There’ll probably be a bunch of stories coming out about the permanent closing of Bar Nancy. The pirate haunt of Calle Ocho. The place where, if you hung out long enough, you will end up on stage. I did. And I had no desire to. But for those who did, the Bar Nancy stage was an ever-changing thing. A welcoming force (much like their staff). A place where one night’s a Copacabana-style variety show, the next night a concert hall for rock bands, and the following week, a storytelling event. Oh, and yes, their drinks were made for pillaging!
Bar Nancy had the swagger of a pirate and it glistened like sunken treasure. Blues, pinks, oranges and browns. Totally a dive but on the higher-end side. It was almost as if Nancy was some highfalutin, classy joint masquerading as a dive bar. It felt thematically immersive. Not in a corny way. But in an “everything here belongs in a museum” kinda way. Those scurvy-dipped skeletons hanging above you? Yeah, for all we knew they could’ve been the previous owners. Like a Jolly Roger flag flapping in the wind, the Bar Nancy banner stretched the length of the stage, east to west, north to south.
The ragtag crew keeping this ship afloat were icons in my telling of it. I normally feel like a stowaway in social settings, so finding a place that immediately feels like home is a rare thing. But it was here that I met Ben Koufopoulos and Lizz Dominguez. I’ll tell you what, I made it my mission to get on Ben’s good side. He’s a formidable presence. Even going so far as becoming a real-life Davy Jones for Halloween. Legit out of the movie. I think I have a picture… His girlfriend Katie, always a hug away, managed the bar with an iron wit and a swift delivery. The concept of family was always an undercurrent in Nancy, with the occasional rip ride tearing through the politics of running a vessel like this.
Halloween was always a special night at Bar Nancy. More on that later. Okay, so Lizz was the mother hen. A mother hen with impeccable makeup and hair. Think Gwen Stefani meets Blade Runner. Her eyes lit up whenever she saw you. Lizz was ground zero. Her IG stories were loaded with what was and what’s to come. Her boyfriend Brian Powell was a mercurial spirit and the nicest guy. And for a few choice seasons, Janet Alonso Avellanet commanded the kitchen to the main floor, bringing homemade delicacies with a punk rock spice to table after table.
How a butterfly made it out so far to sea, there’s an acoustic siren who transformed from waitress to rock star. Alexa Lash has been the sort of lead maiden, the sonic fixture reverberating throughout the joint. Her band, The Old-Fashioneds. The house band, er, ship scalawags. Whether a booked act or an open mic night, the Nancy stage hosted an era’s full of local and out-of-town singer-songwriters and musicians.
And then walked in Paula Barros. New Times Best New Comedian and a well-known voice actress. Paula brought two productions to the Nancy stage. One, a southern-fried, cancel “cancel culture” stand-up comedy affair she hosted called Triggered. Two, a throwback to the Copacabana nights of the past, Freddy and The Flamingos. Hosted by Miami comedy legend Freddy Stebbins as Freddy Flamingo, this variety show had everything: music, magic, comedy, and even burlesque. “Walter Mercado” would always close out the night with mostly accurate assumptions, er, predictions with a flair for the supernatural.
I’d be remiss if I didn’t touch on one of the most exciting, and for me, terrifying events Bar Nancy hosted. Eric Garcia of Juke fame, Uncle Scotchy himself, presented a night of storytelling for anyone willing to say yes to him. At once a dive bar, this night brought about an intellectualism not normally seen in normal Miami nightlife. I have horrific stage fright and because of who Eric is, you want to show up for him. If he thinks you can offer something he feels makes his show good, well by golly you show up. And now I have one of my favorite memories so late in the game.
Now that was as a participant in Bar Nancy programming. As a spectator, my favorite memory was of Freddy and The Flamingos’ Halloween Extravaganza. The bar lent itself well to the holiday. It looked like something out of 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea. Something Davy Jones would play. You’re damn right I was Sonny Crockett from Miami Vice. The place was packed. The Flamingo show, believe it or not, would sell out every production. The stage banner was black with flashy lettering. The proscenium lined with twinkling white lights. A couple palm trees. A couple flamingos. A trio of revolving “Flamingos.” The Flamingo Orchestra. The spirited show, lubricated with spirits, had the feeling of it all being made up.
Before, during, and after a show the back-door patio was a one-stop shop for selfies and lit joints. It was basically a treehouse but on the ground. As if a tsunami washed the bearing trees away leaving this weathered wooden cradle behind. It was when the back-door patio temporarily closed we should’ve seen it as an omen, a curse. The patio was the aft on this ship. Losing it you lose your rudder. The bar already felt like an aimless voyage. Now no more rudder. That’s exactly when a hole sprung with water. And on a sinking ship, to plug the hole, you start doing karaoke. On Sundays. Betray the pirate order to keep the doors open.
It was only a few calendar flips ago I heard Ben had moved on from Bar Nancy. Lizz had officially let go of the helm but never strayed too far from Nancy. Not too long ago tragedy struck the wait staff. A death that shook mountains. A permanent shadow tattooed across Nancy’s storybook legacy. The final Freddy show was a fitting final show. Go out on top. And they did. A dozen or so gigs sold out over the last couple years. No doubt the theatrical ambiance of the bar helped drop a show like the Flamingos in their proper pond.
Nothing real ever lasts in Miami. Only memories last. These ephemeral little movies playing in our heads. Bar Nancy is what you call a long memory. Memories don’t just come in a flash. They linger. There’s the friend you haven’t seen in 25 years here with her friend and Billy Corben just lit a cigarette for my wife. That sound guy from that place you played with your band that one time you stepped in a big dirty hole before having to perform in front of a room full of people. He got the delay right when I needed it, so I was happy to see him.
A Bar Nancy article doesn’t close its doors. I know I’ll be writing about it for years to come. Miami’s history is made of a rich tapestry of self-destruction and innovation. I will miss the actual building. But I have a shit ton of pictures and if you don’t have a shit ton of pictures from Bar Nancy you weren’t there. That pink and blue hue. The orange glow of post-war colonial times. A Victorian parlor acting as a green room was something out of a ’90s PC detective video game. Unisex bathrooms catered to look vintage were a welcome repose sometimes from the storm, the madness. Never to the point of mutiny. But to face new shores. But for now, another ship has sailed.
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