I’ll admit, I probably wouldn’t have been stomping down this stretch of Madison after dark if she hadn’t said yes when I asked her out.
She’d immediately told me what we were doing and where to meet her: a punk show at an empty warehouse.
“Listen for the loud noises, I’ll be there.” she’d said.
Part of me knew it was a dare to see if I’d show up. Part of me thought she wouldn’t show up.
But there she was, waiting outside the door, smoking a clove.
She was beautiful, wild, dangerous. Like trying to catch fire in your hand. I knew I was in over my head, but I didn’t give a damn.
Immediately, she grabbed my hand and hauled me into the deafening concrete cavern.
The spasmodic din coming from the band was physically painful. Guitars slashed my ears, drums beat my chest.
“God!” I shouted, ears ringing between songs. “This is just noise!”
“It sounds like noise now, but once it cuts down and the silence takes hold, you’ll feel the emptiness left in its wake like a wound in your side.”
Then she kissed me and bit my lip. I tasted blood.
“Just like me.”
After the Antenna closed, the Memphis alternative and punk scene found itself homeless. Several make-shift, pseudo-legal, rent-probably-not-paid, spaces popped up to take its place. They were little more than four walls with enough power to run a PA system – some didn’t even have toilets – but that’s all they needed to be to gather a crowd.