Mesa, Ariz., that bastion of simplicity and modesty two trots east of here will have an aging cultural bark silenced for the last time tomorrow.
No more raised fists, punk rhetoric or indie-rock celebrations. No more metal poundings, emo sobs or guitar crunch. No more sweaty shirts, ringing ears or bloody fists.
No more Nile Theater.
After months of flirting dangerously close to disaster with the Mesa City Council and a Mesa judge, the Nile, known for its years of devoted service to Valley punkers, skankers, straight-edgers and core purists, has finally thrown in the towel. Tomorrow, the venue's last show, features Spitfire Revolver. From there, it will be sold and undoubtedly revamped into something a million times less punk.
The Nile was never a looker, so it's no use getting teary-eyed over its appearance. It was an empty building with gum on the walls, graffiti on the floors and a really awkward bathroom door that would never close, leaving urinating punkers exposed to giggling crowds.
It housed really big rats too. It's shocking that this epitome of hole-in-the-wall clubs ever had a permit to operate to begin with, especially in its dungeon-like basement where crowds jumped stage barricades by lifting their foot up five inches and forward three. The ceiling hung so low the "downstairs" room wasn't really considered a whole level, but rather a half floor designed for little people and ponies.
While the Nile rumbled in a quaint old-fashioned downtown, the immediate area that surrounded the music hall was as friendly and aromatic as Russell Crowe in New Jersey. Scary hombres seemed to drift in and out of the alley that served as the club's main entrance. A Dumpster near the main door was usually full and always ripe.
The Nile was no treat. It was no trendy hangout or happening party place. It wasn't a Club Rio or even a Nita's Hideaway. It was a rat's nest with amplification. But it's what was amplified that made it so much more than just a dump with a cover charge.
The Nile Theater is as important to Arizona music as the Whiskey A-Go-Go is to Los Angeles music. As important as overdrive to Black Sabbath, power chords to the Ramones, thick-rimmed glasses to Buddy Holly.
The Nile is the youth and energy of this desert state bottled up into music and poured from the insides of speakers into the ears of Nile attendees. The Nile is a movement — from thrashing metal-core to drunken oi punk to dirty neo-wave — and the Nile is class. Not class as in Bogart or Esquire, but the kind of class that bellies maroon mohawks, mosh karate, warm Gatorade and stylish music designed for punching.
It's a place for people to go and get lost, thrash about to heavy and not so heavy music (Dashboard Confessional played at the Nile before anywhere else), dig on the indie scenesters and then take off to never get recognized again.
I've seen my fair share of music at the Nile. First with H2O years back, then Anti-Flag, the Ataris, Saves the Day, New Found Glory, Gwar, the Misfits … the list goes on forever.
At least, it goes on until Saturday.
So just like that, a prized treasure in the local music community goes poof. Yes, there are other venues, but none that rank like the Nile. None that pummel like the Nile. None that breathe fresh air into music the way the Nile did.
Life continues, bands tour through, Mesa lives and so does music. But the Nile made things great for this attendee. And it will truly be missed.
Nile: Adios my friend. You've been good to me.
Michael Clawson is Journalism junior and can be reached by e-mail at michael.clawson@asu.edu.
