The Moose cuts loose

Austin Moose Lodge No. 1735 emerges as a music venue where generations come together

By Patrick Caldwell
AMERICAN-STATESMAN
Wednesday, April 29, 2009

It's Tuesday night at the Austin Moose Lodge No. 1735, and Moe Avila, 64, is having the time of his life.

Avila has strutted into the middle of a dance party full of snappily dressed folks in their 20s. As DJ Dan Gentile segues into Coolio's 1994 hit 'Fantastic Voyage,' Avila busts a series of moves that leaves his junior onlookers applauding. The small crowd, gathered to celebrate the 25th birthday of recent Moose inductee Meg Cusack, can't quite believe it. They just got schooled by a sexagenarian.

The moment is a perfect encapsulation of the unlikely emergence of the Austin Moose Lodge as one of the city's most charming music venues. Here, hipsters break bread — or Lone Star — with blue-collar workers four decades their senior. Christmas lights and a neon CD jukebox illuminate the venerable lodge's social quarters, a pool table sits neglected in the corner, domestic beer signs dot the walls and a vintage Mario Brothers arcade machine beeps softly by the bar.

The retro d?cor disguises the venue's bleeding-edge taste, owing largely to the efforts of music booker and Moose newcomer Polly Smith. A sporadic home to live music over the years, the lodge now hosts up-and-coming locals several nights a week. Acts range from the psychedelic funk of Hug to singer/songwriter Dana Falconberry to the indietronic grooves of Sunset. During the South by Southwest Music Festival, more than 80 bands from every corner of the globe played the lodge.

For those accustomed to the mania of Sixth and Red River streets, the local chapter of the fraternal organization Moose International provides a cozy contrast. The private club — visitors have to be signed in by a member, one of whom is always by the door — can't promote its events or solicit members, relying on word of mouth.

'It's the atmosphere I love. The people here are really cool. It feels like home,' says Sarah Cotten, 23, a regular visitor who recently sprang for membership. 'It's a lot better than going downtown and being around hundreds of people you don't know or care about. It's a lot friendlier, and people actually care about the music.'

Cotten's not alone. More than 80 new members have joined in the past year. And while you might expect a culture clash between the newcomers and the lodge's traditional clientele, nothing could be further from the truth.

'I get a kick out of the young people and they get a kick out of me,' Avila, a member of six years, says. 'They've got their music that I don't always like, but they're very respectful, very polite. These kids have class, and a lot more than I did when I was the same age.'

And just like that, the Austin Moose Lodge, first opened in 1954 and Texas' oldest, might have solved a crisis facing family fraternities nationwide. As their membership ages and interest in fraternal organizations decline, the fusion of longtime members and new blood might help Austin's lodge ride out changing times that threaten the futures of lodges everywhere.

Along came Polly

Bespectacled, bicycle-riding and sporting a Bat Boy tattoo on her left bicep, Polly Smith, 34, looks every bit the quintessential Austin scenester but considers herself a recent transplant. A member of a military family, she had stints in California, Utah and Guam, among others. Until she moved to Austin in March 2003, she had never lived in one spot for more than four years. Clicking immediately with the city's friendliness and creativity, she found her muse booking music, first for then-upstart coffee shop Clementine and later Quack's 43rd St. Bakery.

'It sort of exploded. And I was like 'Oh! I'm good at this!' ' Smith says with a laugh. 'And years later I'm like 'Oh, this is what I do now.' It's perfect.'

A friend brought the Moose Lodge to her attention. Intrigued by the location's potential, she signed up as a member in October 2008 and presented her idea of booking more bands to the leadership.

'I saw an opportunity to use my talents to help the Moose and use the space in a productive way,' Smith says. 'There were a few people who were wary of me, because I was a new person coming in with a whole song and dance. But I came in and said 'I'm not here to hurt you. I'm here to help you.'

Convinced of Smith's good intentions, they gave her Thursday nights to book. Six months later, she also had Tuesdays and most Fridays. She helped secure dozens of new members. Old members whose interest had waned began to trickle back in. Smith won over even the wary . With her parents living in Pennsylvania, she says she views the regulars, young and old, as a surrogate family. She books accordingly, weeding out potentially offensive acts.

'I'm very picky about who and what happens here,' Smith says. 'I use this sentiment — would my grandma be OK with this? She may not like everything, but I'd like to book people that she'd think were, at least, good kids. The members here aren't any different. Although the older folks, while they may put up with it, still think it's loud.'

To be fair, it often does get pretty loud.

The nitty-gritty

Mike Stueber, 61, doesn't mind the noise. While Smith toils in the glamorous world of local music, it's Stueber, the lodge's administrator and a member of 16 years, who handles the unsung heroism of day-to-day operations. He runs the bar, defusing potential conflicts with a patience that he jokingly credits to being a Libra. He reins in Smith when she gets too aggressive promoting shows. But he's well aware of what's at stake.

On a Thursday before a show, Stueber stands in the lodge's Joe Botello Hall, a regular spot for community events and motorcycle clubs. He gestures toward framed photographs of distinguished gentleman wearing yellow coats, the highest honor for members. Of 15 photos, only three don't have the black ribbon that signifies a member is deceased.

'We're a dying breed,' Stueber says bluntly. 'I don't know why, but people don't really want to get involved in these kinds of organizations these days.'

Stueber joined shortly after moving to Austin in 1992. A Vietnam veteran, he says his stressful job as a locomotive engineer cost him two marriages. He took to the lodge as a source of community, and he's had a front-row seat to the changes the membership has undergone.

'When Polly came along, it was a blessing,' Stueber says. 'There's not a soul around here that does not like that child. I love her to death. And if it weren't for the bikers and Polly's music, this place would have closed a long time ago.'

There are expenses to keep the building open — Stueber estimates $10,000 a month to handle utilities, to say nothing of property taxes. The lodge needs steady income from members and visitors. All moose lodges have yearly quotas of new members to meet — for No. 1735, it is 25 for the 12-month period that ends in May. They've signed up 86. That puts Austin neck-and-neck with Aransas Pass for the fastest-growing lodge in Texas.

'Fifteen years ago, the average aged member was 70 years old. Now I'm going to say it's probably closer to 35,' Stueber says.

And he's genuinely grateful. Those numbers mean the lodge that's so close to his heart can stick around.

'I've given my life to this place. I really have,' Stueber says. 'I'm not ashamed of it. I'm proud of it. And I'd do it all over again if I had to.'

Generations of Moose

The Plutonium Farmers probably know the Moose Lodge stage better than anyone. The free jazz-rock trio — drummers Matt Armistead and Aaron Dugan and guitarist Jonathan Horne — took over a Monday night residency from the Weird Weeds back in June. Since then, their cacophony of dueling drums and screeching guitar has become a fixture.

'Every Monday is a little different. Some Mondays are packed and you can't walk around in there. And some Mondays it's just a couple of people and it's more on the intimate tip,' Dugan says. 'Sometimes the stars align correctly and we are successful in pleasing more than just four people.'

Horne, a Moose member like his father and grandfather before him, says shows were infrequent when the band began its residency, with only one or two artists playing a week. Since then, Horne's seen a shift toward a more college-friendly selection of bands, which he says helps keep the lodge alive but hasn't changed the positive atmosphere.

'Everybody who works here is a volunteer,' he says. 'It's a better vibe that way. I've been rubbed the wrong way from people who work at venues who are on the time clock. They just want to get you out of there.'

One visitor, 29-year-old Matthew Mason, a lanky music fan who showed up one night to watch the Plutonium Farmers, has his own take on the Moose's special value.

'I felt like I could just be me,' Mason says. 'Wear my shirt and be myself and not worry about anything or what people were thinking or how cool I was. I felt like I could be at home.'

That's what Smith is really looking to offer. Although the lodge has good music, it also presents opportunities to connect something deeper, to donate, to volunteer, to brainstorm events of your own. In a world of Facebook and Twitter, she thinks the Moose Lodge is a throwback to a time when bonds were forged face-to-face.

'Community. That's what I really want people to get out of this,' Smith says. 'We're all so discombobulated from our community. You want more than just interacting with people through a screen. You want the full experience of being together with other people. And that's something we have here, something that no other venue can offer.'