What I remember most about the 1990s was that everything was “alternative”: alternative lifestyles, alternative newsweeklies, alternative rock – especially alternative rock.
I was in my 20s during the 90s, and I hardly considered myself “alternative.” I didn’t watch MTV’s “120 Minutes.” I didn’t listen to WDRE, then Philadelphia’s top alternative radio station. And I couldn’t name three Jane’s Addiction songs to save my life.
Nevertheless, in 1993, when I was 23, I walked up the stairs into the darkness of Sanctuary, the nightclub located at the Iguana Beach Club on Route 70 in Cherry Hill, where Vera is now.
My intention was simple: I thought that unlike the patrons of other “mainstream” clubs in the area, here at Sanctuary I would meet different, interesting people. To a certain extent, that would prove to be true.
What I found were a lot of Kurt, Eddie and (two years later) Alanis acolytes. Lots of flannel, thrift store clothes and choker necklaces.
A clique of black-clad poseurs who’d only dance to Depeche Mode, The Cure and The Smiths.
There was the guy who dressed in a leather jacket and Scottish kilt, and the middle-aged man with sunglasses who looked like Jack Nicholson and did some sort of performance art in the middle of the dance floor. It was the kind of place where people – myself included – went out and danced by themselves, with no one blinking an eye.
All of this was presided over by DJ Steven Singer, who worked the room spinning modern rock, goth rock, ’80s new wave, industrial, techno – basically, everything you wouldn’t hear downstairs in the Iguana. He was also the resident den mother to all the club kids who flocked to the DJ booth pitching their song requests.
For the next two years, Sanctuary became my second home; I was there four nights every week. I drank a lot. I danced a lot. And I met a lot of women – one of whom, for better and for worse, would alter my life during that decade.
By the mid-’90s, however, it wasn’t as much fun as it used to be. Some of the people who I remembered from the beginning weren’t there anymore. Luckily, Steve was – he was the anchor, the mainstay, the one who still made the experience worthwhile.
They moved Sanctuary down the road to Cuthbert Boulevard – which I didn’t like – then moved it back to the Route 70 location. By this time, I was burned out. I’d had enough of the bloodshot eyes and lack of sleep. I was pushing 30, and I wasn’t going anywhere, except to the club. It was time to grow up.
By the turn of the century, Sanctuary was a not-so-distant memory.
Jump ahead three decades to 2024. I was inside Vera, researching an article about a weekly radio variety show that’s still staged there. I was 54; I hadn’t danced or drank in nearly 30 years, and had no desire to do so.
Still, I was nostalgic.
I walked over to the foyer where the Sanctuary entrance once was, and was greeted by a closed door, tinted with black glass. No admittance. I took that as a sign, and I left.
It was almost past my bedtime.
