To many, the reality of Frederick’s Music Lounge began to take shape only half a dozen years ago when Fred Friction and cohort Paul Stark took over the space. But it had long been home to the esoteric vision of Friction’s late father. Those who were lucky enough to be around before the modern version of Frederick’s remember the venue’s namesake, Frederick Boettcher – a true, dyed-in-the-wool, honest-to-goodness character.
Living a rather full life, the gravel-voiced veteran and raconteur wed a few times, had some children, performed songs in various small towns, sold things and trained other people to sell things. What things were didn’t really matter; if they needed selling, Boettcher could probably take a good shot at making them move. After all, the man ran an operation out of his basement that packaged dry ice cream into sealed packages for shipment to Third World countries. If that’s not a racket for a true entrepreneur, what is?
Salesman? Sure, Boettcher was one. To the public, more important was the fact that he was also an entertainer, and in the old days, that meant running an operation that featured prettily attired servers working the bar at 4454 Chippewa St. in South City, a piano singalong establishment that catered to a comfortable, middle-aged audience.
When that music ran its course culturally, the place settled into another half-life as a small hole in the wall featuring Boettcher’s own artwork on the walls alongside a strange assortment of curios and homemade oddities: a full, if long-dead, tree; a wooden roof over the bar; and a small stage, the lights of which would glow according to the beats of the jukebox. On occasion the owner himself would stop his off-color patter and leave his barstool for a few minutes to punch out a tune on the club’s weathered piano.
With Boettcher’s passing in 2000, Friction became the club’s namesake and added a heavy dose of live music to what had been the club’s only live gig, the Thursday Hootenanny. Soon that became the hottest open mic in town, even if the performers weren’t always, well, hot. The rest of the week showed promise, too, with acts from around town, around the Midwest and around the country increasingly adding their names to the performance list. Despite the small, cramped, uncertain sound system and the tight, oddly shaped room, the venue became a cult classic for many touring acts, the must-stop location for their St. Louis shows.
The overall ambiance gave little Frederick’s part of its well-earned reputation. From the must-card policy at the door (whether you looked 7 or 70, you’d better have had your ID) to the wiseacre bartenders (including Erika Wienke, Kathy Wiggens, Abby Fetterly, Tricia Deppe, Dana McDonough and Steve Chafin) who busted on as many customers as walked through the door, the space was known for being a party room, in a sort of warped South City sense. It was a true old-fashioned drinking hall, where regulars came for one drink and left after six.
Although the club’s near-nightly music schedule was a prime draw, the place wasn’t just limited to those music heads who sought out an unknown act from Florida on a wintry weeknight (though those people were certainly around).
On Mondays, for example, Stark hosted a long-running movie night which was emulated all around town. Showing weekly runs of “Pee-wee’s Playhouse” or “Police Story,” Stark drew a regular audience of his own. Even though he was more comfortable cracking wise with the regulars than pouring drinks, the early Mondays at Frederick’s were a blast; Stark continually shot out from behind the bar to fill each table’s plastic dog bowl with freshly popped corn.
Strange sights were a staple at Frederick’s. On any given evening, the overhead fans were spinning with ladies’ undergarments dangling from the blades, whirring past the hanging plastic plants, each of them caked in an inch of dust. The walls were covered with paintings by the two Freds, some of them a tad off-color. At times, the jukebox would begin belching out a song even though the band was already on stage. At others, a cascade of bubbles would flow from the machine attached to the bar’s surreal roof; regulars knew that meant it was time to grab one of the house umbrellas. Only at Frederick’s was cracking open an umbrella indoors considered good luck.
The lounge hosted its last show Feb. 11 after being on the market for several months. In the last stretch of its existence, a bit of the magic had gone out of the place due to the reality of the expected closure, though diehards maintained a still-steady pilgrimage to the bar to listen to music, to imbibe and to be chided by the bartenders. Every element was a part of a visit to this singularly odd joint.
At its best, it was a classic St. Louis club. One for the ages, really.
This article appears in Feb 1-28, 2006.