We bid Lucky You Lounge adieu via reflections from one of its staffers

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Young Kwak photo

Allen Stone plays one of of Lucky You's many memorable nights.

On opening night in May 2019, the soda guns at Lucky You Lounge malfunctioned. Then-general manager Kent Ueland (the guy always wearing a Bengals cap) shoved a company credit card into my palm and said, "Go across the street to Rosauers and buy every bottle of soda water and club soda you can fit in your car trunk!"

I got odd looks pushing that cart through the checkout. After I returned with the precious bubbles, a pipe behind the bar began spurting water. As fellow newly hired barback Dougie and I mopped up the sudden pool, Kent clapped his hands and exclaimed, "Yeeeah! Rock 'n' roll!"

That's when I knew working at Lucky You was gonna be a high-speed log ride, one where I'd definitely get drenched. It has been a thrill ride, and like many in Spokane, I'm grieving the big end (Aug. 31 marks Lucky You's final night). Though we team members surely got soaked in sweat from adrenaline-filled shifts and plan hiccups, we also had freedom to experiment, fail and adjust — that was true for the bar, the food and the entertainment programming. "Let's try it and see" became our philosophy.

From my inside perspective — as ticket booth attendant, detail cleaner and official paper towel whisperer — I believe a few key ingredients made Lucky You the kind of oasis where awe-eyed guests would walk through the plant-draped entryway and say, "It's our first time in. This place is amaaazing!" and where touring musicians would remark, "We've played all over, but this venue is our favorite. You have something special here."

First, the mood lighting and retro brass fixtures worked with the overall sunset color scheme to create a warm, intimate atmosphere. Never underestimate the emotional power of great lighting! Second, our stellar sound system. Third, no TVs! A bar without big screens just feels different, makes it easier to be present.

But the absolutely invaluable element to Lucky You's distinct vibe has been our endlessly creative, down-to-evolve staff. We look out for each other and for our patrons. When some of us queer employees worried that Queer Prom might be a target for hate and violence, one straight, cisgender security guard decked himself out in sparkly makeup and a dress that night to set a certain tone as he checked IDs at the door.

Our inside joke is that Lucky You isn't actually a bar/restaurant/music venue — it's more of an adult day care night care center where first dates, breakups, community meetups, and benefit shows happen. We've been running a loneliness reduction program that includes booze, trivia, comedy, drag and dance therapy: Alcohol & Feelings, for real.

When we reopened after the long pandemic shutdown and I switched from barback to box office duties, I'd stamp showgoers' wrists and say, "Thanks for coming out tonight." But what I really meant was, "Thanks for supporting live music and, in effect, supporting those of us who perform unsexy music industry tasks like vacuuming the green room and wiping up vomit!"

I'd tell guests heading into the showroom to "have fun," to which they'd reflexively reply, "You too!" then stammer and say, "I mean, I guess you're at work, huh?" But honestly? I was having fun too, doing little dances to lift co-workers' spirits from across the room, chatting with guests about albums and outfits.

From back of house to front, most of us staffers were always ridiculously horny for live music, even though tunes surrounded us every shift. Far from jaded, we were moved by the real magic that could spark between performer and listener. "Go check out this band real quick. I'll cover your station," we'd command each other.

I'm grateful I got to work in a music venue that 1) never took merch cuts from bands and 2) took COVID protocols seriously to protect musicians and patrons — even if I received... varied "responses" when I had to enforce those mask-and-vax policies. I'm proud that I pushed to provide guests with free earplugs. I'm forever thankful that we didn't have to wear uniforms!

Of course I won't miss everything about the place: From Day 1, I longed to chuck those amber-color water cups that tasted of nasty plastic chemicals directly into the dumpster. And I was always frustrated by the basement level's lack of accessibility, as it was reachable only by stairs.

I will miss the fragrant mountains of herb fries. I'll miss watching people hug and catch up with their pals at local hip hop shows. I'll miss the punk shows that turned into service industry hangs where folks paid cash from their tip stash. I'll miss cleaning the selfie mirror and seeing the cute pictures it enabled.

Mostly I'll miss being part of a crew of brilliant weirdos who tried to make other weirdos (but not a-holes and creeps) feel welcome. I'll miss feeling like my job somehow facilitated art and community. Those shiny brass lamps are cool, but the relationships people formed because of Lucky You Lounge will remain the true solid gold. How lucky are we all to have connected there.

Let's not say goodbye. Let me just say, "Thanks for coming out." ♦