Arguably, the most important job at the Rookery is door-guy. Conspicuously centered on the table where these would-be bouncers and band wranglers sit is a plastic bowl serving to collect donations for touring acts. There’re surely evenings where proceeds are scant, but occasionally, an out of town act can make a decent haul. “Sightings [a band from Brooklyn] made about fifty dollars less than what the Empty Falafel promised them,” Caruso says, “which was a solid amount in the first place.”
Contrasting the fact that the Rookery consistently proves itself to be a viable venue, its residents have no intention of branching out beyond simply hosting bands. Even after being approached by a number of folks from *****’s art and theater world, Caruso remains aloof. “Collectively, we’re just more interested in hosting music shows,” he says. “I don’t know if I want to work that or be there for that [event].”
In that last line, the crux of the entire endeavor can be figured. Starting a venue is meant to be a meaningful, but fun enterprise. And while the Rookery’s residents are necessitated to maintain day jobs to pay bills and rent, they have no intention of sweating it out over day to day operations or negations with events coordinators.
When queried about the potential closing of the venue due to police pressure or individual’s goals shifting, Caruso affected a different tone than what his speech previously offered. He wasn’t any longer an excited, tent living, leftist. He became something of a conduit for the past and the future of DIY ethics. “The place might stay open beyond when the people that founded it move out – it’s still going to happen without us.”