From Asbury First to Asbury Hall in 21 years flat.

[captainsblog]

"Asbury" is as revered a name among Methodist churches as it is among Springsteen fans.  Yes, they're named for the same guy: Francis A. was the first ordained bishop of my denomination after it moved over from England in the late 18th century (a 19th century Methodist convert from Noo Joisey named his "Greetings From" seaside-resort town after the dude). Most UMC conferences have several Asburies among their churches, and this area is no exception. Big-city parishes in both Rochester and Buffalo took that name in the 1800s, each merged with another on the majestic boulevards of their cities in the 1900s, but then the roads of Asbury First and Asbury Delaware took very different directions.

Rochester's Asbury First, enriched by the millions of George Eastman's inventions and many of his higher-level workers, became the de facto (and, some years later, the literal) episcopal cathedral of Methodism in all of Western New York. Its merged congregations built, and over the years have built onto, a humongous high-church sanctuary while running a very low-church ministry from it. It is, for most purposes, the home church of the entire east side of Rochester, city and suburb alike. I chanced to move to a neighborhood a block away from it in 1984; Eleanor, through a much different route, joined a year later. We met there the year after that and were married in its sanctuary, this Saturday 21 years ago.

Buffalo has always been a bluer-collar, and a much more Catholic-collar, town, and Asbury Delaware never got the endowment, or the prestige, that its cousin did. By the time we moved here in 1994, Methodism had abandoned it to some fly-by-night "independent" congregations, who seemed to spend most of their worship time by gutting and selling off the stained-glass windows and other venerable parts of the building. It went through Bankruptcy Court, and eventually Housing Court after the last of the "churches" abandoned it. By 1995, its exterior stonework had begun falling to the street, and the City, which had acquired it at a tax foreclosure sale, slated it for demolition.

Into such a large void stepped a very small woman. Small of stature, anyway, but never of strength or of determination. Our own native singer-songwriter-record producer, Ani DiFranco, worked a deal with the city to buy the building and remake its interior into a performance and arts space for the entire community, in exchange for the city (a) letting her, and (b) doing the repairs on the outside to make that space safe for everyone, passers-by and comers-in.

The decade since then has returned my never-was church home to life and love, and last night brought us into it for the first time. Briefly rechristened by Ani just as "The Church," she's since renamed the entire complex as "Babeville," but the center of musical action there is the onetime sanctuary, still bearing its historic name now as Asbury Hall. (You can follow the timeline of the building on her site here, with other diddly-bits about its history and new life throughout the Babeville site.)

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Asbury Hall can hold 800-1,000 for musical performance, and has thus become the preferred venue for smaller acts that the Tralf once held the monopoly on. It did not exist as such a few years ago when Emily and I last saw Dar Williams here, in a similar historic venue that was fun but lacked minor amenities like chairs.

As is often the case with Eleanor and me, it's the getting there that winds up being most of the fun. We decided to head back to Frank's for a more casual pre-show meal. As always, the place did not disappoint. Shrimp and penne for the bride, veal with manicotti for moi. We didn't get the waitress we most often do, but on learning of our anniversary, our new one became our newest friend there. Turns out she's just short of her own 20th anniversary, and we chatted and laughed over doggie bags in-the-making over how retro it is to stay married that long in these complex times.  As I paid our tab, the owner's wife told us that we'd been served by her sister, known around the waitstaff as "Josie the Bull" for a beyond-her-height ability to haul trays full of pasta no matter how heavy they get.  Before we left, we were served free (and very real) cannolis to pass on Frank and Josie's best wishes for a marriage well led.

Even the parking lot held magic. The sky at that hour (a bit after 7) was an amazing combination of pinks and purples. "Pinkle," I pronounced it. Then, next to our car was the most awesome set of jowls I've seen since Nixon resigned. They were on a gorgeous, well-behaved and, above all, LARGE Great Dane who was holding down the car while his owner got takeout.

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The show awaited, and it, likewise, did not let us down.

Shawn Mullins was the opener. He told some great stories between numbers- about the television show Scrubs asking him to write a song for an episode, him sending them a (in his words) "lousy demo" that he expected they'd either reject or ask him to record in studio, and then hearing it at the end of an episode in its raw demo form. (The real thing's the first track on his new album Honeydew, titled "All in My Head.")

We never heard him do his "monster hit" (as his touring partner Dar insists on calling it) "Lullaby," but he talked a lot about it. Its sudden AOR-radio fame struck him by complete surprise, and he went quickly from the coffeehouse circuit to opening for the likes of the Backstreet Boys at venues he'd never set foot in for any other reason.  The song also became a hit in Australia, so he got sent there, too- and within an hour off the plane in Sydney, cops were yelling out to him that they recognized him. "Yaw Shawn Mullins, mate," he quoted them in a dead-on Aussie accent- and proceeded to follow a paddy wagon of drunken cops around for most of that night.

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Our experience with Shawn was much more sedate. Truth be told, we didn't make it through his whole set, much less get to Dar's. (We did get to hear her sing, though; she comes out to do backup on his "Beautiful Wreck.") We're getting to the age- hell, we're past the age- where we can do dinner and a show after a full day of work apiece and not make it through the opening act if they keep going past 9 p.m. Still, we Supported Our Local Musicians, got to know a beautiful new venue, and shared as much love in an Asbury sanctuary this time as we did 21 years before.