Aug. 17, 2000, Way Out Club, 9:45 p.m: A brutal electric screech, and the jukebox jerks into silence. The ceiling lights shudder, click off. Customers slide off their barstools to watch lightning slice the olive sky. Foreheads glisten, bodies get sticky, rain slams against the windows like a mean drunk. The storm has cooled things off, but not quite enough to let us forget there's no air conditioning. Behind the bar, co-owner Sherri Lucas lights a few candles and goes back to taking drink orders. Everything is dark and warm, damp and green.... More >>>
By Amy Bautz
Bob Reuter's songs recount the sweaty epiphanies of working-class people, their unarticulated desires and disappointments, with compassion and a total lack of condescension.