This is the last deep post for a while on a topic many of you are surely tired of: the death of the Mohawk Place. If I know you’re tired of it, why do I keep typing?
Because I’m sitting here on Saturday morning, watching soccer, listening to Wheat and just crushed. I’m not sure what it says about me. I love my family and my life, but I’ll be damned if this building’s final weekend isn’t attempting to knock down all of my walls. I won’t be there for the final few hours of rock, roll and revelry… and that’s probably fair although terribly sad. What was once a thrice-weekly destination for me has become the place I hoped to hit once every other week and was fortunate if I found a show once a month.
If I really dwell on it — and I am really dwelling on it — it’s because the Mohawk Place was a college of sorts. The way some people speak of their alma mater as the place they got loose and ran wild, and believe me as a UB guy… I get that, I think about Mohawk. I spent my 20th 21st, and 22nd birthdays there (Probably a few more, too). It was the place I met friends, met up with friends and brought my friends. The strongest bonds I forged were rarely tested there, rather fortified. I fell deeper in love with my wife there, performed there, in a sense a part of my life (touring “musician”) died there.
So while it’s annoying and perplexing to some — and I get it — to read so many love letters to a building and memories, it’s about the only thing that’s helping. From miles and miles away, from the person I was, from the person I hope to be, from the great friends I have to the ones who’ve drifted to the ones who no longer bear the title, I hope the spirits feel my love as they drift off to a land with no new memories but crates, boxes and bottles of great, old ones… goodnight, Hawk. This breakdown’s for you.