a brief history of funtime
The year was 2006. Around Nashville's friends' circuits of losers, tramps, thieves, druggies, drop-outs, critics, artists, wanna-be academicians, actors, and (typically-Nashville) musicians, it was falsely proclaimed Miracle Year, a year of promise filled with as much good fortune as a bad kid's Christmas Stocking... but there was one thing beneficial to these groups of friends in the underground. There was a stirring somewhere- a quiet idea start passing around and filling our general air like a bad fart- someone should take the helm of this beast we called Nashville, someone, anyone, but who would be that stupid to take on such a responsibility, you know bills, up-keep, and insurance against bums trying to burn the place down, vandals trying to find anything we had renovated to help us have to start all over again, and idiots not knowing the difference between a good time and property destruction. And by bums, vandals, and idiots, I mean our friends.
Well, friends, you found your fools, your naive believers and for some reason that only posterity will be able to sniff out with the healthy distance of perspective, we decided to get our own place, where the punks, the artists, the rockers, the good times people, the "kids" could assemble not-so-peacefully, but hey who cares no one actually has to live here yet, because we've still managed to hold on to our pads. That's not to say it gives anyone free reign to fuck the place up, because who wants to be the asshole that ruined it for everyone else? It just means we've finally got a refuge of our own, out of the hands of the greedhogs and beyond the pretentious realm of standard indie-rock venues. We've got a place that aint heaven, but then again it isn't hell either- more like a purgatory of confusing abandon, you know strikingly similar to your daily life... except for the overbearing fact that this place fucking rocks every day. It's the Funhouse! Where every event is a house party. Its our salvation from having to share our creative space with culture vultures, who scan underground art for nuggets of profitability. Its our get-away from the toil of daily toleration of the rest of the world, where fools govern and bigger fools fall in line. Its our fort in the woods, where the grown-ups can't get to us, where we can live out our fantasies of never having to grow up, you know, where we can not behave en masse.
So, here we stand on the mountaintop of rash decision-making, the temple of brilliant spontaneity, where the idea of these amazingly talented groups of artistic prodigies running their own space was birthed. You know, brought to light as they say but filled with its own dark tinkering in social experimentation, something akin to controlled bacchanalia in an Altamont inspired DMZ. In short, this is a place where magic happens, where dreams come true, where the death of the American Dream has become something of a celebratory call to arms... or maybe its none of those things, but hey, we're cool, you're cool, lets be cool together.
So, here we are, man. Calling all artists, dropouts, winners, losers, punks, flower children, designers, poets, actors, engineers, musicians, writers, models, dancers, rockers, freaks, comedians and partiers. Be Cool.