A Music Fan Stranded Outside the Velvet Rope

“Astronomy.” “Don’t Fear the Reaper.” “The Siege and Investiture of Baron von Frankenstein’s Castle at Weisseria.” I was pumped. I was finally going to see Blue Oyster Cult, a band that, along with the Rolling Stones and a selection of Gerber products, nourished me as a child.

When I learned BOC was playing a gig in the area, I immediately bought a ticket online, overcame my distaste for the geriatric idea of a rock concert served up with a sit-down dinner, and braved the 101 to the Canyon Dinner Theatre in Agoura Hills.

As I waited in line, I noticed the cartoon-like bouncer checking IDs. No problem there--I figured there was a wristband system to keep the under-21s like me away from the bar. Not so, Johnny Bravo informed me. This was strictly 21-plus and I would have to head back to my lonely dorm room.

Wait a minute, I protested. At no time in the ticket purchasing process was an age restriction mentioned--not on Ticketmaster’s sale page, not on the Canyon’s Ticketmaster venue information page and not on the physical ticket.

That was a problem with Ticketmaster, he said after conferring with his boss. The Canyon would not refund my ticket. Ticketmaster did not refund my ticket. I was out $40 and a Friday night, and still hadn’t seen Blue Oyster Cult play “Godzilla.”

I wasn’t the only loser. What about BOC? The band probably badgers its manager every week about not having any young fans--but we are here, just outside the velvet rope. BOC and I had both fallen afoul of what seemed a cynical scam to sell more alcohol. If that was the case, there was a simple solution--drink tickets. Two-drink minimum, paid at the door in exchange for tickets that can be swapped for soda. The Galaxy in Santa Ana does it. I wanted to see Jerry Cantrell, so I coughed up $6 and sucked down two flat Cokes.

Or maybe the clubs had made a decision to preserve an “adult” atmosphere, which is silly. The most childish people at concerts are the sloppy drunk guys without dates to shame them into line.

I had to fight for my right to party, even alcohol-free. It was unfair that I would miss 21-and-older shows for Mother Hips and the B-52s. Was I being punished for liking music out of my demographic? My quest soon pulled me deeper and deeper into the byzantine mysteries of one of the state’s most secret societies: California’s Department of Alcohol Beverage Control, known as ABC.

Two Kinds of Licenses

ABC, it turns out, holds at least one end of the velvet rope. It issues two alcohol licenses that apply to clubs with live music: Type 47 and Type 48.

Type 47 licenses are for “bona fide eating places,” basically a place with a full-service kitchen that regularly serves meals. All ages are allowed. The Roxy is a Type 47 establishment.

Type 48 licenses are for bars and nightclubs that may or may not serve some food, but are not “bona fide eating places.” These must be exclusively 21-plus. Minors are not allowed to enter and remain. Unless, of course, they’re performing. Minor musicians are allowed in but must be kept in a restricted area.

Spaceland has a Type 48 license.

“It has nothing to do with us,” Spaceland promoter Mitchell Frank says. “When I started a club there 8 1/2 years ago, I wanted to have a neighborhood place to hang out. I never envisioned it becoming what it is now. The age restriction is nothing personal.”

While Spaceland must be 21-plus by law, Frank does promote all-ages shows at the Knitting Factory Hollywood, El Rey, the Wiltern and other rooms.

OK, the liquor license answer made sense. It was state law. I could live with that.

Then three words wormed into my mind: House of Blues. The House of Blues in West Hollywood has a restaurant, but it’s completely separated from the concert space. Also, the age restriction varies from show to show. Buckcherry was all ages. Duran Duran was not. Once again, I was being shut out because the band was hot, say, 15 years ago.

“There’s no rhyme or reason to it,” said Anjali Raval, House of Blues’ publicist. “It’s the band and what their agent agrees with our talent buyer is the audience.”

This process is too subjective, and I don’t understand the reasoning behind it. I doubt bands tell venues they don’t want to play to people under 21. Teenagers are major music buyers. Even if the teenagers who originally bought a band’s album are in their 30s or 40s now, younger fans are discovering that music and buying CDs.

The arbitrary exclusions don’t work in reverse. The Knitting Factory, for example, is always all ages. Acts there also consistently play more to a college audience than the House of Blues, but the Knitting Factory doesn’t ban patrons older than 45.

This information left a lingering resentment. The Canyon is a full-service restaurant, so it should be a Type 47. Did BOC ask to have me excluded? I called the club to ask why they served food and still were 21-plus, but I wasn’t able to get an answer. The owner was out of town and then prepping the place for Styx.

Question of Age Comfort

I suspect the real root of the problem is age comfort. The Canyon and House of Blues as well as bands’ managements want to make older fans happy so they’ll return. An older crowd might not like 17-year-olds pushing their way up front.

Similarly, some 17-year-olds don’t want 40-year-olds rubbing up against them. The older guys at a show by the Donnas, a young all-female punk band, were frightening. Not that I’m advocating 30-and-under-only shows. I have nothing against the audience’s Flash Gordons.

My solution? Overcome age restrictions in the time-honored manner of kids since the dawn of jazz: Get a fake ID. I had two, in fact. One looked believable but said I was 6 feet tall and had brown eyes. It was useless. No discerning check could miss my handsome blues. Or the fact that I look like I’m 12. The other card looked like a fake. It got me in to see Cheap Trick (although I think the security guy rolled his eyes when inspecting it), but I was turned away from a Black Crowes show I’d traveled four hours to see. Funny, in their early years, the Crowes had to hide Rich Robinson at bar gigs until show time because he was underage.

But why would ABC want to make me a criminal? Fakes should be unnecessary when it comes to concerts. ABC’s Type 48 license is designed to keep kids from drinking. Face it: Kids will always find a way to drink. Keep us out of bars and we’ll drink at home. You’re just saving us money that can be put toward a more sophisticated fake.

Hopefully, ABC will make an exception for Type 48 licensees with concerts. Until then, however, I can go to Ozzfest but I can’t see the Monkees.