This is the old Golden Tea House. They say the ghost of Perry Shall still roams the halls, that you can still hear the whine of singer/songwriter Alex G in each squeak of the floorboards. It's an empty vessel, a fine structure devoid of life, but it wasn't always this way. This house was once a monument to the DIY scene of Philadelphia. It was home to countless bands and humans of all ages, colors, and creeds for a fleeting moment, but in that moment the whole experience was so big and so beautiful that it became everything. It was a house that hadn't booked a good show since Mean Jeans played 3 years ago, when (some of us) were still young enough to think Mean Jeans was cool. It was a house that was often barely worth peering into even if you trespassed through the shitty makeshift wall atop the mud-hill in the backyard on which everyone would urinate. It was a house that was, at times, impossible to stomach if you still had a pulse. By a large margin, I've seen more people reading books at Golden Tea House shows than at any other venue, and I think that speaks volumes on the level of interest held here. I'd rather be in Meryton.
R.I.P.
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