By Michael Tate, KERA 90.1 Commentator
http://stream.publicbroadcasting.net/production/mp3/kera/local-kera-501607.mp3
Dallas, TX –
When we say "Deep Ellum" we're really talking about two different yet related things: there's the Deep Ellum neighborhood, a physical part of Dallas; and then there's a Deep Ellum spirit, an essence that transcended the streets and storefronts. The neighborhood is still there, the spirit was mortally wounded when a bankruptcy judge closed the legendary music venue Trees and the Texas Alcoholic Beverage Commission slapped a lock on Club Dada in late December. And that is forcing people to reexamine everything about Deep Ellum.
The neighborhood is suffering an identity crisis. As a creative space, Deep Ellum has been running on fumes for years. But the neighborhood isn't going to die, not even in the chaotic state it seems to be in today. Although desirable businesses have left and dance clubs are attracting violence-happy teens, Deep Ellum is really gentrified. As a reviving urban neighborhood with a growing and affluent residential base, there's too much at stake to let it fail now. In the end it will probably morph into another urban suburb like Uptown. Starbucks and Pei Wei will arrive with the DART train and Main Street will start looking more and more like McKinney Avenue. It's just a matter of time.
For most people, however, Deep Ellum was really always about a state of mind. I knew people for whom Deep Ellum defined the entire world. It was their way of life. And no matter how contrived that may sound, that spirit had an honest beginning.
The neighborhood's reemergence in the mid-1980s from decades of decay coincided with a particularly creative period among Dallas' young musicians. When Deep Ellum clubs like Theatre Gallery, Prophet Bar, Clearview and Dada opened their stages to local musicians and artists, it was as if the performers and the neighborhood had found soul mates. It sparked an artistic moment in a city not known for its artistic vitality. Deep Ellum developed a reputation for good live music and people took notice. Major record companies signed bands to big time contracts. Three On A Hill, Buck Pets, Shallow Reign, 4 Reasons Unknown, Ten Hands, and most of all the exceptionally talented New Bohemians, are names that stir recollections of another time or a long lost cassette tape.
But Dallas' Deep Ellum music didn't exactly take the world by storm. After several years local musicians started moving on until it seemed like the city's deep reservoir of unique talent was spent. Then a certain snob appeal crept over Deep Ellum in the mid- and late 90s. Pricey lofts and chic restaurateurs moved in and the gentrification had begun. We may not have known it at the time, but the Deep Ellum spirit was already ebbing away.
The neighborhood is just now feeling it's spiritual loss because it seemed to thrive economically even as the creative juices that built its reputation were running dry. The zeitgeist that nurtured bands like New Bohemians, Reverend Horton Heat and Old 97s moved out years ago. The end of Trees and Dada finally drove that point home and closed a vibrant chapter in Dallas' history. Culture shock is setting in and the neighborhood is finally coming to grips with the fact that, after two decades, its original energy is pretty much tapped out. It'll survive, but it will have to reinvent itself.
Edie Brickell did as much as anybody to define Deep Ellum in those early days. Her line from the Bohemian's song "Circle" sort of puts it all in perspective: "Everything is temporary anyway."
Michael Tate is a writer from Dallas.
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