Forbidden flesh tattoo & body piercing studio coventry ri

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University Press of New England Hanover and London

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University Press of New England www.upne.com © 2012 John Barylick All rights reserved

MAMA TOLD ME NOT TO COME Words and Music by RANDY NEWMAN Copyright © 1966, 1970 (Copyrights Renewed) UNICHAPPELL MUSIC INC. All Rights Reserved Used by Permission

For permission to reproduce any of the material in this book, contact Permissions, University Press of New England, One Court Street, Suite 250, Lebanon NH 03766; or visit www.upne.com

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Barylick, John. Killer show : The Station nightclub fire, America’s deadliest rock concert / John Barylick. p. cm. Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 978-1-61168-265-6 (cloth : alk. paper)—ISBN 978-1-61168-204-5 (ebook) 1. Station (Nightclub : West Warwick, R.I.)—Fire, 2003. 2. Nightclubs—Fires and fire prevention—Rhode Island—West Warwick. 3. Fires—Rhode Island—West Warwick. 4. Great White (Musical group) I. Title. F89.W4B37 2012 974.5'4—dc23 2012002561

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FOR THE VICTIMS

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It’s gonna be a killer show. —Jack Russell, lead singer of Great White, February 20, 2003

killer adj. (orig. US) 1 [1970s+] terrific, amazing, effective.. 2 [1980s+] ghastly, terrible. —Cassell’s Dictionary of Slang, 1998

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CONTENTS

1. Sifting the Ashes 2. Mill Town Watering Hole 3. Rock Impresarios 4. Only Rock ’n’ Roll 5. That Ain’t No Way to Have Fun, Son 6. Lucky Day 7. Yours, in Fire Safety… 8. Suds, Sparks, and Sponsorship 9. Film at Eleven 10. This Way Out 11. Cause for Alarm 12. I’m with the Band 13. Fighting for Air 14. A Snowball’s Chance in Hell 15. The Way of All Flesh 16. Domino Theory 17. The Sound and the Fury 18. Into the Breach 19. Solid Gasoline 20. The Missing 21. Artifacts of Tragedy 22. Circling the Wagons 23. Crime and Punishment 24. “First, Survival; Then, Function; Then, Cosmetics” 25. Risky Business 26. Making the Tough Cases 27. Burning Question 28. Divining the Incalculable 29. Memento Mori

Epilogue Acknowledgments Appendixes List of Persons Killed in the Station Nightclub Fire Outcome of Criminal Prosecutions

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Outcome of Civil Lawsuits Notes and Sources Index

Illustrations

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Floor plan of The Station, with location of individuals at 11 p.m. on February 20, 2003. (Diagram courtesy of Jeff Drake, Drake Exhibits)

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CHAPTER 1

SIFTING THE ASHES

FEBRUARY 21, 2003, DAWNED STUNNINGLY CRISP and cold in New England. Over a foot of fresh snow had fallen the previous two days, and conditions were what skiers jokingly call “severe clear” — cloudless blue skies, bright sun, temperatures in the teens, and windchill in single digits. It was, in short, postcard picture-perfect. On this morning, however, the images being snapped by news photographers in the

town of West Warwick, Rhode Island, were hardly Currier and Ives material. In the southeast corner of town sat a nightclub called The Station — or what was

now left of it. At present, it consisted of a smoldering footprint of rubble at the end of a rutted parking lot, surrounded by banks of dirty snow into which burning bar patrons had blindly thrown themselves just eight hours earlier. The site resembled the scene of a battle, fought and lost. Discarded half-burned shirts littered the lot, along with soiled bandages and purple disposable rescuers’ gloves. Hearses had long since supplanted ambulances, the work of firefighters having shifted from rescue to recovery. Alongside the smoking remains of the club, a hulking yellow excavating machine

gingerly picked at the building’s remains. Its operator had demolished many fire- damaged buildings before, but none where each “pick” of the claw might reveal another victim. Yellow-coated state fire investigators and federal agents wearing “ATF” jackets

combed the scene, while a department chaplain divided his time between consoling first responders and praying over each body as it was removed. Only snippets of conversation among the firefighters could be overheard, but one — “bodies stacked like cordwood” — would become the tragedy’s reporting cliché. And there was no shortage of reporters covering the fire. By late morning, over one

hundred of them huddled in a loose group at the site, faces hidden by upturned collars, their steamy exhalations piercing the frigid air at irregular intervals. Stamping circulation into their cold-numbed feet, they awaited any morsel of news, then, fortified, drifted apart to phone in stories or do stand-ups beside network uplink trucks. Following protocol, all but designated spokesmen avoided contact with the press.

The area had immediately been declared a crime scene, and yellow tape, soon to be replaced by chain-link fence, kept reporters far from what remained of the building itself. During the first daylight hours, news helicopters clattered overhead, their rotor wash kicking up ash and blowing the tarps erected by firefighters to shield the grisly recovery effort from prying eyes. That vantage point was lost after one chopper got so low it blew open body bags containing victims’ remains. Immediately, the FAA declared the site a “no-fly” zone. Good footage would be hard to come by. That is, good post-fire footage. Video of the fire itself, from ignition to tragic

stampede, had already been broadcast throughout the United States and abroad,

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because a news cameraman happened to be shooting inside the club. The world had seen the riveting images: an ’80s heavy-metal band, Great White, sets off pyrotechnics, igniting foam insulation on the club’s walls; concertgoers’ festive mood changes in seconds to puzzlement, then concern, then horror as flames race up the stage walls and over the crowd, raining burning plastic on their heads; a deadly scrum forms at the main exit. Now, all that remained were reporters’ questions and a sickening burnt-flesh smell

when the biting wind shifted to the south. Among the questioners was Whitney Casey, CNN’S youngest reporter, who just hours earlier had exited a Manhattan nightclub following a friend’s birthday celebration. Dance music was still echoing in her sleep- deprived head when she arrived at a very different nightclub scene in West Warwick. Casey had covered the World Trade Center collapse as a cub reporter on September 11, 2001. From its preternaturally clear day to desperate families in search of the missing, the Station nightclub fire assignment would have eerie parallels to her 9/11 reporting baptism. It wasn’t long before the sweater and jeans from Casey’s “crash bag” (on hand for

just such short-notice call-outs) proved a poor match for New England’s winter. Shivering alongside the yellow tape line, the CNN reporter spotted State Fire Marshal Irving J. “Jesse” Owens huddling with West Warwick fire chief Charles Hall. She heard questions shouted by her fellow reporters: “Chief, how recently was the club inspected?” “What was the club’s capacity?” “Who put that foam up on the walls?” Neither responded. Nor would anyone in authority answer those and other critical questions for a very long time. State Fire Marshal Owens had the world-weary look of someone who had been

investigating fires for thirty years. Thin of hair and pudgy of build, Owens had seen many fatal fires before. But none like this. He had to have heard the reporters’ shouted questions in the same way one hears his doctor prattle on after having first pronounced the word “cancer” — as a faint sound drowned out by the rush of racing thoughts. Owens had a lot on his mind. Ten hours before the fire, he had given an interview to Bryan Rourke, a Providence Journal reporter, on the subject of a recent Chicago nightclub stampede in which twenty-one people had been killed. “It’s very remote something like that would happen here,” opined Owens. Now he wondered whether the phone message he left for Rourke while on his way to the Station conflagration would stop that story from running. “I guess we spoke too soon,” he said in a dejected voice-mail postscript. Owens had arrived at The Station to find it fully consumed by fire, and triage of

survivors already under way. Amid the crackle of flames and din of sirens, his cell phone rang. The caller ID displayed his home number. His wife’s first words were, “Jesse, Chris is missing.” “Who?” “Your nephew, Chris. He went to The Station last night and they can’t find him. Can you?” Given the stench of death around him, Owens must have thought, “I certainly don’t want to find him here.” The fire marshal was hardly alone in looking for family. Because video of the fire

had been broadcast almost immediately, distraught relatives of Station patrons flocked to the scene when their cell phone calls to loved ones went unanswered. Over the next several days, they would go from hospital to hospital in Providence, Boston, and Worcester, clutching photos for doctors to match to horrifically burned faces. And with

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each “not here,” the families’ options would shrink. Even though reporters were kept at a distance from the burnt-out rubble, TV crews

had something of an advantage. Television “live” trucks often sport video cameras on their telescoping communication masts, from which their crews can peer down upon “restricted access” scenes. Reporters like CNN’S Casey watched on their monitors as blue-gloved fire investigators combed through what looked, at a distance, like indistinguishable ashes. Had she been allowed closer (or if her truck’s mast camera had a higher resolution) she would have seen those techs bagging and labeling victims’ personal effects and body parts. A glove containing hand bones. A section of scalp, with hair attached. And, over by what remained of the stage, several charred cardboard tubes for pyrotechnic “gerbs” — a kind of heavy-duty sparkler — as well as a homemade stand for positioning them. These were the first of many discoveries that would begin to answer questions in the minds of everyone from Providence to Portugal who had seen the initial video: Why did the fire spread so fast? What was flammable packing foam doing on the walls of a nightclub? How could any thinking person ignite giant sparklers in that firetrap? Throughout the night of the fire and into the next day, the news media reported body

counts like a ghoulish sports score. First thirty-nine, “with fears of many more.” Then fifty, “and climbing.” By 11 a.m., the removal of body bags from what remained of The Station had ceased, with the “final” calculus an astounding ninety-five. That afternoon, Fire Marshal Owens’s cell phone roused him from his

overwhelming fatigue. It was his wife, telling him they’d found his nephew — at Rhode Island Hospital — burned, but alive. But many more remained missing. Shortly after the video aired, the region’s

hospitals began filling with relatives looking for their loved ones. There, smoke- stained survivors attempted to comfort them with information about where a son or daughter was last seen within the club. Other injured Station patrons chose to leave hospitals, untreated, in deference to the more seriously burned in need of urgent care. That night, Kent County Memorial Hospital, closest to the fire site, went through a three-month supply of morphine. Yet more friends and family members were drawn to the still-smoking remains of

the club, where they stood, hugging and weeping. One was Jackie Bernard, forty years old, who stared at the smoldering rubble and cried softly. She had been inside the club with her close friend and co-worker Tina Ayer when fire broke out. Both worked as housekeepers at the Fairfield Inn, where Great White was staying. Tina was still missing. No one among those gathered at the site took any particular notice of one fireman

lingering in the footprint of the burned-out club. “Rocky” was a familiar figure at fire scenes; as the town’s fire marshal, part of his job was investigating the cause and origin of fires there. As the fire marshal’s turn-out boots crunched in the ruins, he must have had the appalling realization that the ground beneath him was intermixed with what funeral directors euphemistically call “cremains.” And only he could have known that he was, perhaps, the single person most responsible for this tragedy. When the claw-armed excavating machine lifted the remaining section of collapsed

roof from the club, another grim discovery was made. The count was now ninety-six.

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CHAPTER 2

MILL TOWN WATERING HOLE

IF WEST WARWICK, RHODE ISLAND, WERE A CAR, it would be a 1957 Studebaker — functional in its day, but now well past its prime. It has the look and feel of a place that time, and certainly prosperity, have long since passed by. Driving through the town today, one can catch glimpses of its industrial past.

Hulking textile mills, some boarded up, some converted to “luxury condos,” line the Pawtuxet River’s banks. Mill workers’ duplexes still squat in the river’s floodplain, while owners’ mansions, many now decrepit, occupy the high ground. Mac’s Bowlaway Lanes, its paint peeling, sits cheek-by-jowl with Louise’s Liquors. A red J. J. Newberry storefront harks back to its halcyon days as a sponsor of TV’S Romper Room, while the Portuguese Holy Ghost Society and St. Anthony’s Church remind visitors that Masses are still said in languages other than English or Latin. West Warwick homes are, for the most part, pre–World War II vintage, often

multifamily, and set impossibly close to one another. Vinyl siding over rotted wood is the dominant aesthetic. Which is not to say that pride in ownership does not occasionally shine through. Carefully tended window boxes grace otherwise bleak tenements. Manicured postage-stamp lawns hold their own against incursion by overgrown neighboring plots. In short, the town has seen much better days, but its close-knit, often blood-related residents refuse to give up on it. Which is one reason why tragedy hit so close, and so hard, that winter of 2003.

West Warwick may lie at the geographic center of America’s smallest state, but by 2003 it was as far from the state’s economic and cultural mainstream as could be. It had not always been so. Indeed, the town’s very existence was an ironic testament to greedy calculation. With straight borders to its north, west, and south and a tortured, winding border to

the east, the town appears to have been forcibly wrested from its easterly neighbor, Warwick — which is exactly what happened. While political subdivisions often use waterways as natural borders, West Warwick clings jealously to both banks of the Pawtuxet as that river makes its way east to Narragansett Bay. And that was the beauty of Patrick Quinn’s 1913 plan. By the early 1900s, Warwick’s Pawtuxet River Valley was the state’s most

industrialized and politically powerful region. Generations of immigrants had settled in ethnic enclaves bearing names like Arctic, Crompton, and Riverpoint. French Canadians, Irish, Poles, and Portuguese huddled among their own in neighborhoods often named for the area’s mill owners, such as Lippitt, Clyde, or Harris. While Patrick Quinn’s “come-over” Irish parents had labored in the mills, he would rise above those humble beginnings to become a lawyer and politician of influence, riding the tide of

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political change that transformed Rhode Island from a WASP-dominated Republican state to the ethnic Democratic one-party city-state it remains to this day. Quinn’s plan was to split West Warwick from Warwick so as to seize both banks of

the Pawtuxet — and its golden-goose textile mills — from the largely Republican eastern area of the city. It worked like a charm. As its first town council president, Quinn promptly appointed his nephew and law partner as city solicitor. Together they would dominate the affairs of the newly incorporated municipality for decades. Quinn’s creation remained prosperous through the 1940s and into the ’50s. Fruit of

the Loom products made in West Warwick stocked America’s underwear drawers. Weekdays, often in three shifts, a League of Nations labored in the mills. On weekends, its ambassadors would spend their overtime checks in Arctic’s bustling retail center. Then came the late ’50s and ’60s. One by one, the mills shut down, heading south

for cheaper labor, while new shopping centers sprang up in neighboring Warwick. In 1958, when Interstate Highway 95 was completed through Warwick proper, there was simply no reason for anyone to drive to Arctic to shop — or to visit West Warwick at all. By 2003, eastern Warwick had become the retail hub of Rhode Island and site of the state’s newly modernized airport, its tax base almost five times that of its western spin-off. Quinn’s dream of an independently prosperous West Warwick effectively died with him in 1956. Recent unsuccessful attempts to revitalize West Warwick have ranged from the

desperate to the comical. First, there was the proposal to create a tax-free shopping zone (dead on arrival in the legislature). Then, casting envious glances at one of the world’s largest casinos, in nearby Ledyard, Connecticut, West Warwick pols teamed with Harrah’s to develop a Narragansett Indian casino (defeated in multiple referenda). Most recently, plans for a “destination-resort indoor water park” were floated. (Progress on that slowed appreciably in the state legislature when rumors swirled that it was really an FBI sting operation, thereby seriously impairing its graft potential.) With economic downturns often come fire and arson, and West Warwick was not

spared their ravages. From the destruction of the Roger Williams mill in 1821 to the Crompton Mills fire in 1992, the town saw one spectacular blaze after another. In fact, following one such fire, a West Warwick neighborhood was renamed Phenix, after the mythological bird that rose from the ashes. A mill fire is a sight to behold. With foot-thick timbers and floors marinated in

decades of machine oil, old textile mills burn with ferocious intensity, producing inky smoke visible for miles. Many such West Warwick fires had human help. In the 1990s a string of twenty unsolved arson fires plagued the town, creating a persistent feeling of unease among its residents.

In a place the size of West Warwick, there’s a fine line between business-as-usual among old friends, and outright corruption. When members of the same family populate multiple municipal departments, opportunities for self-dealing and nepotism abound. A town councilman sought to negotiate contracts with the police union — of which his son was a member. A school committee member pressured a principal to hire his son as a teacher. A departing mayor illegally paid himself $15,000 in “sick

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time and vacation pay.” Few townsfolk were shocked. Nor has its fire department been immune from West Warwick’s brand of

opportunism. In 1977, a firefighter in the department helped his diner-owning cousin dynamite a competing Warwick restaurant. The next year, two town councilmen running for reelection promised a forty-one-year-old campaign worker a firefighter’s job, even though town policy barred hiring recruits over age twenty-eight. In 1980, a battalion chief was convicted of arson conspiracy for delaying the department’s response to a “successful” fire at a friend’s warehouse. Later, in 1996, an obese firefighter sought retirement on a disability pension when he could no longer fit into his boots. This, in a fire department of sixty-five employees. It takes a lot to raise eyebrows here.

In February of 2003 there sat in the southeast corner of West Warwick, at 211 Cowesett Avenue, a small roadhouse that had seen many different incarnations over the decades. During World War II it had been the Wheel, a navy bar catering to rowdy sailors from Quonset Point. Later, it was reborn as the Red Fox, the Cedar Acres Inn, and Tammany Hall (reportedly, bullet holes in the beer cooler attested to its rough- and-tumble crowd). The wood-frame building was modified from year to year and from owner to owner, often with materials of dubious quality and origin. A suspicious fire scarred its interior in 1971, but despite fuel containers later found in the dining area, no arrests were made. Raymond Villanova bought the building in 1974 and operated one of three “P. Brillo

and Sons” Italian restaurants there until 1982, peddling “spaghetti by the pound” to Rhode Islanders hungry for bargain eats. The success of “Papa Brillo’s” was to be the building’s “highest and best use,” in real estate parlance. All subsequent tenancies were short-lived, alcohol-based, and downscale by comparison. By the mid-’80s Villanova, his reputation as an aggressive businessman well

established, found commercial real estate development to be more profitable and less demanding than his restaurants. The dingy single-level building at 211 Cowesett Avenue became just one of his many holdings, rented to a succession of hapless entrepreneurs willing to sign onerous “as-is” leases under which Villanova had no obligation whatsoever to maintain or repair the building. Developer Villanova’s management of the property on Cowesett Avenue consisted primarily of collecting overdue rents and seeking property tax reductions for the deteriorating property. If he ever visited the building after 1995, his Rolls-Royce would hardly have blended in. The dubious allure of operating a marginal bar attracted a parade of renters who

changed the club’s name, made low-budget renovations, and more often than not ended up begging off their lease with Villanova and selling their “business” to the next, and greater, entrepreneurial fool. After Brillo’s came, variously, Glenn’s Pub, then CrackerJack’s, then the Filling Station. In late 1995, Howard Julian rose to the challenge. Julian liked rock music. A guitar player of sorts, he found the prospect of rubbing

(and bending) elbows with musicians too attractive to pass up. So he bought the restaurant-turned-pub-turned-rock-club from Skip Shogren, signing an “as-is” lease with Villanova’s realty company. The “Filling Station” name combined an automotive

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theme with, perhaps, a wishful allusion to anticipated drink sales. From its prior owner Julian inherited not only the club’s name but also a clientele, several employees, and its manager, Tim Arnold. He was also heir to the building’s prior brushes with fire. A tradesman changing a lightbulb for Julian once reached into the ceiling space. “All the rafters were charcoaled,” he said. “I put my hand on it, it was black.” Another thing that Julian’s club shared with its predecessor on the site was the

animosity of its neighbors. The area of Cowesett Avenue and Kulas Road in West Warwick was, to put it most charitably, mixed use. (Comprehensive zoning was never the town’s strong suit.) Across Cowesett Avenue from the Filling Station was a restaurant, the Cowesett Inn. Across Kulas Road from the club, an auto dealership. To the club’s west lay a wooded lot. To its immediate south, less than a hundred feet from the club itself, the property of one Barry Warner marked the beginning of a residential plat. Over the years, as tastes in musical volume came to surpass fans’ pain thresholds, it was inevitable that neighbors would complain about the noise. And Warner frequently led the charge. Each time successive owners sought transfer of liquor and entertainment licenses at

the site, Warner and others would complain to the town council of overcrowding, parking lot disturbances, and, invariably, the loud, bass-pounding music. And each would-be impresario, including Julian, would promise the council new measures to fight the noise: performing volume checks; keeping the door nearest Warner’s house tightly shut; installing noise-dampening materials. One application of soundproofing material occurred in the early summer of 1996.

The Filling Station’s manager, Tim Arnold, observed Julian screwing white plastic foam blocks to the walls of the drummer’s alcove at the center of the stage. They were seventeen-inch-square, two-inch-thick blocks of stiff foam, each the consistency of “swimming pool noodles.” Julian applied 192 square feet of the stuff to the alcove’s three walls. It is unclear where he obtained this plastic foam; however, this was not the last time that materials of questionable quality would compromise the building at 211 Cowesett Avenue. Notwithstanding Julian’s parsimony, his club formula was still a bust. By late 1999,

he was resorting to gimmicks like karaoke, mud wrestling, and male stripper nights to stay afloat. A video shot at the club (which by then had been renamed, simply, The Station) captured Julian onstage with the featured act, engrossed in fish-faced guitar noodling. Heady as such moments must have been for him, they did not pay the rent. Almost four years into his venture, Julian still owed purchase money to prior owner Skip Shogren. In arrears to his landlord by over $40,000 in February 2000, Julian, like so many before him, sought a buyer for his failing business. He implored his landlord not to tip any prospective buyer to the fact that months of unpaid back rent (as well as the balance of his debt to Shogren) would be escrowed from any purchase closing. “I firmly believe that if the amount of rent in rears [sic] is disclosed, the potential buyer will be scared away,” wrote Julian to Villanova. One potential purchaser, Al Prudhomme, played drums with a local band, Fathead,

and was a regular at the club. He dearly wanted to buy it from Julian, but his wife, Charlene, “just wouldn’t go for it.” He would one day thank her. Julian’s potential salvation arrived in December 1999, in the persons of two

thirtyish brothers, Michael and Jeffrey Derderian. Native Rhode Islanders, the

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Derderians were, respectively, a businessman and a reporter for a Boston TV station. They hardly blended with The Station’s blue-collar clientele (one of the bar’s denizens later described them as sporting “Wally Cleaver haircuts”); however, they were sufficiently bitten by the club-owner bug as to seriously consider buying Julian’s business. It could not have been the ramshackle building that attracted the Derderians. And,

yet, standing inside facing west toward the stage, the brothers must have entertained grand visions for the dingy space. The stage itself was a platform, approximately two feet higher than the dance floor area. Another six inches above that sat the drummer’s alcove, a bump-out on the club’s exterior wall. To the right of the stage was the only door on the building’s west or south sides. This “stage door” was used to load band gear in and out. It was actually two doors hung back to back. The first hinged inward and bore a sign, Keep Door Closed at All Times. Immediately behind it was another door, hinged outward. This double-thickness door was on the side closest to the house of that vocal neighbor, Barry Warner. It would certainly appear to be sound-deadening. To the far right of the stage was the club’s pool table area. Its north wall was not

really a wall, but an “atrium” (not open to the outside, as in a true atrium) with curved Plexiglas windows of ’70s fern-bar style arching from roof to floor. Unbreakable save for three low glass panels, that tough Plexiglas would never need replacement by the new owners. Walking east through Julian’s club, the Derderian brothers had to pass the narrow

hallway leading to the men’s and ladies’ rooms. Windowless (and sometimes doorless, in the case of the men’s room), they were dead ends off a dead-end corridor. There had been an exit door in that corridor sometime in the past, as evidenced by concrete steps outside; however, it had long since been walled over. Further along their tour, the southeast corner of the building housed a little-used

game room, business office, and storage area — with walled-over windows and no exterior doors. Probably good for security. Separating this quadrant from the main bar area was a small kitchen, its outside door hidden from public view. The club’s main bar area consisted of a large horseshoe-shaped bar and several

small stand-up tables. Occupying the very farthest end of the club from the stage, this room had its own exit door and several single and double windows. Like the game room, its walls were lined with framed photos of second- and third-rate bands that had appeared at the venue. As the two prospective purchasers exited the club on their tour, they passed through

the ticket-sale area of the front entrance. Jutting diagonally into the entrance corridor, the ticket desk left a narrow thirty-three-inch path through which the brothers took turns passing. If they were worried about patrons sneaking in without paying, this pinch point had to allay any such fears. A single interior door eight feet farther down the main entrance corridor probably slowed entering patrons, as well. They’d have to pay to play at the Derderians’ club. As the brothers exited through the front corridor and double doors of The Station,

they probably didn’t notice the downward-sloping pitch of the tile floor beneath their feet. It was really not any cause for concern. Especially if no one behind them was in a hurry to leave.

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CHAPTER 3

ROCK IMPRESARIOS

“IT’S A PLACE WHERE GOOD BANDS GO TO DIE,” quipped Steven Scarpetti years before the fire. Scarpetti, a promotions executive at radio station WHJY, was referring to The Station’s prestige among third-rate concert venues, but he could as well have been talking about the club’s potential for actual tragedy. When the Derderian brothers bought The Station from Howard Julian in March of

2000, they knew little about operating a rock club. But they would soon learn on the job that cutting corners on payroll, stuffing patrons into the club, and stiffing local bands were all part of the economic equation for small-time promoters. The closing date for their purchase from Julian was to be March 22, 2000; however,

several acts were already booked to appear that month. The first such gig would be W.A.S.P., an ’80s heavy-metal band famous for its raunchy lyrics and violent themes. It was anticipated that the W.A.S.P. performance on March 8, 2000, would be “run on the Derderians’ license” with all proceeds going to Julian, and all expenses for the performance borne by Julian. This would be a dry run, of sorts, for the new owners. Jeff Derderian worked with W.A.S.P.’s road manager to prepare for the show. The lead singer for W.A.S.P., who calls himself Blackie Lawless (born: Steven

Edward Duren), embodies heavy-metal shock-schlock. Lawless’s stagecraft with a previous group, Sister, included lighting his boots on fire and eating live worms. With W.A.S.P., he graduated to throwing raw meat into the audience and positioning girls on torture racks. (It’s a safe bet that the band’s debut single from 1982, “Animal (Fuck Like A Beast),” never made it onto Tipper Gore’s iPod.) “Blackie,” in studded, cut-out leathers, would posture onstage sporting raven-dyed shoulder-length hair and heavy eyeliner, sometimes mounting a demonic-looking metal sculpture that doubled as a microphone stand. W.A.S.P.’s road manager in the spring of 2000 was Dan Biechele, who would later