Venue Spotlight: Black Bear Lodge

You can’t really talk about Black Bear Lodge without a bit of a refresher on club culture in Meanjin/Brisbane. Much like our beloved Maroons, the city has a perpetual chip on its shoulder, largely motivated by a feeling that the cultural developments in our city are often overlooked by our southern cousins. Believe me, we’re used to an almost patronising reaction from said circles when the special things of our city are celebrated. In many ways, this has led to a feeling of isolation, one in which we, as a city, have engaged with sounds, culture, and play with little concern for wider trends. The city is proud of its sub-tropical uniqueness, rough edges, and the kind of tight-knit community that could only exist within the confines of a smaller city.

A typical Saturday in Meanjin might play out a little bit like this:

Park hangs with the homies (relocated to that one friend with air conditioning during summer months).

Drinks at local watering hole (Flying Colours during summer, anywhere with a purely decorative fireplace during winter).

Dinner at any local Vietnamese establishment (the city is humid if you weren’t aware).

Echo & Bounce basement-related shenanigans or a QUIVR visit (not mandatory during the summer, we all know that E&B’s air conditioner is merely for display purposes).

End time redacted for reasons of legality and dignity. Taking a trip into the great musical cosmos at Black Bear Lodge.

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Black Bear Lodge, or BBL as it’s affectionately known, is perhaps the longest-standing community-focused dance institution in what has at times been a frustratingly transitory local scene. Nothing really stays constant in Meanjin; people come and go, usually moving to less humid southern locales, and institutions have a way of never quite remaining in the long term. Some blame location, others unfairly attribute it to a “lack of culture” (we have a whole centre for that), but Black Bear shows that with luck, passion, a clear vision and a bit of magic, things can stick around for the long haul.

Emerging from the ashes of iconic indie venue The Troubadour in 2011, which in itself, according to urban lore, came into existence from the more literal ashes of hard techno den The Mantra following an incident involving the combination of a stray cigarette and a whisky-soaked couch. However, the venue's early days were a far cry from its current iteration. “It was more of a band-focused dive bar, DJs were very much an afterthought”, says owner/operator Aidan Beiers, “but the character was there, and the culture of familiarity already existed”.

During the mid-2010s, the venue was acquired by the Happy Horseman group, the hospitality group behind venues such as Blutes and the Brightside in Meanjin, and Stay Gold in Naarm. Aidan Beiers was part of this ownership group and manager at the time. The Lodge has existed as an extension of him and a testament to his personal taste, curatorial ability, and uncompromising commitment to grassroots community development. As per tradition, a change in ownership resulted in major renovation. “It felt like a bit of a dive at the time”, Aidan said while reflecting on this period, “we wanted to elevate it more, give it a nicer feel”. This resulted in the venue gaining its iconic exposed brickwork and finally installing booth monitors, a welcome change from the early days, where residents such as James Wright and DJ Black Amex often found themselves DJing off an iPad. The winds of change were a-blowin’, and the unique cast of characters that came to define the place were coming into play. Slowly towards the end of the decade, on the back of parties such as scene legend Paolo & Aidan’s Zig Zag Discotheque, the post-punk inflected chug of Slow Dance Experiment (shout out Phil Smart & Audun), Jimmy Ellis’s swaggering disco excursions and the annual northern soul weekender Watch Your Step, the usual band crowds were being exposed to rare grooves, and the kind of soulful dance that so heavily permeated the zeitgeist at the time. We also saw the early days of Shandy, a now-beloved queer party that fully embraced a kitschy sense of camp and freedom, a far cry from the traditionally cis-gay-dominated dance floors that often felt isolating for members of the LGBTQ+ community who did not fit this stereotypical mould. More importantly, these parties were beginning to interact with each other in a way that the city had not seen since the 90s. It was a time of growth, where a vibrant indie scene was beginning to interact with jazz and a potent warehouse scene that remains a point of pride for the city. All of these tribes met in the middle at the Lodge.

Black Bear has always been a place of conversion, where the uninitiated are exposed to sounds and ethos previously unconsidered. It’s practically a coming-of-age ritual to have your mind blown to pieces at approximately 2:37 AM, and it has jump-started the passions of many a young DJ. We were united by this strange and magical place, its ever-present warmth, the allowance for silliness, the passionate bartenders and security staff who oftentimes seemed more into the music than some dancers. Unfortunately, COVID happened. That immediately translated into bizarre sit-down listening events that almost resembled a deleted scene from Twin Peaks. In hindsight, it was a bit hilarious, but it kept the torch shining through those perilous, lonely times.

This period also marked a fairly dramatic shift in the venue's sound, as the chuggy, shadow-realm sounds of the infamous Black Bear private parties began to bleed over into trading hours, resulting in what regulars affectionately refer to as “washing machine beats”. Andrew Weatherall had just died, and we all process grief in our own ways. However, it laid a foundation for the venue's sonic evolution, moving into darker, heavier realms whilst still retaining a certain sense of humanity and soul that called back to the club's early days. Parties such as Tempo Comodo, Contort Yourself and Love 2 Dance came to define the psychedelic, almost punk-like attitude that emerged in our collective mourning of what once was in our city.

Miraculously, the Lodge persevered through this period that proved to be the end of so many of the city's institutions, and emerged as one of the most iconic, beloved institutions within Meanjin, with roughly three generations of clubbers cherishing long nights on the trademark wooden dancefloor and the familial, Cheers-esque vibe of regulars, staff, and all the wider drifting cast of characters. Part of what makes the space so unique at a late hour is the bizarrely random collection of individuals who have occupied the space over the years. From mysterious solar panel tycoons to feral club rats, indie rock evacuees, the noise kids, the high fashion aficionados/graphic designers, the low fashion aficionados/local celebrities and a certain film director who shall remain nameless, it’s a space for those who seek something beyond themselves, a church for those who perhaps do not belong outside its walls, regardless of status. The heavy emphasis on queer parties and representation over the years has led to a kind of beautiful cross-pollination that I am yet to see elsewhere, having witnessed the straightest men alive pop ass at the likes of Shandy, Ruf Luv and Invoxea for years on end, and the queer club babies showing up for Ron Trent or Jay Tripwire. In a country where this divide is puzzling at best, given the historical nature of club culture, it makes you feel warm and fuzzy.

The bands are still a big part of the story, but gone are the nights of constant requests, the impatience of the Valley crowd and the Toto Africa tribute nights that traumatised many a staff member. What was established is what we see now: a culture of musical openness, curiosity, community support, and, above all, respect for the space and dancefloor.

If BBL had a sound, then it is the warmth and soul of its early years married with expansive cosmic mystery, techy efficiency, organic grooves, a healthy dose of towering low-end and the kind of post-ironic, deconstructed experimental beats that have come to define the new wave of hungry young dancers. It’s a melting pot, one that can be occasionally fickle and unforgiving.

These nights have bred homegrown selectors with a diverse, patient yet extremely adaptable style, one that can be found from the likes of Winona Router’s acid gqom excursions, Squidgenini’s locked-in techy toughness, Deejay Hotline’s glittering proto sleaze, and that’s just Saturdays. The residents are given a level of trust and patience that is unusual for a Meanjin club, and can grow and evolve within a space where dancers have been trained for longform sets and deep journeys.

The future is bright, and the flame is burning strong. It has remained a beacon for the community, one that does not attempt to replicate what is abroad but rather celebrates the idiosyncrasies of Meanjin. Sonic diversity is non-optional, the underdogs are celebrated, and the somewhat goofy sense of humour that defines the local scene bleeds through everything, whether it be the obligatory 30 minutes of cheeky musical chaos that closes most nights, or the decor that resembles what would happen to your Grandmothers living room if she suddenly really got into Moebius comics. And in a city that is famously complacent about releasing music, the Lodge has spawned projects that directly tie into its musical lineage. Resident DJ Bella Carroll, aka Squidgenini, has recently launched Love Dynamics, a label strongly associated with the venue and its DJs, and recent releases from owner/curator Mr Memo. In his words, the Lodge was, is, and shall remain “the party that everyone is invited to”.

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Joseph Power is a writer, DJ and promoter based on the southside of Meanjin. Find them on Instagram.