Benson up! all night
31st July 2012
In a pub named after a long forgotten amusement park, Benson’s nocturnal nobility and baseborn alike come together to sacrifice liver and lung in celebration of 125 years. Would that Erastus could see his town now: a rich bog of booze and culture. This immodest Omaha borough has played backdrop in a theater of comedy and error, host to profoundly impactful performances and careening roller coaster cars. Artists and entrepreneurs equally call it home while some, bastards of Benson such as myself, have no claim to its bloodline but were willingly fostered all the same. It is an oasis in the planate agony of Midwestern civilization. From anywhere within Omaha, the golden fields of agriculture and ignorance are but thirty minutes away. College football and a determined defiance of diabetes are paramount. For those of us feeling consistently unsatisfied culturally, Benson is a refuge. So now, at the celebration of its founding one hundred twenty five years ago, we slug about paying homage with stiff drinks and wet lips.
We crawl, up and down Maple Street, the benefactors and debtors of a shared artistic propagation as we have hundreds of times before, this time in focused appreciation. Strange that stained sidewalks, cigarette butts, and ravished irresponsibility could cultivate such a sense of community, but it has. True, there is more to Benson than its primary strip of bars and music venues, though I can not speak to it. Cymbals and guitars radiating off of vibrating windows parted by a river of headlights, it is a more familiar family concept than any I could define with lawn sprinklers and afternoon birthday parties. I’m not even that much of a regular anymore. After three years or so of working security at The Waiting Room and living just a hike east, the winds have blown me out of port. Life’s currents, strong as they are, make it difficult to return sometimes.
As they say though: the more things change, the more they stay the same and it’s the truly cherished that never forget a friend’s face. Benson is indeed full of friends tonight. Krista, Gregg, Michelle, Kevin, Allie, and of course, Marq. My partner in combat, most know him as a local music writer (with much more renown than myself) and the organizer of tonight’s event, but I know him as a lion tamer. Night after night, the drunken masses were our arena and show after show we kept the peace. I saw, in a maelstrom of violence and screaming, this man try to pull a gorilla off another man while everyone else, including myself, could only stare in terror. Countless of the under-age were escorted out of shows during his tenure, attempting the same tricks as the generations before them, without loss of patience. Where I was sometimes too quick to get physical, Marq maintained steady diplomacy and always won the day. It takes a special approach to run security for shows and still have an entire community love you. He’s a Hall of Famer to many people, involved in more aspects of the Omaha music scene than anybody, but I am one of very few who can say did time with him in the trenches.
It doesn’t take long to run into Marq. He’s already darting between venues, checking attendance and giving a song’s worth of support before dashing out to the next club. It’s a lot of work, putting on one of these events, but it’s a labor of love. Ordinary pleasantries are forgone in order to get to the meat of present circumstances. We shake hands after a brief moment and he continues down the street.
The Waiting Room is between bands when I arrive, greeted by two door guys who know nothing of mine and Marq’s service. One of them asks for my ID but is interrupted by Krista, security’s secret weapon against ladies room libations. She’s pretty, bright-eyed and young, and nothing of what you’d expect from someone working security. This is why her tally will forever trump any of her male coworkers’. She drops a few recent developments in my ear then re-enters the field. At the small bar behind all the action, Gregg stands nursing the wounds of a second straight whooping of his Indians by the Minnesota Twins. Kevin, Allie, and Janelle are slinging the cocktails tonight and all is as I’m accustomed. This will be, however, the last familiar scene of the evening.
A riot-girl, L7-like outfit takes the stage and champions the torch dropped some time ago by Veruca Salt. If unoriginal, they are at least proficient in the sound. No one seems to know their name. In the john, a Creighton University English major slowly dries his hands in front of the mirror, gazing into nothing as he devises his own version of the town’s founding. I can see the cogs turning:
He’s created a juniper enthusiast named Tobias Wunderland. In 1637, Benson is actually America’s first anthropophagical township. Far from the watchful gaze of contemporary society, Wunderland crafted his own village using the principles taught to him by friendly pilli during the Aztec Spring (in which, Wunderland served as bean bearer to the Cihuacoatl). German by birth, Wunderland fled the motherland upon adulthood. After a tragic accident at sea which left Wunderland among only three survivors, he washed ashore near modern day Tampico where his foreign golden locks won him the heart of a midwife to Cihuacoatl. She helped initiate and integrate Wunderland into the Aztecan civilization, where he served for two years until defeat fell upon Agonon’s rebellion and he was forced to flee north. For months he and his fellow shipwreck survivors traveled, feasting only on the flesh and blood of men as they had grown accustomed to during his time by Agonon. When he finally reached the land of this town’s founding, Wunderland laid down his buffalo skin and flogged his mate, Mary Reinsdorf, nightly until she bore for him the seed of their civilization’s birth.
He slowly rolls the brown paper towel over his hands, ruminating more on a fabricated history.
Decades of incest eventually resulted in a modest population reliant only upon itself and the very specific prey on which it hunted. Savage and noblemen alike sustained the ever-growing hunger of Schlammloch until, one fateful day in 1887, long after the state of Nebraska had become the domain of both the French then United States of America, Erastus Benson escaped the hidden town of Schlammloch to the nearby city of Omaha. There he met Edward Creighton, entrepreneur and philanthropist. Together, on the backs of mountain lions, they returned to Wunderland’s abominable town and razed it with bright fire and hot freedom. Nearly two centuries after its birth, the town conceived of Tobias Wunderland’s dementia was no more. Its people, twisted and maligned by cannibalism and incest, burned with the crude structures that lined its single street. A smoldering mass of rubble and bone, Schlammloch was gifted to Erastus Benson by Governor James Dawes in thanks for his heroism and bravery. Atop the ruins, Benson named the new town after his own surname and began a glorious era of prosperity. It is within this bounty, the student thinks, he finds himself now.
“Can I get in there, boss?” I ask, breaking the young man’s fierce focus. He backs away, saying nothing.
Stolen from Bensonnebraska.com
The scene has yet to get moving here and Gregg is ready to leave when I return. So I follow, to the PS Collective where his wife Michelle is working the door. All Young Girls Are Machine Guns are on stage, charming the room with Rebecca Lowry’s ukulele and unmatched voice. Her stage presence, even after all this time, is of a nervous amateur who’d really like for you to appreciate her, but if you don’t that’s fine too. This place, unlike the Waiting Room, is packed. Not an open seat exists, unless you don’t mind slammin’ dat ass down on Creepy Craig’s lap.
Marq shows up, still making the rounds, but he’s raving about a punk band we just missed out on down the street. Through the music and wash of conversation, I miss the act’s name but Marq says he’ll keep me posted if he hears of future shows. It’d have been a good night to hear a solid punk band, as most of my day was spent playing Blacklight and listening to Anti-Flag.
All Young Girls... eventually cede the stage to The Sub-Vectors, a young garage surf band. They’re good. They definitely have a white-knuckled grip on the influences but the guitarist is sloppy, maybe nervous. The whole operation rests on his quick wrists and they’re failing him repeatedly. Halfway through their set, I step outside into the coolest night we’ve had in months. The breeze is delicate and sugary. A cigarette would be perfect.
Vago is finishing up at the Sydney, which is also brimming with summer dresses and tattoos. When the drumstick hits the last beat, It’s True begins to play over the sound system. It wasn’t long ago that Adam Hawkins was the next saviour of Omaha. He’s gone now, as is the case with many of our hopeful, one way or the other. It gets me thinking about everyone that’s not present tonight, bands and people who’d be sharing a drink with me just a year ago. Then again, who the fuck am I? As I said, I’m hardly a regular anymore, so what did I expect? Music scenes are fluid and unless you remain in the mix, return trips - no matter the time between - are jarring. The hierarchy shifts, the structure never settles, and everything stays new. People like Marq thrive on the tumult. As for myself, a man fiercely searching for something in this city that doesn’t scratch open a scab, an air of unfamiliarity is indeed a welcome thing.
We meet a final time for a nightcap back at the Waiting Room. Throughout the night, capacity was never in reach so by the time we belly up, Lonely Estates are playing to a rugby team. They are, too, another of Omaha’s great current bands but make me pine for Civicminded (a hugely popular band locally for a time, but never quite launched nationally). I ask Marq where everyone is and he asks, “Who? Who’s not here that you wanted to see?” I don’t have an answer for him. His sense of familiarity is satiated with the perpetuating progression of this ecosystem. Whereas I, alienated by mere months, feel discounted from absence. You don’t have to be away long for something as impulsive as a music scene to shed your scent. How ironic then, during a night spent praising and remembering a rich history, I feel the ache of cultural amnesia.
