MIKEY WELSH (1971 - 2011)
The fall of 1990 followed our legendary Provincetown Summer at Daddy Rabbit’s. It was back to Boston reality but that was equally as surreal as what had just transpired. The grunge bunny had escaped and began eating up everything on the horizon. It had outgrown its cramped cage at Jamaica Plain’s Green Street Station and made its way to greener pastures of Allston-Brighton and Bunratty’s.
We dragged several characters from Provincetown along with us for the ride: Joey Mars, Maze, Molly Magill, Mama Mayhem plus more and set up shop at our new HQ on a hill overlooking Cleveland Circle. It was soon christened Zen Palace due to the fact that we had no furniture and the only place you could sit was upon the plethora of throw pillows that were strewn about the apartment. When more than a few visitors were hanging around the living room upon their chosen pillows it began to resemble a Buddhist temple - hence the name.
We brought Martin Doyle on board to help with the booking and as we cleaned house of much of the old Bunratty’s staff.
One of the main goals at Bunratty’s was to establish the All-Ages Shows that were so successful back at Green Street. This came to a quick stop when the local Allston vendors petitioned the city to curb our enthusiasm because our clientele was instilling fear into the weekend shoppers when they congregated on the sidewalks between sets. During that time however we established a juice bar in the back corner of Bun’s with the help of two Brookline teenagers Micky Mo and his sidekick Mikey Welsh. These two skinny kids also helped dispose of the evidence when we did some interior decorating with a sledgehammer.
Not only were we booking both Green Street Station and Bunratty’s but we were also working with a handful of Boston acts among which was the illustrious drunk punk pioneers, Left Nut.
For those of you who are not familiar with Green Street Station, it was located in the middle of a dangerous hardcore-ethnic-melting-pot-neighborhood alongside the Orange Line just a stop short of Forest Hills.
At this particular time in history a strange chain of events took place which leads to the whole point of this story.
My humble beginnings at Green Street Station began as a stint as the house soundman. In the drunken, drugged out haze of many nights, it was not uncommon for a band to leave a guitar or part of their drum kit or a keyboard behind. At first I took pride in making sure that any wayward property would find its way back to its rightful owner but as things began getting shady in Green Street's waning days, property that I would lock in the kitchen began disappearing. After a few grateful musicians became disgruntled with me after they showed up to claim their stuff (only to find that it was no longer in the club), I backed out of my role as the saint of lost instruments. If something was left behind I was no longer willing to run interference.
In one such case, a bass was left behind by a touring band that was probably unpacking a van in Philadelphia the following night before they became aware of the missing item. I brought the bass home and stuffed it in a closet.