

Hey kids… Pop quiz!

What show sold out the fastest in the history of Stache & Little Brother’s?

Nirvana? The Ventures? Tiny Tim and Camper Van Beethoven?

No. Nope. Nada.

It wasn’t “Jim Beam presents Lucinda Williams and Joe Ely,” Smashing Pumpkins or Sun Ra either.

It was…

Daughtry. In seven minutes. Yeah, that’s right, the American Idol also-ran Chris Daughtry.

And you know what? That success couldn’t have happened to a better guy. Believe it or not, dude man has a heart of gold.

Yes, I’m a cynic too, but the guy was at the top of the charts and he still thought he owed it to some of the little guy night clubs who had helped him get up there. We lucked out because he needed a connecting date between those guys, and the band wanted a chance to pull their act together in front of small crowds before working up to major venues.

Ben Hamilton, my talent buyer at the time, doesn’t watch TV and didn’t know who Daughtry was.

I thought it would be the biggest headache ever, far worse than dealing with Bob Pollard’s Budweiser-pounding entourage, some local open-mic hip hop artists or that troll in Nashville Pussy.

And Daughtry’s business people were absurd, asking questions like “what’s your marketing strategy?” well after the high-speed sellout. We had to compromise on numerous production issues, which was not at all unusual when the act was accustomed to playing on much larger stages. Still, we had to remind his people that he wanted to play there – an independent mid-sized club with limitations that network television would never encounter. They neglected to ask us in advance to hold back a large number of tickets for their guest list.

Consequently, I expected big hassles from the road manager. That wasn’t the case. Anything I had thought was bound to go wrong was painlessly resolved on the day of the show.  And Chris himself couldn’t have been nicer.

He wanted to shave and the men’s room mirror was covered with stickers, so he went into the women’s room. Shortly thereafter, my better half, Tracy, who had just arrived to pick me up for dinner, ran in there while my back was turned. She was startled when she found the pop star grooming, and he said “Hi there. Go ahead. Don’t worry, I promise I won’t listen,” and started humming a tune.

His longtime bandmates and crew were also easy and not unlike the majority of underground rock bands.

The crowd, however, was filled overwhelmingly with women who apparently don’t get out much and didn’t seem to know how to act at a concert. I’m not sure where they learned that if you voted for a contestant on a performance television show, it somehow gave you propriety over him and all other people in the general area, like bar staff, doormen and stage personnel. They requested that Chris dedicate songs to them in return for their tireless telephone-dialing efforts. Some of the crowd showed up at 9 a.m. and made a general nuisance of themselves all day.

Regardless, once again, the old book cover adage about judgment applies. Not everybody that hangs with “dawgs” wakes up with fleas.

“Yea, me too,” I thought. But I didn’t go into his place every few months and knock fiberglass ceiling tiles down.

That, however, was a minor inconvenience in my world. And though it usually cost a few bucks to replace two or three of them, and itched like hell when I couldn’t get Skippy, the sometimes fix-it guy to do it, what the hell. The New Bomb Turks brought us a full house and boffo beer sales.

But the night of the benefit, things got personal.

We were trying to raise money to move Stache & Little Brother’s down to the Short North, and a series of benefits were scheduled to help pay the tab. The architecture bills, remodeling costs, legal fees for the change of use and numerous variances, etc. etc. etc., ended up costing over $200 grand, most of which was borrowed from good friends, digging me into a hole that I never thought I’d get out of.

The benefit shows and those last few months at 2404 N. High raised way less than we had hoped, and I was drinking heavily, even for an Irishman like me.

But that night, I was sober. I was back by the sound board and the kids were a little wild. Tera, our soundperson, had just commented on how calm and tolerant I was being when some knuckleheads climbed up on the light truss. It was just a skinny metal pole, hung between two pieces of flimsy wood, and I was afraid that the whole rig would crash down on Eric’s “nice guy” head.

So I went to the stage and asked Davidson to hand me the microphone so that I could speak to the crowd through my P.A.  He refused to hand it over, stepped away from me and hid it behind his back. I blew up.

I hand-signaled Tera to kill the sound, and when the song was over, I addressed the hecklers in the crowd without amplification. I said something about them being pseudo-punk rockers and and that anyone feeling up to it could follow me out back for a private discussion.  There were no takers, thank my lucky stars.

I foolishly threw a beer bottle, which sailed past Matt Reber (the bass player’s) head. Somehow, he and I are still friends. Then I gave the band back the night’s take, at their request. The next day I wrote an apology to those in the crowd that I felt didn’t deserve my anger, and posted it at Used Kids Records. That note, of course, ended up in The Other Paper.

Eric later became a music critic and wrote about Little Brother’s, calling it “blasé.” Though they did play there a few times, I think they preferred Skully’s.

Eric also wrote that politics has no place in punk rock, although I think I saw his name on a pro-public option health care petition. I’m still a liberal, whose favorite punkers — The Clash, Patti Smith, The Minutemen, etc. — are all about the body politic. And Eric and I, of course, are still “nice guys.”