MEXICO CITY (AP) 鈥 A line of people dressed in black, flannels and piercings wound in front of a two-story building on one of Mexico City鈥檚 main avenues. Graffiti reading 鈥淎licia鈥 was painted above their heads. Inside, a young man frantically scrolled over a list of names and prepared the entry hand stamp. It could have been any nightclub on a Friday night in the bustling city, but the whole line knew it was their last chance to set foot in what had become an iconic music venue and counterculture hub in the Mexican capital.
After 27 years, Multiforo Cultural Alicia closed its doors forever on March 12. For many, it marked the end of an era and signaled gentrification's toll on the city in recent years. 鈥淣obody came at the beginning. It was a tiny place, uncomfortable, very punk,鈥 recalled Ignacio Pineda, 60, the founder of the Alicia. 鈥淏ut I didn鈥檛 want a trendy bar. I wanted a place for the people.鈥
For decades, Mexico鈥檚 music scene was suffocated by its long-ruling Revolutionary Institutional Party, or PRI.
Following the brutal army repression of the 1968 student protests 鈥 an unknown number of protesters were killed 鈥 Mexican authorities harassed long-haired youths. After lurid reports circulated about a 1971 concert in the town of Avandaro, no large public rock concerts were allowed for about a decade, and rock retreated into tiny venues known as 鈥渉oyos funky,鈥 or 鈥渇unky holes.鈥
The Mexican political system was shaken in 1994 when the Zapatista Indigenous rebels from Chiapas, in southeast Mexico, led a brief armed uprising to demand greater rights. The Zapatista movement ignited young Mexicans鈥 political participation. A new generation emerged, looking for outlets to express themselves. Music and cultural spaces like the Alicia became that outlet for many.
In 1995, Pineda founded the venue with a group of friends, who quickly dropped out. At the beginning, Pineda 鈥 or 鈥淣acho鈥, as he鈥檚 known 鈥 even considered shutting down the place. But the emerging Mexican music scene pulled him through.
He started inviting hardcore punk, surf, rock, ska, hip-hop and garage bands, and the audience followed. At the same time, Pineda organized talks and conferences to tackle social and political issues.
鈥淲e always considered ourselves a political space, rather than a music venue,鈥 he told the AP. 鈥淲e did something that nobody was doing.鈥
Soon, the Alicia became one of the very few libertarian, anarchist, self-managed spaces in Mexico City. Abraham 鈥淢u帽eko鈥 Torres, the frontman of Nana Pancha, one of the most prominent ska bands in Mexico, first played at the Alicia when he was 16 years old.
Now 43, he recalls fondly being booed off the stage by punks after his drum kit pedal broke mid-concert. But he never stopped playing. His way of saying goodbye to the venue that allowed him to grow into the musician he is today was to play on that same stage one last time.
For him, it was like going back to his very first concert.
A mix of blue, red and pink lights flashed over his hair, dyed a brilliant yellow, and over a crush of young Mexicans in a mosh pit.
They shouted one of the band鈥檚 most famous songs, one dedicated to 43 Mexican students who were abducted and disappeared in 2014.
鈥淭hanks to the Alicia, a lot of music bands like us learned to organize concerts and build our own spaces,鈥 Torres said. 鈥淔or us (the Alicia) is a safe place, our learning place. It taught us we could live off music.鈥
The late 1990s to mid-2000s saw a growth of self-managed concerts in Mexico City to avoid depending on commercial event producers. Everything from pamphlets, ticketing, security and production was organized by the bands themselves, supported by political collectives.
It was the golden era of Mexican ska. The Alicia鈥檚 punk influence was a predecessor of this movement.
The narrow concert hall sheltered prominent Mexican bands like Pante贸n Rococ贸, Sekta Core, Botellita de Jerez, Lost Acapulco and Tijuana No! and hosted international artists like Manu Chao, Ska-P and Banda Bassotti.
Fernando Rodr铆guez, 32, was 15 when he first walked through the Alicia鈥檚 doors. He said he couldn鈥檛 miss one of the very last concerts of the Mexican punk-rock band Seguimos Perdiendo at the venue.
鈥淭he Alicia is one of the best spaces to get to enjoy a band from up close,鈥 Rodr铆guez said. 鈥淭his place has meant a lot for Mexican rock.鈥
The venue鈥檚 name comes from an Italian counterculture radio station from the 1970s, Radio Alice, and Lewis Carrol鈥檚 Alice in Wonderland. The space was inspired by the leftist self-managed occupied social centers in Italy in the 1980s and similar spaces called gaztetxes in the Basque Country, an autonomous region in Spain.
鈥淚t鈥檚 sad to think that there will be generations that won鈥檛 get to know the Alicia and that their first concert will never be here,鈥 Torres said.
Pineda said one of the main reasons he chose to close is because he doesn鈥檛 like how the neighborhood around the venue has changed. A recent wave of digital nomads mostly from the United States has increased gentrification; long-time residents and businesses have been replaced with AirBnBs and hipster coffee shops.
La Roma, a historically middle-class neighborhood in Mexico City, is not what it used to be anymore, Pineda said.
On one of Alicia鈥檚 final nights, Pineda walked in and out of the venue wearing a beret and a pair of worn-out Dr. Martens. He climbed the stairs and plunged once again into a sea of ska fans and dyed hair. He peeked from the sound booth, looking upon what he crafted over almost three decades.
The same neighbors who once looked down on the space, now wander by and tell Pineda they will miss him and the Alicia.
In 27 years, he missed only 10 days of work. It was his life project.
鈥淚 think there will be other places. This won鈥檛 stop here, it鈥檚 an independent movement, it鈥檚 culture,鈥 Pineda said. 鈥淏ut I might come back at some point and sit on the bench in front of the Alicia, have a mezcal and cry.鈥
