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Feature: The Sweet hereafter
Renowned Mill Valley music venue ends its set...

by Greg Cahill

The place boasts its own beat, its own sense of time, somewhat reminiscent of the 1970s, when pot-smoking space cowboys and hippie goddesses populated the redwood ravines on this side of Mt. Tam. That's especially true when the music is loud—and it's often loud enough to drive the neighbors of Sweetwater Saloon in downtown Mill Valley to distraction.

During those moments, the club gets hot and noisy as patrons cluster around tables or sidle up to the oak bar. The décor lends itself to this sense of timelessness: torn seat cushions, weathered barn-wood paneling, antique-framed photographs and—mounted behind the small, shabby stage—a lone toilet-seat guitar fashioned by local construction worker-turned-luthier Charlie Deal.

That nondescript stage has hosted some of the biggest names in rock and roots music: Elvis Costello, Carlos Santana, Bonnie Raitt, members of the Grateful Dead, John Lee Hooker, Joan Baez, Etta James, Van Morrison, Maria Muldaur, Ry Cooder and John Hiatt, to name a few.

But the saloon's last call is poised to chime, due to the inevitable crossing of landlord dispute and expired lease. That bell will herald the end of this colorful chapter in Marin County's rich music history. The current owners of Sweetwater have been evicted and the fate of the intimate club is uncertain after 33 years of music-making. All those funky fittings—the oak bar, the photographs, the toilet-seat guitar—are headed into storage.

The nightclub's valuable liquor license will sit idle.

All that will be left are the memories.

Late last spring, the property owners—the Aversa family, who operate the neighboring La Ginestra Italian restaurant—notified Sweetwater owners Thom and Becky Steere that the family soon will begin renovating the building that houses Sweetwater at 153 Throckmorton Avenue. At the beginning of August, the Steeres were given official notice to be out by the end of the month (an extension, of sorts, will allow for already scheduled September performances to play throughout next month, sources say).

"We knew the Aversas wanted to do the work and they had said we'd have ample opportunity to prepare," laments Becky, who with her husband has co-owned the club since 1998. "Now the Aversas just want us to move out and don't want to negotiate about us moving back in.

"To be honest, I don't know why, because we're ready to pay more rent."

Says Fabio Aversa, "We're proud of the relationship we've had with Sweetwater for more than 30 years. It's just one of those things in life that relationships have to end. We wish them well in their future endeavors and hope they find a new location in Mill Valley, if they should choose to do so.

"Sweetwater doesn't have to close—there is a chance for the Steeres to keep it going in another location on the next leg of its journey."

News of the closing has prompted an outcry from longtime patrons of the popular nightclub. "We've had quite an outpouring of sympathy and affection," Becky says. "I can't walk down the street without bumping into somebody who tells me, 'I don't want you to leave!' "

That sympathy has spilled over onto the Internet, where local singer Heather Combs has started an online petition to save the club. She hopes to collect 10,000 signatures in an effort to convince local politicians to intervene, persuade the Aversas to change their minds or get someone to help relocate the club.

To date, more than 4,000 people have posted heartfelt comments on the Save the Sweetwater Web site, including many from throughout the country. Petition signers have called the landmark venue "irreplaceable"..."a national treasure"...and "the soul of Mill Valley."

"Sweetwater is a musical institution," writes Chad Heise of the jam-band Box Set, echoing the sentiment of many who left postings on the Web site. "I've played there many times...and have seen numerous famous and not-so-famous acts in the warm comforts of those wooded walls. It's not a place that can just be moved to a different location—that building is the Sweetwater, and it should absolutely stay put. Some things are far more important than money."

Adds Susan Van Liere: "Sweetwater is one of the few remaining businesses that reflect the history of Mill Valley. Without it, Mill Valley becomes more of 'Anywheresville, USA,' and less of the unique, laid back and magical place it's always been."

Indeed, Sweetwater is just one of several longtime downtown Mill Valley businesses and arts-related organizations that in recent years—weeks, in fact—either have left or are planning to leave the once-fabled counterculture burg, partly due to booming real estate prices. That list includes the California Film Institute (which recently opened a new office in San Rafael), the popular gourmet Chinese restaurant Jennie Low's (which has had a location in Novato and last week opened an additional one in Petaluma), Greenwood Fine Furnishings, Mt. Tam Bikes, Lyla's Chocolates, Pullman & Co. furniture store, Banana Republic and Village Music record store. (The Pacific Sun relocated to San Rafael in late '05.)

John Goddard, owner of Village Music and a longtime co-presenter of shows at Sweetwater, thinks the problem runs deeper than skyrocketing rents.

"In general, the community doesn't support a lot of its businesses and I think that's the reason there are vacancies all over town," says Goddard, who will close his legendary business September 30. "You can't blame it all on rent, you can't blame it all on faulty business decisions. Mill Valley has become an expensive place for a lot of people who don't necessarily support the place they live.

"Eighty percent of my business is from out of town—it used to be the other way around."

• • • •

OF COURSE, MARIN nightclubs come and go: remember Uncle Charlie's in Corte Madera, where Huey Lewis and the News got its start? Or New George's in San Rafael, where the Neville Brothers and Los Lobos used to hold court? Or River City in Fairfax, where Neil Young and Crazy Horse once made a surprise appearance? Or the Knightsbridge. Or Lion's Share. Or the Sleeping Lady Cafe.

One thing that has made Sweetwater different is that it garnered not only an international reputation (BBC-TV once did a documentary about the club), but also a reputation for treating musicians with respect, a real rarity in the music business and a trait that paid off in loyalty.

The credit for that goes to Jeanie Patterson, the vivacious redhead who owned the club from 1979 until 1998, when the Steeres bought it.

"Jeanie saw a place where unbelievable talent could perform and would be welcome," says Tim Eschliman, a bassist and bandleader who served in the club's unofficial house band and also performed there as a member of Commander Cody and his Lost Planet Airmen, the Moonlighters, Rhythmtown-Jive and the Christmas Jug Band. "She somehow managed to balance out the small coziness of the room with the bigger picture of touring artists in a way that I've never seen anywhere else."

The musicians responded wholeheartedly: A long time before his million-selling hit single "Smoking Gun" caught fire, the then-struggling bluesman Robert Cray used to heat up the club by playing for just a handful of worshipful fans. At the height of Dire Straits' whirlwind Brothers in Arms tour, and following a concert at the Concord Pavilion, British rock-guitar hero Mark Knopfler dropped by the packed 98-seat venue with an entourage of 40 to catch his musical idol, singer and guitarist J.J. Cale. Knopfler, who had long emulated Cale's guitar style but had never gotten a chance to perform with him, sat in with Cale to the delight of astonished patrons. The most legendary night of all came in April of 1989, when Elvis Costello, Jerry Garcia, Bob Weir, Nick Lowe, Charles Brown, Sammy Hagar, Pete Sears, ex-Elvis Presley guitarist James Burton and a host of local musicians shared the stage at one of Goddard's private Sweetwater parties, crooning their way through Merle Haggard's "Tonight the Bottle Let Me Down" and other torch songs.

Even Hollywood was drawn to this music mecca: among the film and TV actors moonlighting as musicians at Sweetwater were Dennis Quaid (fresh from his role in The Big Easy), Harry Dean Stanton (a neighbor of Bob Dylan's) and Katey Sagal of the hit TV sitcom Married with Children.

But Sweetwater, which replaced a bar called The Office, initially got off to a shaky start with local music fans and musicians alike, who perceived it as a fern bar. "I remember that after the closing of the Old Mill Tavern, which was the place to play music and hang out, three of us in the Christmas Jug Band drew straws to see who would go deal with Sweetwater about booking our annual holiday show in Mill Valley," Eschliman recalls.

"You see, Sweetwater was generally thought of by us Old Mill Tavern regulars as an uptown, polished-redwood, burl-and-brass, see-and-be-seen kind of place with mostly out-of-towners wearing unbuttoned shirts and pendants and needing to be cool.

"Almost like a Henry Africa's with music."

Eventually, such local musicians as Austin deLone (who had helped build the British pub-rock scene that spawned Costello and Lowe and who has hosted Sweetwater's open mic for many years), Peter Walsh, Rahni Raines, Glen Walters and Jules Broussard became regular fixtures at the club.

Local music fans took the bait.

"The crowd got more local, and more and more great shows kept getting added to the memories," Eschliman says. "The place got quite well broken in and comfortable, like a living room, as we all know by now."

During the mid-'80s, Goddard's infamous invitation-only parties, featuring such once-in-a-lifetime pairings as Jerry Garcia and mandolin maestro David Grisman, bolstered the club's reputation beyond the Marin borders. "Stuff like that just doesn't happen," Goddard says of those shows. "It all came together because one day Jeanie was bemoaning the fact that she couldn't get [guitarist] Ry Cooder to play at the club. So I figured I could get him to play a private party even if he wouldn't play a paying gig.

"Jeanie and I were a match made in heaven. We put on some shows there that you couldn't put on at Shoreline. We worked well together and our silent partner was Audie [Austin deLone], putting together bands and hustling musicians. It was the perfect place to do it—it was the perfect size room, it had the perfect feel to it.

"Ultimately, it was being at the right place at the right time," adds Goddard, when asked how he was able to persuade big-name acts to jet to the tiny Mill Valley club for little or no pay. "Both Jeanie and I were fearless."

Over the years, Patterson scouted and booked several up-and-coming regional acts from New Orleans and Austin, Texas, helping to the advance the careers of Cajun rocker Zachary Richard and Texas roots-rockers the Tailgators.

The club became known as the best little roadhouse west of Texas.

• • • •

BUT WHILE SWEETWATER excelled artistically, it struggled financially. That was due, in part, to tougher state drunk-driving penalties and the club's inability to lure a lucrative lunchtime clientele.

In 1986, Muldaur, Dan Hicks, Mimi Farina and Hot Tuna performed a month of benefit shows to help save the club and raise people's awareness of a longtime ban on amplified music (which was eventually lifted) that limited the types of shows Sweetwater could present.

Five years later, Patterson found herself $50,000 in debt and faced with sorely needed improvements to the bar, the sound system and other amenities. Grateful Dead guitarist Weir and local bassist Rob Wasserman held a benefit show to cover a month's rent, but Patterson decided more drastic steps were needed. So she embraced a controversial plan, conceived by Goddard and San Francisco-based attorney Jeffrey Levenberg, to raise money by offering patrons a chance to buy, for $500, one of 30 reserved seats in the club, which often has drawn sold-out crowds.

The plan soured some longtime Sweetwater supporters.

Complaints started rolling in that golden-ticket holders had staked out the few good seats. Longtime customers expressed resentment to Patterson and the local press that they were forced to stand in the back of the room while deep-pocket patrons sat comfortably at the club's few coveted tables.

"I lost a lot of customers and I feel bad about it," Patterson told the Sun at the time. "But without those tickets, the place wouldn't even still be here for people to complain about."

In an effort to make amends, Patterson restricted patron-program members to two reserved seats instead of a four-seat table.

Yet the financial woes continued.

Patterson looked into selling a share of the club to Bill Graham Presents or Slim's nightclub owner Bob Brown, who now owns Rancho Nicasio. But those proposals went nowhere. Then, in 1998, tired of the constant fiscal battle, Patterson sold the club to the Steeres, local residents with experience in the restaurant business; Tom had worked as the general manager at Piazza D'Angelo and the Cantina restaurants, and Becky had experience as a bartender.

"The Aversas wanted a mom-and-pop operation, rather than a larger corporation," Becky says.

At first, patrons and the press were skeptical of the Steeres' ability to sustain Sweetwater's reputation, since the club's music had been so closely identified with Patterson. But the Steeres soon put their own stamp on the place. They booked veteran performers, like former Bob Dylan sideman Al Kooper and 1960s folk revivalist Tom Rush, and such relative newcomers as Shana Morrison, the daughter of rock and R&B legend Van Morrison. And the couple has cultivated the growing jam-band movement, booking Leftover Salmon, Box Set and Vinyl, among others.

On the business side, the Steeres engaged in an on-again, off-again battle with the Aversas, seeing their rent raised to $10,000 a month in 2004 and operating for the past two years without a lease. Then came this summer's "surprise" announcement that they had to vacate the premises.

More recently, the Steeres bought the Larkspur Cafe Theater in neighboring Larkspur, leaving some observers to wonder if they hadn't decided to give up the fight and simply let Sweetwater face the music. The Larkspur Café Theater reopened under their management in early August. "We wanted a place that would complement Sweetwater and accommodate acts that don't quite fit in here," Becky explains. "It's more of a listening room and it's a bit more elegant.

"It has a nice big front porch where you can relax and have a glass of wine and dinner."

For now at least, the café's schedule looks very much like Sweetwater's, with an open-mic night, songwriter's showcase and many of the same acts that have graced Sweetwater's stage in recent years.

Dealing with the café's grand opening at the same time she is presiding over Sweetwater's demise might explain why Becky Steere is caught by surprise when asked what emotions she feels on the eve of the Mill Valley nightclub's imminent closure.

"It's weird. It's just starting to hit me now that we're going to be closing," she says, choking back tears. "I was standing at the end of the bar last night—we had John Corbett, the actor [from Sex and the City and My Big Fat Greek Wedding] here this week—and I was looking around and thinking, 'This cannot go away. This place is so amazing.'

"It's not just a music venue, like the Fillmore or Slim's—this place is like a church of music. We've had so many things happen here: We've had memorial services, weddings, fundraisers for sick musicians, breast-cancer fundraisers and the list goes on. When I think about what it is, it's just a really healing place to be.

"I just can't believe that we're closing the doors on a church of music, a legacy, forever gone."

Back-door man

For several years, until the Sun published a 1993 cover story critical of Sweetwater's privileged golden-ticket program, I enjoyed almost unlimited access to the club's inner sanctum: the sprawling basement rooms that house the office and artists' lounge. The stage was magical, but the real action was in the basement, with its low ceiling, exposed water pipes and gallery of autographed publicity photos. Down there Chuck Berry sideman and piano player Johnnie Johnson would regale you with tales of Keith Richards's marathon drug use on the set of the Hail! Hail! Rock 'n' Roll film set. John Lee Hooker would share his haberdashery secrets. Dennis Quaid would shyly make excuses for wearing beat-up sneakers onstage when his band was wearing expensive ostrich-skin cowboy boots.

And then there was the poker table, with its well-worn green-felt covering. It served as the focal point for stars and backstage crashers alike. Entertainers and guests often gathered for a low-stakes game of cards and a few drinks. None exhibited more enthusiasm for the game than country-soul singer Delbert McClinton and his band, which at the time included local keyboardist Mike Duke. The band was flat-out poker obsessed. From the moment they completed their sound check, they would retire to the poker table. Hours later, the musicians would pause just long enough to hop onstage, only to return to the table right after the last encore. And then, after loading out, the game would resume on their bus.

But the peak experience in my 25 years as a music journalist—in a lifetime as a music fan—came in the mid-'80s after catching singer, bassist and songwriter Willie Dixon at Sweetwater on a rainy Saturday night. I had long cherished the music of this Chicago blues legend, who penned such standards as "Spoonful" and "I Can't Quit You Baby."

His show was pure bliss.

Afterward, his band settled around the poker table to play cards, scarf spicy chicken wings and share a few laughs. I hung out for hours with Dixon and club owner Jeanie Patterson, listening intently as they gossiped about the fickle music business.

At four o'clock in the morning, an exhausted Dixon announced that he was going to the tour bus parked down the street from the club, hoping the band would get the hint and follow him.

They never budged from the poker table.

Dixon started walking. I tagged along. Grabbing his weathered leather satchel, I headed up the rickety wooden stairs behind this towering blues giant.

Outside, the early morning air was crisp and cool, the town dead quiet, the pavement shimmering after a light rain. Overhead, a full moon shone behind fast-moving clouds and the silhouette of bare tree branches. It was just me and Dixon, his broad Stetson shading his eyes as we strolled down the broken sidewalk. And then he started to sing softly—a deep, low blues moan. For the next three minutes, time stood still—like in a dream.

It's never gotten any better than that, and it never will.—G.C.