Lost city of Atlanta
It’s not a popular tourist spot, but Karl Puschmann finds the hidden depths of this Southern locale
Fuelled only by craft beer and enthusiasm I fought extreme fatigue and all facets of common sense to make my way across town to Atlanta’s small indie live music joint, Smith’s Olde Bar. My flight into Atlanta much, much earlier that day had necessitated hauling myself out of bed at 4am, then I’d spent the majority of the day on my feet moseying around Martin Luther King Jr’s old neighbourhood.
What I really wanted was to lie down in the hotel room and fall asleep. But that’s not travelling. I could sleep anytime but tonight was my only shot at seeing bands playing live synthwave. This 80s revivalist music genre has been bubbling away under pop culture’s surface for the past few years thanks to the success of shows such as Stranger Things, but has yet burst into much of a live scene back in New Zealand.
Atlanta isn’t the home of synthwave but its scene is larger than most. Unsurprising when you consider the city has a proud tradition of producing musical trailblazers such as Donald Glover, Outkast, Mastodon, and early 90s novelty kid rappers Kriss Kross among others.
Purely by chance I’d seen a tweet from one of my fave synthwave artists, a fellow named Vampire Step-Dad, earlier in the day which said, “Come out to Smith’s Olde Bar and shake your booty with me”. And that’s exactly what I planned to do, no matter how many walls I had to push past.
I’d hit the first wall at lunch after feasting on Paschal’s Restaurant’s famous fried chicken. The buffet was open and, damn, was that chicken ever finger-licking good. The recipe hasn’t changed since 1947 and it’s easy to taste why the place was a favourite of King and John Lewis, who made the restaurant the unofficial HQ of the civil rights movement.
It felt good (and necessary) to walk it off strolling through Martin Luther King Jr Historical Park, which is more of a neighbourhood than solely a park, consisting as it does of his boyhood home, the church where he was a
pastor, and a museum, most of which you can snoop around. It was fascinating to walk around and soak in the area where the civil rights movement started, and sobering to think that it wasn’t too long ago when this movement first gathered force — sobering, too, for an outsider to consider how much work there still is to go.
I hit the second wall at dinner when the weight of the day and the city’s history hit hard. We were at the hipster joint Victory Sandwich Bar, and I was chowing down on the Cowabunga Dude (salami, pepperoni, mozzarella etc) and the Castro (smoked pork, ham, pickle, cheese etc) when a wave of tired swamped me. Despite the names, these weren’t actually sandwiches but were instead small burgers, or if you prefer, big sliders. Whatever, they were tasty.
But a big meal is the enemy of doing stuff. I knew I had to act, and quickly. As well as music, Atlanta also has a proud craft beer scene, so I ordered a can of the locally made Scofflaw Dirty Beaches Tropical Wheat beer which, despite its high alcohol content, went down so smoothly I had to order another. And then another. And then one more. As my travelling companions all made their excuses and retired to the hotel, I headed off for some 80s-style booty shaking.
Happily there was a decent turnout at the small venue. On stage was a three-piece called Solar Disco Force who sounded and looked like a disco Daft Punk. They got the crowd warmed up nicely for the sweater-wearing, keytar-rocking Vampire Step-Dad who absolutely slayed, despite it being a school night. You bet I danced my ass off. Although equal thanks for that probably has to go to the Scofflaw . . .
After that, it was time to go to Church. Not a place of worship but one of the most peculiar bars I’ve ever been too. Unique doesn’t do it justice, it’s more like having a drink inside a very warped and twisted mind. The art — all created by the owner — is cheekily, filthily, subversive, filling every iota of wall space, and is probably best avoided if you are actually a person of faith.
The next morning I visited The National Center for Human and Civil Rights, which is as heavy a trip as it sounds. Far from being dusty and boring the exhibits are hi-tech and innovative and bring to life the fight for rights in a real way. It hits hard and teary eyes are almost guaranteed.
Opposite that is an experience that is also very moving but for entirely different reasons. Bright smiley faces are everywhere at The World of Coca-Cola, the corporate shrine to the fizzy beverage that is so stupefyingly bizarre that it has to be seen to be believed.
Feeling somewhat dazed by the corporate fanaticism of Coke World, I headed over to the Krog Street Tunnel to see some street art. The walls here are a magnet for local graffiti artists, who are encouraged to paint them. The tunnel leads you to the BeltLine Eastside Trail which, like the tunnel, has superb graf-art all along its almost 5km length. This brings you to the multilevel, incredibly hip, Ponce City Market, which was a perfect spot to refuel after the walk and grab a couple of last-minute gifts to take home.
Atlanta won’t have been on many Kiwis’ holiday radars, but the cultural blend of historic importance, cutting-edge music and hip initiatives, make it worthwhile to push through the wall and explore this city.