Unholy Nostalgia
Oh. My.
“Oasis of lawlessness,” “physically revolting,” “a celebration of self-loathing.” These are just a few of the phrases used to describe the now-shuttered dive bar Siberia in Jack Bryan’s new documentary Life After Dark: The Story of Siberia Bar, which premiered at Soho House last night. “Siberia was the last stronghold of the New York bohemian,” said Bryan. “It was sort of a place lost in time.”
Just because I am in now way known and did not appear in the documentary does not mean I, like soooo many ne’er do wells, did not do my fair share of drinking and carousing at Siberia. And I loved that place, I really did. But! Ack! With this documentary, does this mean the divey-est of dives is now part of New York lore? Was I part of a moment/scene/thingy and not even aware? A real New York bohemian? Will some young kid, years hence (or most likely a few weeks hence in the speed at which our culture moves now), ask me if I had ever been to Siberia in the same way one used to breathlessly reference Max’s Kansas City or the Mudd Club or CBGB in their heyday? Have I really been in New York so long that a haunt like Siberia has now achieved, however dubious, a place of status? I’m too young for this kind of nostalgia (or too old to admit I’m ready to embrace it). Especially considering I just ran into Tracy a few months ago — working the door at the Hell’s Kitchen gay bar the Ritz — who assured me he’s working steadily on finding a new location to bear the name of his lawless cultural fixture.
Since we’re ambling down this boozy road, I could recall my time spent in the first iteration of Siberia (the one in the 50th St. subway station) where my drunken, Japanese friend Kana ended up dancing on the bar, then later behind it pouring drinks while Richie (the bartender who fancied her) took a quick break. Or the time in the same location where I discussed the merits of the free hot dogs proffered at the other storied dive, Rudy’s, with Jimmy Fallon, while Chris Kattan kept disappearing in the bathroom to do what one disappears in the bathroom to do that isn’t a bodily function (I presume) and Horatio Sanz just stared at the video game in the corner. (Ms. Pac-Man? Who remembers?) Many photo booth pictures were taken there. And when there was a band in the back room? Man was it noisy.
Then Siberia II—with that all black facade and red light over the door, like the entrance to the most depraved brothel in existence. And it was! Except for the gentlemanly rules that prohibited inappropriate interactions with the lady clientele. I played in the basement with my “band” — and I use that term loosely—the second of our sum total five gigs. I was drinking Dewar’s on the rocks before the show and Ezra, one of the bookers as well as the night’s bartender and also a musician, said he never drank cold liquids before singing because it messed with his vocal cords. Joke was on him — I have no singing voice to begin with, so. The after the gig, late in the night, hanging out in some weird basement inner sanctum with Tracy and one of his compatriots, the room littered with odd pornographic material — like a rapist’s rumpus room—the vibe equal parts thrilling and creepy. And on and on.
Such is the problem with early-onset nostalgia: the perspective is skewed. While the memories are hazy (the booze helps) they haven’t quite gelled into something to be viewed in a historic context. Or maybe that’s the problem with New York now, or in general: while here you still feel so young/invincible, and things move so swiftly, that even reminiscence feels like the zeitgeist.
