Louisville Magazine

FEB 2019

Louisville Magazine is Louisville's city magazine, covering Louisville people, lifestyles, politics, sports, restaurants, entertainment and homes. Includes a monthly calendar of events.

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downonebourbonbar.com LOUISVILLE MAGAZINE 2.19 45 knew I was uncomfortable, and he said, 'I don't see color. e only color I see is green,'" Alexander says. Alexander looks melancholy. He mentions his wife of 34 years, who passed away some time ago. Over the years, some guys didn't want to invite their wives for drinks after work, but he always did. He couldn't wait to see her. He says Judy was his soul mate. He looks away. "Everybody should have that." e darkest chapter in the bar's history — the incident everybody brings up but tells me not to ask Russell Shockley about — happened on a December evening in 1995. at night in the bar, an EMS worker named Richard Clem was being loud, erratic and belligerent, according to a C-J story. Dan Shockley tried to eject Clem, and, for some reason, Clem dropped to his knees. "Dan, I want to stay — please let me stay," Clem said, according to the story, which was based on interviews with witnesses. Shockley told Clem to leave and that he could come back later. Clem walked out, kicking a booth. He returned with a 9mm handgun. "He's got a gun!" a witness yelled, sending patrons scattering, according to the story. Bramer fled to the women's restroom. Clem shot Dan Shockley and another patron, a welder named Walter Means. Both died. e assailant, who was thought to have a mental illness, drove away to his nearby home, stopped his pickup in the driveway and shot himself dead. Russell says coverage of the event wasn't accurate but won't elaborate. "Tore everyone up," one patron says. "Senseless." Twenty-nine-year-old bartender Mikey Norris arrives at 8 p.m., and Frames packs up to go home. Norris' shift will last until 4 a.m., which could bring him anywhere from $50 to a couple hundred bucks. He's a big guy in a T-shirt, a silver neck chain, a baseball cap and a cast on his arm. About the cast, he says, "I got jumped by three dudes." is was outside another bar. "Fought them off, though," he says. New arrivals begin walking in with guitars. ey unpack velvet-lined cases in a corner near a low-lit booth. Musician Nate umas, wearing an Army jacket and Chuck Taylors, is writing down names for the open mic he runs. In the 1990s, Air Devils was a wellspring of local music, evidenced by the stickers of Louisville acts that dot the walls around the stage. Dallas Alice, Tim Krekel, El Roostars, Ultratone, Johnny Berry, Squeeze-bot, Satchel's Pawnshop. Hip-hop group the Villebillies often played at Air Devils and once shot a music video here, erecting a Blues Brothers-style chain-link cage around the stage that remained for years. One night years ago, Downie recalls, Hank Williams Jr. and his backing band, Bama, arrived after a show at Freedom Hall. A local musician made it clear that Hank Jr. didn't want to be bothered by autographs or requests. Bama ended up onstage without Hank Jr., who sat in a booth. "At the end of the night, someone came over and said, 'Man, Hank Jr. is pissed. Nobody asked him to play,'" says Downie, who shot back: "Hell, you told us not to!" By 9 p.m., a series of musicians are behind the mic covering Jim James of My Morning Jacket and John Prine. ere's a black comedian, a white rapper and a singer- songwriter couple who cover the Pussycat

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