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By Stella M. Johansson

During my college years I bartended at Connolly’s, a working-class saloon on Oakland’s Telegraph Avenue. We didn’t spoil customers with over-priced drinks and brownnosing service. We spoiled them with $2.50 bottles of Bud and an empathetic ear.

When DQ, the Korean Vet, mourned his late wife, he got caring attention. As did Charlie, the contemplative Ethiopian electrician when he contemplated. Or Sean, the grime-spattered Boston bricklayer, exhausted by his day’s work and Brady, a cook from Mama’s Royal Cafe. Along with beer and sympathy, we delivered live music to the people who built our community.

There was something special about Boston-area bands. Playing pool with them after shows, I resonated with their unpretentious call-it-what-it-is attitudes, savored their music, and trusted their friendship. Becca and Ian were a couple from Boston – and it was clear that they did not give their friendship away easily. This enabled me to trust their word more than those who befriend any and everyone. In my imagination, Boston DIY music culture seemed fierce and authentic.

Time passed and I moved overseas. When I was ready to return to the U.S., Boston beckoned.

Finding a place that I could afford was tough. I eventually moved into a Back Bay apartment after paying extortion, euphemistically called a “finders fee.” In 2008, the Common, downtown, and South End didn’t much resemble the Boston that I had pictured while tending bar in Oakland. I couldn’t imagine where the bands that I had met would play. Nor could I visualize Brady, with his thick brogue, bantering with Back Bay Brahmin.

Working 50+ hours a week a MGH, I was still having trouble making ends meet. Getting out and having fun seemed too costly, in both time and money. Places that Sean and the bands had fondly described, like the Rat, were history. But from what they’d told me, I knew there must be good shows somewhere.

After a year I began to discover them well outside Boston, or in basement DIY venues. Finally I could hear great music again without getting frisked by a bouncer, bag checked, and charged over $20 for the privilege of paying $5-6 for a single PBR or Bud. These gigs were not only part of a lifestyle I was familiar with, but the only way I could afford to hear live music.

From late 2009 through 2012, the DIY scene in Boston was vibrant. I remember a snowy evening standing outside Unit 11, a former DIY venue in Allston. I couldn’t help smiling as I watched band members unpacking and music lovers braving bitter weather and the repercussions of going out on a Monday night. No one was making money. They were there for the music.

Over those three and a half years I heard bands from Philly, California, New York, Portland, the UK, Japan, and Australia. I saw them all at someone’s house or another DIY venue.

Sometime in late 2012 or early 2013, things began to change. A rash of binge drinking, gang violence, and alcohol poisoning was pressuring Boston pols to “do something.” In response, the Boston Police Department began closing down parties and DIY venues, even though they were unrelated to the problem.

One ham-fisted tactic stands out in my memory. The morning after the Marathon bombing lockdown I went on my Facebook page. Someone had stolen my friend’s picture, created a fake profile, and was attempting to friend me. This was one of many fake profiles that showed the BPD’s hand by asking where the “concerts” were, a term that DIYers would not use.

I sincerely sympathized with the Boston Police Department’s intention to improve community life. But their tactics were making matters worse, while sowing mistrust. Finding safe and affordable places for touring bands to play and music lovers to gather was becoming a grim enterprise. Music was at the mercy of promoters, club managers and corporate polices.

Regardless of weather, economic exploitation, urban overdevelopment, and brushes with the law, the music continued. But we had to drive over an hour to see acts 50-to-60 miles away.

Last summer, I started tending bar again. I had been walking through Union Square when, on impulse, I went into Sally O’Brien’s to see if they were hiring. I was astonished to learn that they offered live music six nights a week, and that there were four other live venues in the Square.

Working at Sally’s vividly brought back my days at Connolly’s. I was hearing great music while serving the people who build our community.

Sally’s treats the musicians well. They get paid, regardless of the evening’s sales. Our booking agent is a musician himself. During one of our conversations I asked him if I could start a Girls Group and Doo-wop night.

Doo-wop’s rhythm-and-blues vocal harmonies are part of Rock and Roll’s roots. Emerging in African American communities in the 1940s, they spread to White working class neighborhoods in New York, Philadelphia, Baltimore, Newark, Pittsburgh, Detroit, Cincinnati, L.A., D.C., Compton, and El Monte in the 50s and early 60s.

Rock and Roll spans generations, and at our first Doo-wop night, I saw 20-year-olds and 60-year-olds dancing on the same stage. There aren’t many places where a regular person like me has the opportunity to put together an event, in a proper venue, without tons of schmoozing and cash.

The Green Line’s advent promises to make Union Square an attractive location for much needed office development. But it’s also pricing residents and independent businesses out of their community. La Cantina Mexicana’s property taxes, for example, doubled in one quarter.

Union Square’s unique business and cultural ecology is endangered. If city officials, property owners, merchants, developers, and residents don’t work together to protect what is special about the Square, we will lose what makes it an attractive destination and a beloved community.

Editor’s note:  Doo-wop night was held on the first Thursday of the month in 2013 and 2014. Union Square venues offer a variety of musical genres throughout the week.