Abashed the Devil stood / And felt how awful goodness is

The Inferno is a quaint medium-sized club near the corner of Commercial and North Sherman, populated by your usual mix of people who would want to hang out at a place named after hell itself. If you don't know where N. Sherman and Commercial intersect, well, you probably know where Vic Pierce is, since it's the only place around here slinging beer after 9:PM.

In case you are confused, I have created a map of sorts:


Note the abundant lack of treasure.

Now, there are things to love about the Inferno. By and large, the patrons lean towards the sweet (rather than sociopathic) side of darkness (Fun Fact: I have never been punched in the face at the Inferno--a distinction unclaimable by many other establishments, such as the Paradise or the Irish!). As for the drinks, prices are reasonable, and they tend to contain their money's worth of liquor, if you catch my drift. Being technically outside the city of Madison, you can also smoke there, though whether that's a plus or a minus probably depends very heavily on whether you mind reeking of clove cigarettes when you get home. Perhaps most pleasing, however, might be the aesthetic touches; the walls (even above the urinals!) are covered in industrial-style metalwork, and artwork of all shapes and sizes can generally be found. To wit:


Those would be things. Hand-crafted, heavy, pointy things, hanging from the wall, presumably in case we are ever attacked by the Canadians in the course of enjoying a good turn of Covenant and Seabound.

Hell, even the pool table bears some sassy artwork, done by a local tattoo artist:


Unfortunately, I was too drunk to think to take a better picture of it.

Now, I confess, I was that awkward, pimply kid in high school who wore all black, so when I came of drinking age, this place was practically made for me. Back then, it was busier, and many of my current associates are of those who used to--but no longer--wile away their lonely evenings in its dimly-lit (yet strangely inviting) corners. Gradually, however, the scene seemed to atrophy. Those who spent their youths indulging in Siouxsie & the Banchees, Bauhaus and Skinny Puppy eventually gave way to Reznorians and Mansonites, who eventually gave way to... well, not many people. The popular musical heirs of 90s goth-industrial are probably the likes of My Chemical Romance and... Christ, I don't know, I don't listen to that shit, and no one else who goes to the Inferno does, either (because, thankfully, it isn't played there). We all grew up, and in the process, a lot of us either found new haunts (for genre reasons or otherwise) or actually grew up, by which I mean got married, bought a house, squeezed out a few rug rats and--you know--stopped going to bars.

To be fair, the scene is not dead. Saturday nights, particularly the 1st of each month, tend to draw quite respectable crowds, and as far as hearing or seeing darker electronic music goes, this is basically your only good bet in a 50-mile radius or so. Of particular note: the Reverence music festival will be occurring soon, having the distinction of being one of the largest electro-industrial/synthpop music festivals in the Midwest. The Inferno's sound system is respectable, but nothing to write home to mom about--and is often much louder than necessary (though there are plenty of other clubs just as guilty of this cardinal sin).

In any case, I'm not going to lie; that scene is rather specific (though some room has gradually been made for less darkness-driven genres, as evidenced by punk-themed nights and shows), and alas!--that scene is no longer mine. I still go to the Inferno, yes, but pretty much only because it's about 15 feet from my front door. In less than two weeks, I will be moving, and I suspect my last visit may roughly coincide--but even though I've long thrown away the wardrobe, I'll never be throwing away the memories.