Power Tools
A lifetime ago…mid 80’s...I had returned from a stint in England for about 9 months and I was back in Houston. I ran into a girl I knew in high school and she invited me to a little get together at her boyfriend’s house in the Montrose. That’s where I met one of the greatest guy friends I have ever had, still have, came to my wedding and my fortieth birthday. It got to be a pretty regular thing that we would get together, about six of us usually sometimes more sometimes less, around ten or so on Friday and Saturday nights and go to either Numbers or a place called Power Tools – in downtown Houston. I loved Power Tools. I mean, I loved it. I would go, on my own, after work at the Ale House on Alabama on Thursday nights and go straight to Power Tools. You walked down into the club – about twenty maybe thirty steps, paid your entrance fee, and entered a cave, with all these little nooks and crannies. Alcoves with couches or seats usually occupied with subversives or artists or other such liberal leaning types. The place was usually pretty filthy so I would put it under the heading of "underground dive". It had different themes from week to week because there was a huge artistic influence with different artwork on the walls.
Loved the art, but I went there for the music and the dancing. The bass shook your insides from the moment you descended and your heart would literally double time to the beat. There were neon painted dancers elevated above the dance floor with blacklights flashing around them, and it was dark. This is where I heard Public Enemy and NWA for the first time, and became totally engrossed. No I didn’t get a grill or bling or anything, but it compelled me to enter downtown before it became trendy alone after ten o’clock at night and emerge around three a.m. This is the time of the Beastie Boys and my personal fave, Funky Cold Medina – Mr. Tone Loc.
The best part was the dancing. On Thursday nights it wasn’t as crowded, and there were always about six to ten African American guys doing organized, impromptu dance which I was fascinated by. Initially I watched but eventually I would start copying on the outskirts and they would move aside and allow me be a part of the group. I never solo-ed, I was never that good, but it was awesome learning the Way, as it were. I never knew any of their names, they didn’t know mine but they always recognized me and let me join.
Fast forward to a couple of weeks ago. Selling gourmet popcorn at the middle school with very conservative, image conscious friend. I actually really like her, she’s been very supportive and kind. But she is so conservative, so very, well, “W” sticker. Anyway, we are talking about different things and she brings up when she and her husband first got to Houston how they loved going out…
“oh, and we loved this place called, oh what was it called…Power…”
“Power Tools???”....my Power Tools? How can this be?
"Oh my gosh yes! That’s it! Power Tools! How on earth…”
Up until I started writing this, I was floored. I could not fathom her setting foot into that place. It would be like my mom getting her tongue pierced..that bizarre. You never know! You just never know about people, I marveled to myself. You assume things and bam! They do something so crazy that blows all assumptions out of the water!
No.
As I was writing I suddenly remembered why we all stopped going. The yuppies and “greeks” as in soros and frat bros. It was the “cool” “hip” inner city “artistic” place to go. With like art on the wall and these dancers, oh it is so rad, man. Sheesh.
I went in on a Thursday and the guys were there, the music was great, but Friday and Saturday, the boys were lined up at the entrance on either side surveying the girls as the walked by, stationing themselves outside the restroom (e-u) hitting on girls as they came out. My Power Tools had turned into a meat market. The dance floor was so packed you couldn’t move. It was all groups of people singing drunkenly, jumping up and down not dancing. The last time I went in there I was walking through the crowd while girls were screeching “ohmigawd I am x-ing so haaaard!” and I was dowsed from head to toe in some idi0t’s beer. I turned around and left.
There are so many alcoves, caves, nooks and crannies in my mind and memory. Someone will mention something or I will see someone, and out pops an experience that I had completely forgotten about. It’s easy to look back with strong feelings of nostalgia, when we all have a tendency to edit from the film of our life that which makes the experience unpleasant or simply not worth remembering. I had a great time, but it was a “fast and furious” kind of time, one which inevitably had to burn out. I’m just glad I didn’t get burned up with it.
A lifetime ago…mid 80’s...I had returned from a stint in England for about 9 months and I was back in Houston. I ran into a girl I knew in high school and she invited me to a little get together at her boyfriend’s house in the Montrose. That’s where I met one of the greatest guy friends I have ever had, still have, came to my wedding and my fortieth birthday. It got to be a pretty regular thing that we would get together, about six of us usually sometimes more sometimes less, around ten or so on Friday and Saturday nights and go to either Numbers or a place called Power Tools – in downtown Houston. I loved Power Tools. I mean, I loved it. I would go, on my own, after work at the Ale House on Alabama on Thursday nights and go straight to Power Tools. You walked down into the club – about twenty maybe thirty steps, paid your entrance fee, and entered a cave, with all these little nooks and crannies. Alcoves with couches or seats usually occupied with subversives or artists or other such liberal leaning types. The place was usually pretty filthy so I would put it under the heading of "underground dive". It had different themes from week to week because there was a huge artistic influence with different artwork on the walls.
Loved the art, but I went there for the music and the dancing. The bass shook your insides from the moment you descended and your heart would literally double time to the beat. There were neon painted dancers elevated above the dance floor with blacklights flashing around them, and it was dark. This is where I heard Public Enemy and NWA for the first time, and became totally engrossed. No I didn’t get a grill or bling or anything, but it compelled me to enter downtown before it became trendy alone after ten o’clock at night and emerge around three a.m. This is the time of the Beastie Boys and my personal fave, Funky Cold Medina – Mr. Tone Loc.
The best part was the dancing. On Thursday nights it wasn’t as crowded, and there were always about six to ten African American guys doing organized, impromptu dance which I was fascinated by. Initially I watched but eventually I would start copying on the outskirts and they would move aside and allow me be a part of the group. I never solo-ed, I was never that good, but it was awesome learning the Way, as it were. I never knew any of their names, they didn’t know mine but they always recognized me and let me join.
Fast forward to a couple of weeks ago. Selling gourmet popcorn at the middle school with very conservative, image conscious friend. I actually really like her, she’s been very supportive and kind. But she is so conservative, so very, well, “W” sticker. Anyway, we are talking about different things and she brings up when she and her husband first got to Houston how they loved going out…
“oh, and we loved this place called, oh what was it called…Power…”
“Power Tools???”....my Power Tools? How can this be?
"Oh my gosh yes! That’s it! Power Tools! How on earth…”
Up until I started writing this, I was floored. I could not fathom her setting foot into that place. It would be like my mom getting her tongue pierced..that bizarre. You never know! You just never know about people, I marveled to myself. You assume things and bam! They do something so crazy that blows all assumptions out of the water!
No.
As I was writing I suddenly remembered why we all stopped going. The yuppies and “greeks” as in soros and frat bros. It was the “cool” “hip” inner city “artistic” place to go. With like art on the wall and these dancers, oh it is so rad, man. Sheesh.
I went in on a Thursday and the guys were there, the music was great, but Friday and Saturday, the boys were lined up at the entrance on either side surveying the girls as the walked by, stationing themselves outside the restroom (e-u) hitting on girls as they came out. My Power Tools had turned into a meat market. The dance floor was so packed you couldn’t move. It was all groups of people singing drunkenly, jumping up and down not dancing. The last time I went in there I was walking through the crowd while girls were screeching “ohmigawd I am x-ing so haaaard!” and I was dowsed from head to toe in some idi0t’s beer. I turned around and left.
There are so many alcoves, caves, nooks and crannies in my mind and memory. Someone will mention something or I will see someone, and out pops an experience that I had completely forgotten about. It’s easy to look back with strong feelings of nostalgia, when we all have a tendency to edit from the film of our life that which makes the experience unpleasant or simply not worth remembering. I had a great time, but it was a “fast and furious” kind of time, one which inevitably had to burn out. I’m just glad I didn’t get burned up with it.
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You bin blogrolled!