We crowd-surfed with R.T. We bar hopped on light rail. And between some of our precious last sucks on a cigarette at the club, we scribbled it all down on a cocktail napkin.
In the 24 hours before First Avenue declared bankruptcy, employees were told to cash their checks, gather their things, and wait.
The legendary bands. The terrifying toilets. An oral history that goes so far behind the music it will leave you at a gun range beneath the stage.
Bands are overbooked. Fans are staying home. As the music scene splinters, who's left standing?