After the traffic subsided, after the Hondas with spoilers and the oversized trucks with Red Sox stickers threaded their way through the clogged main drags of Easthampton, a spring calm welled up in downtown. It’s an old downtown. The Main Street portion is a short strip topped by a faux Italian Renaissance tower that turns orange in the light, anchored by an unassuming park with a gazebo where bands entertain on warm nights. Sometimes it’s old rock ‘n’ roll cover groups, other nights it’s swing bands whose members have been swinging since big bands were new.
But this night, different things were afoot. Usually, a few cars at a time stack up at the main light, and the central attraction is the Big E grocery. It gets quiet. Wherever you go, you can park by the door. I was heading to Antonio’s Pizza, the branch office of the Amherst eatery that shuffles customers through with brisk (but friendly) service, launching them back into the evening with dazzling slices piled with toppings.
The usual desolate expanse of empty parking places was not in effect. Up and down the street, every spot was filled. Cars spilled out into the tributaries branching off Main. In most places, parking a block or two away is a score, not a problem. But never before had I needed to hoof it to Antonio’s. I went past, then circled back, feeling my veins go cold with fear when I recognized that Edvard Munchian angst one feels when orbiting, vulture-like, in search of a place to park on a busy night in Northampton.
I headed down a side street, and saw, bursting out of a nondescript sedan, a girl who looked as if she were dressed for the wedding of the Faerie Queene to Edward Scissorhands.
I remembered just what was going on. When I rounded the corner, I got full confirmation. The front of the old Town Hall was thick with freaks and geeks, decked out in the duds of a new kind of hip. Every other guy looked like Ray LaMontagne on a budget, sporting unruly hair and the kind of beard you only achieve by accident. A wide array of female fashion peppered the crowd with color, offering everything from neo-hippie chic to darker tones that hinted at Goth.
The occasion was the grand reopening of Flywheel, the DIY paradise where musicians can more or less book themselves, and most any other kind of artistic project can take wing in easy fashion. It’s been a long time coming for what is perhaps the coolest grassroots organization in Valley music.
When they left their old digs on Route 141 on the edge of downtown Easthampton, nobody seemed to think it would take too long to get back in business (in the November 22, 2007 Advocate, I penned “Kickstarting The Flywheel,” about what appeared to be the impending re-opening of Flywheel in its new location in the old Easthampton Town Hall). Despite heroic efforts, the opening of the new space got weighed down by issues like code compliance that called for more money.
The organization, to the great credit of all concerned, kept slogging ahead, holding benefit shows and events in other locations for years. Now all that work has finally paid off in a grand new space right in the heart of Easthampton.
Flywheel’s saga, like that of nearby PACE, embodies the melding of old and new in Easthampton. The kind of energy that gets unleashed by unfettered young artists might seem, at first glance, at odds with the staid and quiet surroundings of an old mill town. But that kind of energy also has a clear role in keeping the economy percolating, to the benefit of all.
That night, I parked behind the bank. I didn’t really have to walk all that far in carting the giant pizza back to the car. I watched the crowd milling around on the Town Hall steps trying to look cool and remembered many a night of doing just such posturing years ago in the midst of Dallas’ revival of a dilapidated part of town called Deep Ellum, a revival fueled by music clubs and young bands with too much hair.
It’s heartening to see all those young hopefuls bringing life to downtown. I’ll happily walk a while longer, even eat colder pizza, if it helps the folks at Flywheel stake their claim.
