By Garrison Frost

For a long time – for too long, really, given what a trivial lark we're talking about – I've intended to walk into the San Franciscan on Sepulveda Boulevard in Torrance to see if they've got the old red leather booths from the Seafarer in Manhattan Beach. I heard a rumor once that the booths ended up there, and that seemed to make sense to me, that one divey, dark piano bar would incorporate the remains of another. It has long been a regret of mine that I didn't get to the big sale when they closed the Seafarer. Some people I know got chairs, others some tiki wall hangings but of course the big discussion was over who would get the pufferfish lamps (Do they even call it a pufferfish?) that were the envy of anyone who visited the place in the many decades its doors were open. Apparently, I was told, those weren't for sale; the owners had the good sense to keep them.

The Skechers people finally had the sensitivity to bulldoze the old Seafarer down, and I notice that the cranes are moving in to build their big corporate headquarters. It's been some time since they bought the property with the intention of turning the entire block into a palatial homage to their line of hipster shoes and accessories. But then their stock fell and they didn't do anything with the property for a long time. They also got into a fight with the neighbors and the city. The neighbors didn't like the idea of all that traffic. And the city was miffed that Skechers one day promised something new and innovative on the site, but when the time came to submit plan, their design was just a big, ugly office building like all the rest. So the Seafarer languished empty, its sign still advertising its classic surf-and-turf, dark bar elegance, a tease. Well, now it's really gone, and thank god for that. It was hard to see it like that, similar to seeing the shell of an old friend, brain dead but on life support.

There are couples in their 60s in the beach cities who remember going on their first dates at the Seafarer. Apparently, it was quite a place back in the day. When I started going there – illegally, in high school – the place had fallen quite a ways. But later, in the mid-1990s, the place began to acquire some of the same retro cache as so many other dated nightclubs. Sure, the beers smelled like rotten cheese and the cramped tiny bathrooms made the Rose Bowl look hygienic. But it had some level of class. The bartender wore a leather vest and made strong drinks. And the regular guitar entertainer had a hit song in the 70s – something about Bigfoot, if I recall correctly. It was a good quiet place to hang out, drink a few and chat with friends.

But then, suddenly, the Seafarer was the coolest place in the South Bay. It sort of began when Bookmobile played a holiday show in the venue (full disclosure: I was a member of Bookmobile). The place wasn't made for band performance, that was clear. There was no stage, and the booths were set up more for steaks and lobster than for a viewing the entertainment. The band's drummer played in a corner alcove created by removing a table from a booth. Extension cords solved the scarcity of power outlets. And the place was packed. Not that the band was great or anything. It was one of those odd convergences – all roads led to the Seafarer that night, no one knows why. That concert was soon followed by another. Then the Mother Hips played there. Then Tom Watson and his new band. Then there were weird performances by a hipster jazz trio and experimental music from at least one member of Sonic Youth. Something was happening there, you could feel it when you walked in. At last, the South Bay had the eclectic music venue it had long sought. Live music didn't have to mean Eagles cover bands or teenagers playing punk rock or white guys playing reggae. There was talk of putting in a stage, booking bands regularly. On Friday and Saturday nights, the place was packed with the South Bay alterna-crowd that usually hit the freeways in search of action.

But then Skechers decided it wanted the whole block. An offer was made that the owners couldn't refuse – one that involved a lot of cash, not a horse's head. And the place was shut down, prematurely, it turned out, because it would be a few years before any work got started. During that time, the Seafarer just stood there, empty, a mere shell of what it had been for decades, of what it briefly was as well.

Never got to the San Franciscan, by the way. If you do go there and find an old round booth in red leather, it's probably the one Steve, our drummer, made briefly famous.

(Oct. 14, 2005)

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