Historic Beginnings?

Mild Heroes band in front of the Monte Rio Theatre for their first gig

Mild Heroes was still caught mid-span on a bridge over troubled waters as we prepared to play our first gig among the redwoods of the San Francisco Bay Area music scene.  It was the culmination of months of work, damaging our eardrums in the 8x10 foot studio space we called the “Sweatbox” and auditioning guitarist after guitarist, drummer after drummer with little hope for redemption of our souls as we worked the graveyard shift of our dreams. Things weren’t exactly clicking into place...it was more a strange gauntlet of passion and desperation dripping from our foreheads in that confined room. I had to bang out rhythm harder to keep the time as I sang and Dave would look at me wide-eyed begging for a break to catch his breath out in the summer’s evening breeze. 

Then, we got lucky. We found Jaybo, and our current studio space fell into our laps! From the outside, it isn’t much to look at, but it is only a stone's throw away from one of the historic Grateful Dead Rehearsal Studios from 1968. Next door lived the eccentric fusion artist Dickens 44 in his floor-to-ceiling packed space dedicated to every conceivable scrap of trash and recycling that could be organized into metal tubs and fashioned into huge sculptures and paintings of his bizarre and awe-inspiring art. Our little corner of this working-class complex, amid the industrial workshops and screen printing businesses that line the railroad tracks along that borderland, had become a creative beacon of light where all-night jams and artistic synergy were exalted with each passing moment. Our haven for creation was hidden, much like all the dirt, noise, bustle, and occasional ugliness of that neighborhood was hidden from the elite Marin, California neighborhoods surrounding it.  

I'll never forget the first time Jason showed up to try out. He left his car door open, and, as we joked about robbery and other nefarious endings for his vehicle, a disheveled and dirty old man dragging a bum foot and holding a television set over his head with a sandwich in his pocket shambled dejectedly by us in the gathering darkness. The place has little charm and no frills, but it’s open and solid where work finds a way.

Zane Erhardt of Mild Heroes at the band's first live gig in Monte Rio Historic Theatre

Also, we couldn’t find a drummer. I’d made this band to be a frontman,  sing and even dance a little. But, I was still the drummer! “Singing drummer,” you say? “That’s a recipe for disaster!” And you may have been right if it wasn’t for the fear-tinged dedication that had me slapping my practice pads each evening after work while I stretched my vocal cords with the “Mum-mum-mums” and the “Mommy-made-me-mash-my-M&Ms”. But it didn’t matter. We wanted to perform. And wouldn’t you know it, our first gig was on the legendary date of 4/20 at the historic Monte Rio Theatre & Extravaganza.

The Monte Rio is infamous; A place where beats might have gone to get “off-grid” alongside the Russian River that bends ever so slightly to accommodate all the love, chaos, and music of this concert hall. 

Imagine, if you will,  a concert hall that takes on the shape of a grand half-cylinder, like a massive slice of rusted, painted metal rising out of the Earth. The structure resembles a cross-section of an industrial pipe, with its curved facade a welcoming canvas of age, and hippie artwork scrawled across its steel panels arranged like scales. You drive into the small town of Monte Rio and suddenly, the four-way stop forces you to take notice, even though the theater seems part of the riverside landscape, giving it the air of permanence among the surrounding redwoods and small-town streets. 

Mild Heroes band overlooking the Russian River before a gig at the Monte Rio Theatre

When we arrived, a local band was playing blues by the river. We took that moment to unload gear and then do a photoshoot on the bridge overlooking the expanse of the river valley. We stood on that riveted green metal bridge. The sun sank low, bleeding red across the sky, smearing rouge on our faces like the world’s last kiss before the night—raw, alive, and gone too soon. But when Dave nearly got killed by oncoming traffic as his wife snapped shots, we retired to the glorious entrance of the Monte Rio Theatre. 

Imagine an old-school theater facade, its vintage marquee stretching across the front with bold, letters spelling out: Mild Heroes. The whole thing is constructed against a backdrop of weathered metal and polished bulbs commanding the street corner, every letter outlined against the stark white background with lights buzzing softly in the evening air. Below it, patrons gather on each side at tables with bottles of wine and taco truck food, their faces and tin foil dinners gleaming under that nostalgic glow. At the center, a rich, crimson carpet unfurls from the door stretching out onto the sidewalk, inviting passersby into the magic within this building of aged elegance that assuredly holds the stories, voices, and music of countless stories it has hosted over the decades.

View of the Monte Rio theatre during Mild Heroes' performance

Inside, its a bit of a different story. The “Greenroom” has seen better days; now more of a glorified kitchen space and bathroom. Two long cement walkways on either side of the stage lead you to the classic wooden theatre seats that gently incline up towards the entrance. And there we were...

Inside, it was a bit of a different story. The “Greenroom” has seen better days; now more of a glorified kitchen space and bathroom. Two long cement walkways on either side of the stage lead you to the classic wooden theatre seats that gently incline up towards the entrance. And there we were...

It wasn’t the crowd we dreamed of, not the roaring sea of faces we’d imagined, but Mild Heroes lit the fuse anyway—me at the drums, voice climbing out over the setlist we’d hammered and bent and shaped like blacksmiths, like alchemists. The lineup had shifted, changed faces like seasons, but that night, it didn’t matter. Historic beginnings? Who knows. But there was magic in the room, a hum in the air like static before a storm, and the songs—they weren’t just notes anymore. They were alive, something worth chasing, worth burning for.

Strap in, keep sharp, and stay tuned for the continued saga of Memoirs of a Dive Bar Rockstar. 

~Z