Remembrance of Things Pabst

John Vettese sees what develops

by John Vettese

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Published: Jul 15, 2008

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It's easy to see why budding photographers almost universally go though a phase where abandoned places and desolate spaces are their thing.

Certainly, there's the badassery factor — trudging up the highway to whatever condemned old house or factory or bar, kicking in the back door and squeezing inside with a camera, emerging a few hours later with several contact sheets' worth of creepy, crumbly, dust-covered images. It impresses your friends, or at least the ones who haven't seen it done a dozen times before.

But there's also a sense of discovery and awe in trying to capture the way a location has remained in stasis for however long. Months? Decades? Bits of evidence emerge, like tattered wall calendars or postmarks on yellowed pieces of mail. Dated architectural and interior design stylings become motifs. The photographer begins to feel like he's on an archaeological expedition, uncovering and preserving forgotten bits of the past.

Jim McGorman's exhibit currently on display at Amble Gallery (1001 N. Second St.) evokes a number of these sensations. But there are two important differences: McGorman is an established shooter and filmmaker, rather than a budding newcomer, and his subject is a building that remains very much in use.

Running through Aug. 3, "Photographs from Bob & Barbara's Lounge" studies not the drinkers and the music, but rather the ambience, the vibe — and with its Pabst Blue Ribbon paraphernalia and mood lighting, B&B's has nothing if not vibe.

McGorman shot the series while collaborating with Richard Henkels on A Taste of Nate, a documentary short about Nate Wiley and the Crowd Pleasers, then the bar's house band. He needed a slide show to run over the closing credits, and having figured that the film captured the nightlife sufficiently, decided to conduct his primary shoot on a Saturday afternoon when the patrons were off nursing their citywide-special hangovers. The room was empty, and in the resulting images, we immediately notice how antiquated the place looks when cleared out.

Bar stools are ripped and the floor is cracked. Handwritten signs advertising the PBR/Beam specials and Monday night jams are stained and faded. The walls are wood-paneled and look splintery; the taps are brass and seem dusty.

Howard's Leslie shows a dented, knicked-up amplifier head. It's been around the block, clearly, and without the context of this series, might look as though it hasn't been fired up in 30 years. Beth's POV (pictured, detail, p. 29) is shot from behind the cash register. The machine is a shiny, metallic, rounded push-button model that seems even older than the aged amp.

In short, were we to view this series without knowing it depicted Bob & Barbara's, it would give the impression that McGorman stumbled upon some boarded-up watering hole that's been out of use for decades, and set about capturing exactly the way it was left on the last night of business.

In reality, these were no time-out-of-mind relics he uncovered. But the element of discovery is nonetheless present in that the series forces us to take a view on familiar surroundings that we may not have previously considered.

There's an impulse to criticize McGorman for going after easy targets; any regular could tell you that Pabst and jazz are two of the first things that come to mind about the bar, and using them as recurring themes seems more obvious than incisive.

But ponder the work at greater length, and we see McGorman presenting elements we know — or think we know — in a way where it looks like we're studying something that's been under wraps for decades.

Have you ever paused to consider the frosted glass on the round red light we see suspended from the ceiling in Erma to Infinity? How about the blue vinyl bar stool cushion in Jack's Favorite? Stretches of the floor are lined with plywood, and there seems to be both more and less space than you'd expect comparing what we see to a Friday night.

McGorman brings out these details that escape us in the shuffle of the crowd, and this urban-archaeological treatment makes Bob & Barbara's seem the product of a bygone era. In many ways — the establishment's prices, its décor, its unpretentious nonchalance — his take is right on the money.

(john.vettese@citypaper.net)

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