News: 10/24/2009

Thanks, Habitat! We'll Miss you!

It was fall. I walked with hands in pockets down Broadway, towards 21st to a periwinkle craftsman situated on a steep corner, the city's toolbox skyline glittering in the horizon. I had just moved to San Diego, to Golden Hill, and was curious about this house that opened its doors to anyone hungry for good music in a domestic setting. This house that hosted a few shows a month and expected nothing but courtesy for its neighbors when smoking on the porch or chatting on the curb. This house that simply called itself the Habitat.

I made my way up the porch steps and into the living room, where about 30 people sat cross-legged on the wood floor, squeezed into sofas, or stood in periphery corners, while the folk band Old Man Hands played a tune that stretched and spun into every space of that high-ceilinged room. I hung back in the entry way, intimidated by the turned heads of that densely-populated room, certain they could sense that this was my first time. When the band finished their song, the singer noticed the growing group of onlookers in the the foyer and waved us in, assuring that there was still plenty of space.

A few years and dozens of shows later, I am riding my bike down that same hill, a backpack of Rolling Rock clanking with every seismic crack and pothole. I park my bike along the house's broad side, behind the bushes and out of sight. From here I can hear the first band tuning up amidst a spattering of muffled voices. This is to be the Habitat's last show, but aside from my own sentimentality, there's nothing markedly different about this fall night. Like most of the shows I've seen here, I have no idea as to the night's roster. But as Capybara begins--four boys from Kansas City hunched over keyboards and drum sets, tapping out an infectious opening march, their rising voices melding in sonorous harmony--I'm immediately reminded of why I love this place so much. There is no veil between audience and musicians, no formal pretense or pedestal. We come because we trust that it will be good. We are all there, musicians and music aficionados, cozy between the same four corners, feet tapping atop the same wood floor. Stretched legs traverse stage boundaries, while conversations flow between songs and sets.

I think back to every show I've ever attended--to quiet shows much like tonight's, with hands propped behind heads as the planes fly by and the bands play on, and to bigger shows that had the house nearly bursting at its seams. I think of all the time passed between that first fall night and this final fall night: of all the frigid nights and humid nights, how our attire ebbed and flowed with seasons, how we kept warm aisde a crackling fireplace, how we stayed cool with short-shorts and open windows--and how well that living room hosted it all.

My mind stretches to perhaps the most memorable, if not the most bizarre show I've experienced within these walls. It was a little over a year ago when my friend Joel and I were driving back up the hill after having filled our bellies with burritos and Sangria at Pokez. We noticed a few loiterers having a cigarette on the front steps of the Habitat's porch and figured we should check it out. Upon entrance, however, we were shocked to find not the mellow environment one has grown to expect from a Habitat show, but something much more suitable for a Gaslamp rave. We made our way through a crowd of robotic dancing, towards a man in a silver jumpsuit and fly-goggles, bearing a striking resemblance to Bono circa 1992. He stood behind a keyboard where he produced an electo-synth soundtrack for the muted projection of Terminator playing above him. Over in the foyer, there was a guy dancing solo in what we later discovered to be Egyptian garb, making elaborate hand gestures to the light fixture. After a quick run up to Farmers Market #3 for a couple tallboys, we learned that the headlining act was to be hip-hop legend, The Egyptian Lover. Joel and I looked at each other and immediately decided that whatever this was, this was it.

As I sat again on those same wood floors, I could hardly believe that this would be the last time any of this would come together in such a fashion. Aside from being one of my favorite places to hear music in this town, the Habitat is truly the pride and joy of Golden Hill (right next to a fresh slice from Luigi's and a vodka gimlet from Turf, naturally). Roy Silverstein, the man responsible for all of this, has spoiled us with his curated selection of touring and local bands, as well as with his talented sound mixing and unwavering hospitality. Quite appropriately, the night ended with a performance by Silverstein, accompanied by three TV versions of himself in an interactive "comedy/performance art/musical for late 20th century technology." Or, as my friend Hess commented, it felt like something straight out of Science of Sleep. Either way, it was a rare treat and a cherished farewell to the man and the house that for so long has hosted us so well.