Music lovers bid farewell to Low Beat
Convergence of factors, shutters Albany haven for locals and touring bands
They were told to bring screwdrivers because everything had to go. So The Low Beat’s regular customers came in with cardboard boxes and tools, scanning the bar and music venue for posters and signs that they had not seen since March, before the pandemic forced one of their favorite joints to close for good.
“It’s just really sad,” said Nick Bisanz, 53, from Poughkeepsie. He used to perform at The Low Beat with the band The Last Conspirators.
“We knew it was coming, just from being a regular here. This wasn’t completely unforeseen,” Bisanz said. “But it’s bittersweet.”
The Low Beat, located on Central Avenue, is closing, and the owner, Howard Glassman, wanted people to take anything they wanted before the doors shut for good. All he asked was they donate a little money to help pay off the final bills.
The last time Bisanz was at the venue was in March. He was hosting the open-mic poetry night. On Saturday, in his cardboard box, he carried a sealed luchador board game, a framed photo of The Charlie Daniels Band and a red promotional poster for one of his band’s shows.
He remembered walking in the door and seeing the backs of people’s heads, the stage lights focused on the band. It would be hot and sweaty. Heading to the bathroom would involve elbowing strangers to the side, but, he remembered, “it was the signs
of a good show to come,” the sign of a thriving music scene in the city.
“There was no pretense. No T.G.I. Fridays glitz and glam. Just music and beer,” Bisanz said.
As he donated $30 for his possessions, the ceiling fans were swinging around. It was quiet. He had never experienced that before at The Low Beat.
“Hey thanks for everything, man,” he told Nick Ellis, who was a bartender at The Low Beat and was volunteering his time to help with the “great giveaway.”
Ellis said the bar is closing because of the convergence of several factors. There was the realization last fall that current students weren’t drinking as much as previous generations, which slightly hurt sales. There was the calamitous pandemic, which, like many bars in the area, forced them to lock the door and wait for the world to reopen. And then there were several shootings that occurred in the neighborhood behind the venue.
“This was a really vibrant place,” Ellis said.
“Poetry nights, punk shows, rock shows, comedy nights — there was just a lot going on.”
Michael Campana, a 29-year-old veteran of the Albany music scene who records and performs under the name County Mike, estimated he performed 25 to 30 times at The Low Beat. He said via email, “The Low Beat was a haven for locals and touring bands alike. In typical Howard fashion, he always let the artists completely take ownership of the space, leading to some truly exceptional shows. While it felt as if Valentine’s closing left a massive hole in the music scene, The Low Beat did its best to fill that void.”
On stools and on the floor were stickers from bands that played years prior: The Sewer Buddies, 3 Exits to Hattiesburg, Top Nachos.
The bar table was covered with knickknacks: a box with a skeleton, beer glasses and a sheet of paper advertising The Low Beat’s grand opening. “Ribbon cutting ceremony Friday, April 4, 2014, 10 a.m.-11 a.m.,” it said.
People left with stools and records, with shirts from a band that left a whole box of them ... who knows when? It had all accumulated over six years, and now it had to go.
“How much for the Jesus action figure?” asked John Burris, who had never been to The Low Beat before but was there to be with his dad, Ron Burris, who was a drummer with Noncompli-ants, playing several shows at the place that had a Jesus figurine. “Whatever you want, man,” Ellis said.
John paid $5 and his father got a screwdriver to remove the guitar holders mounted on the wall. He paid $30 for the set.
“Definitely have lots of good memories here,” Ron Burris said. “We played here in the beginning of March, right before everything shut down.” He grabbed chalkboards that The Low Beat used just months ago to advertise drink specials.
“This was a special place,” Ron Burris said. “It’s sad to see it go.”
On his way out the door was a sheet of paper taped to the wall. Its message, written in black marker, read like a relic: “Be back in 5.”