Molotov's was hidden gem, squirrelled away in the back streets near Sacramento State. Smokey brown brick walls, unadorned except for pieces of artwork; red cushions of seats and lounges; aroma of coffee duelled with herbal smells from strategically placed censors lent the place a hint of mystery. Conversation's always bubbled here, in this place where artists and student's mingled - this was thier club, hard on the interface between culture, academia, art, and the street: if the clientele did not tell you this, the art hanging from the walls and the weekend entertainment most surely would.
On this night there was a show for aspiring local artists. Headlining the show was Boff, the street poet, whose cutting critic and inspiring koans were chanted to a harsh beat. Of course, the word was that the real headline act would be adorning the walls this night and everyone who mattered knew that Zelda's stocks had risen when Marvin Stax had purchased her works and was now displaying them at his new club in San Francisco. The simmering rumour mill all but insisted he was coming back for more.
The atmosphere in Molotov's had been building all afternoon and by nightfall it had become an energised soup of students, artists, edgy critics, and those who liked to stand in opposition to the establishment. The club was alive to the throb of humanity - a whirl of ever-changing configurations and conversations both stimulating and banal.