Look y'all, I know we're all supposed to take the news about the Thirsty Hippo closing in stride, but damn. I just shed a factual tear or two while sending out what I know will be my last Facebook invite to friends and strangers for a Grupo Fanstasma show. I just don't know Hattiesburg without that place. Say what you will about it, that tight set of walls is what brought real music to this city.
When I was 17, long before Facebook was a twinkle in Zuckerberg's eye, I got my first invite to the Hippo from my English 101 prof, Markeda Wade. Devastatingly sharp woman whom I still have a crush on to this day. She scribbled a note at the bottom of my essay covering the topic of sobriety (oh, the irony folks): "I'd like to buy you a drink at the Hippo one day."
Later that semester while toting my virgin Nikon SLR around downtown Hattiesburg, I ran into a posse of Latin dudes at the bagel shop before it was Southbound who told me to check out their band that night at the Hippo: "We'll put you on the guest list."
That ended up being Grupo Fantasma in its original lineup, before their Grammy award. Before the London tour with Prince himself. Yes, that Prince.
A couple years later, I arranged for my friends Colour Revolt to come play their first Hattiesburg show at the Hippo, tacking on a local band to bring the crowd. Little did I know that the local band, Cottage Industry, employed a skillful drummer I'd eventually get to know pretty dang well, a.k.a. my present day better half.
One Wednesday night a small group of us went bar hopping with the mission of ending up at the Hippo's open mic ritual and actually performing, not a shred of talent amongst us. Naturally, as you do when you lack skills, we read poetry. A smattering of unrelated quotes and senseless jokes from the course of the night handwritten on a paper napkin. My roommate and I were elected as the narrators. I will never forget addressing the bar owner directly as he adjusted the mic to fit our short stature: "So you're kind of an asshole right?"
He agreed. Respect.
Davis and I began our relationship with a random, epic night that started at the Hippo. A Griffenz show to be precise. If you don't know the Griffenz sound, I sweat you just a little, but I sweat them harder for not being a band anymore. Four years later, my drummer and I are still together, and it's rare we don't take a trip down that little alley on Main Street at least once a month. Over the course of his music career he's been in half a dozen bands, performed countless shows there and been pelted with plenty of coasters by Brad, one of the Hippo owners. I'm told this is a sign of affection.
Many other slightly blurry and yet crystal clear nights have been had there, and I know I'm not alone in this. It has little to do with the beer buzz, and everything to do with the combination of close quarters, warm rainbow lights and excellent EQ-ing by the beloved mgmt. I will even miss the bathroom graffiti, specific familiar insults that have long been edited off the walls.
So, despite promises of a brighter future for my dear bar, I can't help but dwell on the past as the last month in Hippo history is close upon us. Like upbeat music at a funeral, the whole experience will be met by me with seriously mixed emotions. And barring being run over by a bus, I aim to be at every last show. Thank God I get paid tomorrow, however, my employers may as well have made the check out directly to The Thirsty Hippo (R.I.P.) because that's where my hard earned dollars will gladly go.
When I was 17, long before Facebook was a twinkle in Zuckerberg's eye, I got my first invite to the Hippo from my English 101 prof, Markeda Wade. Devastatingly sharp woman whom I still have a crush on to this day. She scribbled a note at the bottom of my essay covering the topic of sobriety (oh, the irony folks): "I'd like to buy you a drink at the Hippo one day."
Later that semester while toting my virgin Nikon SLR around downtown Hattiesburg, I ran into a posse of Latin dudes at the bagel shop before it was Southbound who told me to check out their band that night at the Hippo: "We'll put you on the guest list."
That ended up being Grupo Fantasma in its original lineup, before their Grammy award. Before the London tour with Prince himself. Yes, that Prince.
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| One of many Hippo nights with bestie Robyn |
One Wednesday night a small group of us went bar hopping with the mission of ending up at the Hippo's open mic ritual and actually performing, not a shred of talent amongst us. Naturally, as you do when you lack skills, we read poetry. A smattering of unrelated quotes and senseless jokes from the course of the night handwritten on a paper napkin. My roommate and I were elected as the narrators. I will never forget addressing the bar owner directly as he adjusted the mic to fit our short stature: "So you're kind of an asshole right?"
He agreed. Respect.
Davis and I began our relationship with a random, epic night that started at the Hippo. A Griffenz show to be precise. If you don't know the Griffenz sound, I sweat you just a little, but I sweat them harder for not being a band anymore. Four years later, my drummer and I are still together, and it's rare we don't take a trip down that little alley on Main Street at least once a month. Over the course of his music career he's been in half a dozen bands, performed countless shows there and been pelted with plenty of coasters by Brad, one of the Hippo owners. I'm told this is a sign of affection.
Many other slightly blurry and yet crystal clear nights have been had there, and I know I'm not alone in this. It has little to do with the beer buzz, and everything to do with the combination of close quarters, warm rainbow lights and excellent EQ-ing by the beloved mgmt. I will even miss the bathroom graffiti, specific familiar insults that have long been edited off the walls.
So, despite promises of a brighter future for my dear bar, I can't help but dwell on the past as the last month in Hippo history is close upon us. Like upbeat music at a funeral, the whole experience will be met by me with seriously mixed emotions. And barring being run over by a bus, I aim to be at every last show. Thank God I get paid tomorrow, however, my employers may as well have made the check out directly to The Thirsty Hippo (R.I.P.) because that's where my hard earned dollars will gladly go.
