(Its been almost a week later, and want more of the same that’s described below as far as biggest bar draws in western Wisconsin, and where they can still be found — as Hudson is tail-wagging Minnesota, but only to an extent, and there are options, both the very short-term and longer — so read this web site’s Picks of the Week department, Thursday and into the weekend edition. And many Sunday opps and apps are still there, and are also delved into if you dig deep into the department, in what has been become these chronicles in chronological order. So its Friday, and the weekend 10 p.m. curfew is now in place for city of Hudson bars. But they aren’t the only game in town of what has become in this two-state region the only game in town(s) and village, since Minnesota appears to be on the verge of prohibition. But where to still get bands and brew? Again, check out the POTWD of this web site. And see the Notes of the Beat for more sins of the snowy kind on ATMs).
Where did I top off the Top Tavern Night Of The Year, by finally going out and about — and ambling along the square corners that connected three different streets while now sleepless — on a whim shortly before a closing time contested by Minnesotans, as theirs tanked?
This was not Seattle. It was North Hudson, but it could have been North St. Paul. I joined a handful of medium to hard-core drinkers, but was too late to become of them, at The Village Inn. And I give thanks that I now can do it again, quite sober, early in December.
First off, making my way past sparsely attended and newly spread-out tables to the bar counter, a tipsy guy asked with gusto if I had winning tips about a coming arm wrestling contest. I just took a seat while shaking off the cold, best to ignore such a conversation, which might last until they kick you out the door at closing, but he did persist and made it last until two fists were linked atop a table behind him.
There was a lot of testosterone flowing, like the man at the bar who “drummed” with two fists on the counter in front of him at every percussion flourish from the jukebox, and then that one guy to my right who was among the most inebriated and obviously gay. (More on his input below, and it was kinda cool).
A message across the top of the jukebox said that it was Their Day around the world, which oddly is a holiday I saw referenced in a different place almost a week ago, two miles away, at Dick’s Bar in downtown Hudson, which one border-straddling cabbie has now dubbed a City Bar due to becoming a bit more rowdy. It seems to go in phases. The guy next to me scoffed, “who plays this stuff?” to both light country and a bit harder rock. To the latter, I expounded that it’s the late Chris Cornell and one of his well-chosen cover songs, Nothing Compares 2 U. Another might be Patience, made famous by Guns ‘N Roses. I added that he was almost a god in the metal/grunge scene and in the photo on the jukebox, visually and otherwise, he was flowing his hair down and doing his Jesus Christ Pose. The guy paused for a moment, quaffed once more from his drink, then replied, who was that again? After such strains from Soundgarden, the conversation got going based on his query about the nature of country music. I responded that the genre has grown up over time, but in the twang age and what followed right after, was rather juvenile. He responded to my response that he thought not, it still has not grown up. A child of the ’80s, is how he described himself, but was a bit dated when living in River Falls and hiring a grunge band to play in his basement for a party. That was the era of a girlfriend who brought him into a whole another realm of music for appreciation. He added that he never did actually tie the knot with anyone, just at this time chatted up the bartender.
Across the way again, a man chimed in on Somali immigration, and added that earlier that evening across the river he had talked to a couple of “lady cops,” and all presented concerns about current policy. The ladies threw in a stat that seemed a comment on the status of Somalis here and again, all agreed if they had been male officers, the tone would have been a lot harsher for anyone wayward, outside a bar and otherwise.
But now closing time was near and the bartender said none too soon, as she was tired of all the talk that came out in slurs, and just tired in general. Despite that, my question was voiced about whether Austin Healy, perhaps the most veritable cover band in this immediate area, had a few days ago brought in a crowd to hear their take on all kinds of country. Yes. Because bands at The Village at times tank, but on this occasion, were riding the wave of mostly young adult Minnesotans coming here to party. Last song, and a guy had to be told more than once to move his head so the jukebox in front of him could be programmed with a remote. And the old man now sitting next to me in love with his tonic and gin, after a 12 hour day, could not let it drop that I was wearing shorts and the weather was horrible enough to dip near 32, for anyone working outdoors that long. I told him that for my few-block walk this way it was OK, but that seemed to fuel his lament more. But to the server take heart, I added, as turkey time would be here soon.
She seemed to appreciate that thought. Being served while putting a fork in it, rather than serving.