Last Call

"They have every element they need," Linda explains. "Bands I've worked with in the past have always been missing one of the elements, whether it's songwriting, or sobriety or just plain luck. They have it all. And they're not self-sabotaging!"

Linda's golden-brown eyes are sparkling. She actually glows when she talks about Wonderlove, as she does when she talks about a man she's seeing who, shockingly, is neither a musician nor from Texas. It's clear she's not a bit sad; it's everyone else who's whining and moaning. She's excited to be able to devote her time to mothering these boys and, she says, "nurturing my personal life."

But the rest of us will no longer have the dirty, vile roadhouse in which to run into our friends and see the latest bitchen San Francisco punk band or a sweaty set by some Austin roots rockers. We won't see Dexter Holland crowd-surf straight through the ceiling tiles (he sweetly sent her a check to cover the repairs). The rockabilly kids no longer have a place to go, dressed to kill, every Thursday night to see Big Sandy or Russell Scott when no other venues would bother with greaser music. There will be no place to go after the Hootenanny, when people like John Doe and the Reverend Horton Heat would come and make music and drink beer after the sun went down.

Things change and scenes die. New ones come along. Entropy and rebirth. Jimi Hendrix played the Golden Bear; it was shuttered in 1986. Johnny Cash played the Foothill; owner Ron Price sold it to a salsa outfit last year. And now, someone else will look at the sea of kids with nowhere to go and decide there's a need to be met. And maybe they'll even do so with Linda's hallmarks of kindness and respect.

Say goodnight, Gracie.