UNIHOG: Where Music Builds Community

(Warning: You May Accidentally Become an Artist)

By Charla Earney.

UNIHOG is an odd name. I still haven’t learned exactly where it came from. I could go online and deep dive into the history of the place and probably learn quite a bit. But UNIHOG is one of those places I’ve deliberately wanted to understand in person. Because the real question I’ve been trying to answer isn’t where the name came from. It’s this: what role does a place like UNIHOG and places like it play in a community?

I was first introduced to UNIHOG after being dragged there by an acquaintance. Navigating life with a brain injury, I was encouraged to start with something manageable: Music Bingo. Music Bingo led to Open Mic Night. Open Mic Night led to concerts. Concerts led to musicians. Somewhere along the way, those evenings became much more than entertainment. They became part of my own journey, from someone searching for a place to belong to someone who proudly calls herself a music journalist and an artist. That transformation is one answer to the question. But it’s only one. Through this journey, I learned it is more than a building.

There are certain venues where I walk through the door and immediately feel something. It might not always be a magic I understand. It might not even be a magic I completely agree with or naturally fit into. But it is there. I’ve spent a lot of time wondering where that feeling comes from. Is it the building? The people? The musicians? The land? Or is it just me? I’ve come to believe it’s all of it. UNIHOG isn’t built around luxury. It is nestled in a small New York town: Hoosick Falls, New York. That’s part of its charm. Anywhere else it wouldn’t be the same. Outside sits a simple wooden stage with folding metal chairs and heavy wooden tables. I learned that being comfortable isn’t really the point. I’m grateful for the chairs when I need to rest my feet, then I get back up. The outdoors offers space, something that can be difficult to find inside, and in larger venues: room. I’m 6’1″. Add a hat and heels, and I take up more space than most. Inside, I’m constantly aware of everyone around me: arms, chairs, drinks, and personal space. Outside, I can simply dance and spread out. Apparently, I can even end up dancing on top of a shipping container. If you brave the ladder, the sound and view are epic.

The Unihog was an old mannequin factory and reminds me of House of Blues in North Carolina. What interested me most about UNIHOG wasn’t the building. It’s what happens because the building exists. I’ve watched a local outdoor music series run by a fellow organizer, Kevin O’Malley, get rained out, then see Jasen (VonGuinness, owner) open the doors at UNIHOG as backup to make sure the music still happened. He didn’t have to do that. He simply understood that sometimes preserving a community matters more than preserving a schedule. His was open; he said, “hell ya, come on in”.  I’ve watched a young musician climb onto the stage for what looked like one of her very first performances. You could see both excitement and fear in her eyes. She took a breath, sang her song, and, by the time she finished, the room had quietly rallied around her. I know I did.

Moments like that don’t happen in arenas, big stages, or on Instagram. They happen in places where people know each other. Like the show “Cheers,” everybody knows your name! I’ve watched local musicians share the stage with touring musicians.  I’ve watched strangers become regulars. I’ve watched audience members become performers. I’ve watched people discover bands they had never heard before. I was one of them. That, I think, is the role places like UNIHOG play in a community. They become gathering places where creativity is encouraged instead of judged. Where experienced musicians remember what it felt like to be new. Where new musicians are given permission to be brave. Where audiences don’t just consume art, they become part of it. It is a place to become.

When I first started going to UNIHOG and small places like it, I wasn’t introducing myself as a writer. I wasn’t calling myself an artist. I was simply showing up. As a patron, then as a fan. That mattered. There was room to watch. Room to listen. Room to learn. Eventually, there was room to write. People like Jasen and Brittany, the owners, created an environment where those things could happen naturally. They didn’t tell me who I should become. They simply provided the space where I could figure it out for myself. That is why independent music venues matter. Not because they have the biggest stages. Not because they have the best sound systems. But because they create opportunities for people to discover something, whether it’s a new band, a new friend, or even a new version of themselves. We Need More Places Like This!!!

As far as I’m concerned, we need a hundred more places like UNIHOG. Not copies. That would defeat the purpose. Each one should reflect on its own town, its own musicians, its own regulars, its own oddballs, and the people who wander through the door having absolutely no idea what they’re about to discover. Small music venues don’t need to become miniature concert arenas. They need personality. They need people willing to take chances on one another. When I watch communities of artists in different stages of development gather at places like UNIHOG, it gives me more hope in humanity than I can easily put into words. Musicians travel hundreds of miles and end up on a little stage in a small town.

Someone in the audience hears a band they’ve never heard before.

Someone talks to a stranger.

Someone signed up for Open Mic.

Someone finds the courage to perform for the first time.

Someone discovers they aren’t alone.

That is the magic I’ve been trying to identify. It isn’t just the building. It isn’t just the land. It isn’t just the music. It’s what happens when all of those things come together in one place. UNIHOG and venues like them don’t simply host concerts. They build community. It provides a concentration of creativity. A hub. A place where people can find one another and sometimes find themselves. Every time I’m there, whether the music is polished or rough, familiar or completely new, I leave reminded of something simple. People, in general, are amazing. And music has a remarkable way of bringing out the best in them.

Music is the way.