(A Musical Travel Adventure Odyssey/Report by Crystal K. Wiebe)
Last weekend, I took a break from KC to check out another nearby scene. St. Joseph, Missouri, is where Jesse James got shot and the last place I lived before KC. At least two new music venues, the Scallywag and Magoon’s, have sprouted there since I moved a few months ago. I had to see them.
On the way north, a mohawk on the side of the interstate caught our attention. “That’s my friend CJ!” my bofriend RL exclaimed. “His band is playing tonight!” We wheeled around at the next exit to see if we could help the punk guitarist for American Youth Report, an old school punk band with members from St. Joe and KC. It was almost 6 p.m., an hour before the band was supposed to play, and CJ was stranded outside Platte City with a blown out rear tire. We took him to Wal-Mart for repairs, and the Scallywag owner (who also conveniently happens to play in American Youth Report) moved back the set times, so the kids didn’t have to miss out on any rock.
The line of teenagers outside the Scallywag stretched halfway down the block when we rolled into town just before 8 p.m. Clean inside and decorated with pirate-themed murals, the club represents a commendable attempt at creating a place for underage Joetown music fans to gather. Organizers tell me the goal is to book shows every weekend and plan some free weeknight activities, which will set the Scallywag apart from other part-time all-age venues there and in KC. About 100 people returned for more fun at the Scallywag the next night night. Among them was an unruly dad prone to roughing up the kids who mocked his son’s band, according to the drummer for Mister Sinister, who told me that this asshole pinned that band's singer to the floor. And you thought cheerleader moms were dangerous.
RL and I spent most of our Saturday night at Magoon’s where the bad dad would have found plenty of people his own size to pick on. A deli by day, Magoon’s is a laid back joint with comfy booths and old beer cans lining the walls. College to middle age folks in various states of inebriation conversed over my friend Drew Ames’s bluesy set of covers and originals. His drummer brother, Quentin, stayed on the makeshift stage for the second act: his experimental rock group, the Waystation.
I left feeling good about the state of local music in the friendly little city I never thought I’d miss so much.
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