by Dino Corvino on May 12th, 2009
In what can be a surprise to no one, this document from the State of Wisconsin has appeared in regards to the Fillmor in downtown Wausau. Clearly this is another indicator of trouble, but I think it leads to more questions than answers.
I want to be clear, I know that another local downtown iconic night spot did this same thing during the transition it had from living to dead. So, I would almost assume that this violation is not that uncommon. I also spoke with an investigator at the office mentioned in this PDF, and they said this was very common especially during difficult economic times.
It is my belief that we are all guilty in the case of the Fillmor. Not for the things that Dan Miller has asserted in his contrived letter to the editor, but rather for this reason: We let them fail. It is like watching your best friend try to walk uphill on ice. And he just falls and falls and is never going to get anywhere, and it is fun to watch, but you know you could help. We, as a community, let two men run a business when they were clearly in over their heads. Should we have stepped in sooner? Or, is it the case as some have said, that many did try to help and Bill Miller ran them out of the bar with his bad behavior?
More than that though, as we step back, what will the City of Wausau do? It is clear that the city has extended these boys cash, connection and extension. How does this move forward? In a story in the City Pages, Ann Werth said she gave Dan Miller an extension on his first repayment on the loan from the city. When was that given, and when was this letter filed? Did the City of Wausau give an extension to someone who was in violation?
Fillmor Document
by Cheryl Mathis on November 23rd, 2008
Date night with the husband featured live music at The Fillmor as we bundled up against the cold to venture out to see Mean Tooth Grin. Weeks ago I sat in a van with guitarist Tom Jordan and listened to him geek out about guitars and amps with Scott Holt. He invited me to come hear him play in November when he’d open for Steepwater.
Tom Jordan played with a gravity, feeling the weight of all the rock and blues greats who influenced him resting on his shoulders as he leaned into the rock, jamming his body against the beat. It seemed like he’d been loving this since he was a kid, this dream of performance, this open sharing of his first love. He presented it as a gift on a steel platter, asking us to love the music, too.
Tom growled into the microphone, the rough edge of the vocals shaping the gritty feel of the melody, an unpretentious declaration of being a good ol’ boy from the country. I felt I had been teleported to an outdoor music festival. I was sitting on a concrete wall, the rough surface of the stone scraping my thighs. I held a cold beer in my hand while the hot sun turned my face red and the music turned my body into an extension of the hard rhythm of the rock jam.
In reality, I was sitting in a draft at The Fillmor, my body growing colder as the music heated up on the stage.
Seth Heffner on bass played with an easy grace, a well-practiced and effortless skill with his instrument. The low repetitions of the bass line beat forth from his body, and all he had to do was pluck it from the machine he held. Seth smirked under his baseball cap, his hands curled over the strings, balancing on the notes, scratching it out like an itch he just had to relieve.
Brian Miller on the drums was a beefy jock of a man who played like this was the only place on earth he’d like to be: behind the drums, the sticks in his hands. Playing the beats with force and energy, he drove the music forward. Brian would shrug into the song, throwing himself into the rhythm, an easy grin on his face.
But Tom Jordan shined in his shy way, standing taller as the set aged. This is not a hobby. It’s his blood, boiling dirty and coarse through his veins, inexplicable, as part of him as nothing else. He played around with the melody, taking liberties with it, slapping it around, caressing it, sliding it around the stage, but always bringing it back where it belongs, coming back to the recognizable riffs to bring the song back home again. Tom hid behind a curtain of long brown hair that fell down in waves. Often he turned his body away from the crowd, unsure of himself but damn sure of the music.
Tom’s voice rode above the deep drive of the song, rolling on top of the bass. There was nothing syrupy sweet about the vocals. They were steeped in an elixir: one part snarl, one part sandpaper. He took turns with his guitar as he created a perfect balance between the lyrics and the melodic rampage of the jam.
I remembered the basement bedroom of a high school boyfriend. Black lights glowing, the hormonal heat keeping me warm, the music loud and the bass heavy. Leaning back against the second-hand couch, I learned the basics of the hard blues my mom never told me about. And so it was last night at The Fillmor, listening to Mean Tooth Grin display the skill of years of experience in the old school-style of raucous blues and country.
by Cheryl Mathis on September 6th, 2008
After the show was over last night, Dino said he couldn’t wait to read what I write about my first rock concert. I hope he’s not disappointed, and I hope he treats this with kindness.
I went to my first rock concert last night at The Fillmor. The venue is beautiful and large and sparkling. Everyone I met was warm and enthusiastic, and I made new friends and had some fantastic conversations between sets. I even *gulp* drank some alcoholic beverages. My experiences are filtered through that boozy haze, and my head feels like it’s filled with angry cotton balls this morning, yet I still have something I need to say.
Years ago, I made the conscious decision to retreat from the social butterfly life of my college years. The drama turned scary, and I needed to figure out a new path for adulthood. I grew introspective and began to live very much in my own body. I spent months invariably alone, listening to countless audiobooks, working on needle crafts, finding some quiet in my head. The peace I found was pervasive, and it’s been very difficult to leave those years behind and move on to the next phase of my life.
I think I expected college-years-Cheryl to stretch out of her self-imposed cocoon and flutter about and party hard last night. It didn’t happen that way. My ear drums quickly grew numb, so the music’s lyrics blended into the background of loud excellent sound. I felt mute, my voice not reaching more than three inches in front of my face, and I became more quiet inside than ever before.
The music was great. Even I could tell that. Cool Hand and then SUNSPOT rocked that stage until it closed the place down, slamming the crowd with rough-edged rock anthems and what can only be described as superb musicianship. I was fascinated by the display of skill: they made it look so easy and fun! (I had to play piano for more than seven years before performing became easy and fun… I can only imagine what they’ve done to prepare). The “show” was good, and it was interesting to see the dynamic between musicians and between musicians and the fans.
It felt like pure escapism at one minute, but the next, simply elemental, a connection made between strangers with only a piercing glance and shared sound thumping through our bones. Discarded glasses and bottles littered the stage as that of candles in a cult ritual, the blue, red and yellow lights reflecting off the glass, glimmering like soft moonlight on water, standing sentinel.
I stayed until the end, watching and writing, talking and listening – observing, because that’s what I do now, this Cheryl who is not 23 anymore. Me, the mom of two small children, the writerly person who is seeped in sarcasm and spontaneous joy. I tried to find within me the desire to get up and dance like the rest, but it just wasn’t there anymore. The alcohol dulled my senses, and I think that was disturbing enough to keep me in my seat, maintaining tentative control over a foreign situation.
The effects of alcohol is an interesting study. To me, it felt like a slow snake venom through my veins. After the first drink, my cheeks went numb and showing expression took extra effort. My brain felt like it was sloshing about in my skull, and I seemed transparent to the crowd of rockers. They were a display of high-octane energy and enthusiasm, shared goodwill and willingness to scream along with the music. Most of the lyrics were seeped in the booze and drug-infused life of the rock and roll star and “living straight sucks” mentality, and near the end of the night, I craved sobriety more than I’ve craved anything before. I yearned for it, my drunken head ached for it.
I’ll go again for the people, for dialogues with people who aren’t in my everyday, diaper-changing, crayon-slinging life, people like Billie and Lacy who accepted so quickly for who I am. Friends made in a minute, all these people who came together for a night of communal fun and debauchery. That’s what I’ll go back for, time and time again, I’m sure.
I’ll be going again to see Freedown, Aaron Williams and the Hoodoo, and the amazing Scott Holt on October 10. This time, I’ll be bringing the husband, and I won’t be drinking. Honestly? I act more like the uninhibited rock and roll lover more when I’m sober, when I’m feeling a serendipitous burst of joy and energy at a funny quirk one of my kids exhibits, more like dancing when I’m in the kitchen in my socks with my hands soaking in soapy dishwater. I’m more likely to start headbanging when a particularly awesome song comes on the radio, and I turn my living room into a mosh pit with the kids.
