Poodle-free Montana… it was graffittied onto the wall in the womens’ restroom at the—very sadly—now defunct, Luke’s Bar… on Front Street (so named because go one block further south and you hit the Clark Fork River, this river splits the city just about in half).
Luke’s was a for real honest to god, line of 30 plus harley’s parked outside, biker bar, named for one of Hank Williams, Sr’s personas, Luke the Drifter. $2 pitchers…local famous and not so famous poets and writers, a pizza joint in the basement. Mixing with the bikers were people of every sort and stripe. Amazingly, there was little friction amongst the patrons on most nights.
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Visit Luke’s Bar on Facebook
Hunter S. Thompson posted:
DEATH TO THE WEIRD!
HST wrote that on the wall of Luke’s bar in Missoula sometime in the 80s I think. It’s sad that the bar is gone and some upscale eatery/coffee joint now occupies the space. Ah, well. Life goes on.
Luke’s was a fine biker bar. The owners and bartenders were all cut from the cloth and the clientelle ranged from hardcore 1%ers to weekend riders to blue collar types and on down to college kids gawking at the seemy side of life.
The good times I had there would easily fill a couple pages. Weekends were always a party with live music and plenty good weed to be smoked. Luke’s was the local bright center around which revolved the joy of being a young motorcycle ridin’ fool.
So anyway, I, the young motorcycle ridin’ fool that I was, pulled up in front of Luke’s one sunny afternoon. I eased my Triumph back to the curb next to some hogs and shut down. I dismounted, swaggered up to the door and booted it open violently.
“ALL YOU PUSSY BIKERS SUCK COCK!” I shouted gleefully into the dark interior.
All the pussy bikers seated at the bar and tables turned to look at me.
I didn’t recognize a single one of them.
(at this point, imagine the drama laden cinematic cut to the second hand of a clock ticking once s l o w l y *CLUNK* then again oh so s l o w l y *CLUNK*)
I glanced over my shoulder and looked at the license plates…Washington…South Dakota…Oregon…California…
A couple of them were getting up, barstools scraping on the floor, ready to stomp me into a gelatinous mush, when Curt the bartender saved my rear end. He laughed loudly and yelled, “Sugar (Yeah, that was one of my aliases back then. I haven’t been called that for about 20 years or so) you stupid gently caress, get in here and have a beer on me!”
There was some laughing all around, a couple dudes told me it was a ballsy move, but I just shrugged and said that I expected the place to be full of the local boys anyway.
Steve Saroff remembers Luke’s.
http://saroff.com/places/lukes.htm
Actually, the bar was named for the young son of the owner (whose name I can’t recall). It’s possible that little Luke was named for Williams’ character. I don’t know. I remember going to their house on the north side with Alexis Alexander a couple of times in the early 80’s and watching Luke play on the living room floor.
I can straighten out a lot of the remarks since I started and named Luke’s . I am a Shelby Montana native and grew up with the coyotes cry and purple sky and the northern wind howling down from Alberta and shining shoes in the bucket of blood to the tune of Bob Wills Hank Snow Lefty Frizell the one and only Luke the Drifter, I lived in Shelby, Cut Bank, Browning whatever and Black Eagle Cascade Helena Great Falls and everybody knew the words of every Hank Williams song on the Radio. It was a matter of pride. The immortal Jay Rummels platter of Luke hangs on my wall. Steve Percival and I bought Lee Nyes amazing Eddies Club portraits when no one wanted them and I built Luke’s around them and lots of Missoulas used parts as a place where live music had an open mike. We ran it fast with only a beer liscence, 50 cent bottles and dollar and a quarter pitchers, the musicians played for ten percent of the till and I counted out in front of them and paid in cash every night. I opened it at ten and closed at two seven days a week until I tired out, went to Hawaii and let everybody pay themselves out of the till. My good buddies Bill Neff and Kurt Reeser rode their Harley’s in from Alaska bought me out, gave me free Jose and beer for the rest of my life and such is the gospel according to Luke!
Bumper stickers on my old beat to hell Dodge pickup:
DISCO SUCKS
LUKE’S BAR
MISSOULA