• Best Of
  • Best of Phoenix 2013: Vintage Phoenix
Mr. Lucky's

As with so many old-time local hotspots, the sign remains though the business is kaput. But the Mr. Lucky's sign is more than just a gaudy gravestone for a once-flourishing nightclub; it's the main attraction in a clutch of the coolest vintage signs in the city. Along Grand Avenue, between Roosevelt and 57th Drive, you'll find the rusted-out Smith Radiator Exchange marquee; the brightly Modernist sign for the City Center Motel; the fast-fading marker for the Crystal Motel; and the Mel's Diner sign, made famous in the film Alice Doesn't Live Here Anymore (and the subsequent TV show, Alice).

But it's the Mr. Lucky's sign that's legendary. And what a sign. A demented court jester leers knowingly at the traffic speeding by, his three-pointed hat decked with dangly red pom-pons. The light-up "Dancing" and "Cocktails" placards have been replaced with signs promising "Musica" and "En Vivo," remnants of Mr. Lucky's last incarnation as a Mexican mariachi club. Neon aficionados far and wide remain concerned about the future of this gorgeous landmark (at 3660 Grand Avenue) — proof of its prominence and real beauty.

Once our town's hottest saloon, the former hotspot began as a smartly appointed casino in 1966. Shortly after, public gambling became verboten here, and owner Bob Sikora turned his casino into a honky-tonk, with country music headliners performing most nights upstairs and live rock bands in the club's cavernous basement.

The house band, The Rogues (fronted by J. David Sloan, a former member of Willie Nelson's touring band and now a local celeb in his own right) occasionally fronted visiting dignitaries, who included Waylon Jennings, Marty Robbins, Glen Campbell, and Charley Pride.

Today, Mr. Lucky's amateur hour contests and Friday night fish fry are mere memories; the club closed in 2004 (although it's reportedly available to rent for party events), leaving behind a big, gorgeous reminder: the towering neon sign out front, surrounded by chain link, its bulbs as dead as the club it once announced.

Vintage Phoenix Collection: Danny Zelisko's Concert Memorabilia

Danny Zelisko has so much concert memorabilia that some of it is even boxed up by artist, sometimes untouched for years.

He may not know exactly what is in there, but based on the remainder of his extensive collection of signed posters and shirts, it's bound to be impressive. Zelisko, founder of the concert-promoting business Evening Star Productions, began his work in the live-music industry in 1974 and estimates that he has since been involved in the production of between 9,000 and 10,000 concerts. He began promoting straight out of high school, starting with local smaller-venue shows, and now has put on productions for artists as huge as Paul McCartney and Billy Joel.


Take a video tour of Danny Zelisko's Concert Memorabilia collection here.

From that multitude of shows, Zelisko has kept every artist contract, backstage pass, ticket, setlist, T-shirt, and anything else that he has been able to secure afterward. His collection is spread over various locations, between his office, warehouse storage, and even Alice Cooper'sTown restaurant.

This is a guy who definitely has trouble throwing stuff away. In the back of one of his storage units are several large boxes, each filled with rolled-up oversize posters that once were on display at Comerica Theatre to promote upcoming shows. Zelisko began keeping these posters instead of allowing them to meet the sad fate of a dumpster, and he maintains the same mentality when it comes to saving other concert memorabilia, past and present. Not only does he have boxes from small local concerts spanning his entire almost-40-year career, Zelisko has stacks of framed posters from larger shows, the majority of which are signed by the artists themselves. (When Zelisko promotes a show, he always gets an autograph.)

Among the mass of Zelisko's framed posters are a few standouts, most notably several signed Bruce Springsteen posters, one of which was among the very first events ever put on at the newly inaugurated America West Arena. Many of the posters advertise shows at venues that either no longer exist or since have been renamed, showing the connections that live music can have to Phoenix history. Performances by artists from Cher to Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band are listed at venues such as the University Activity Center at ASU and Glendale Arena, places that modern concert-going Phoenicians don't experience any longer. It would take multiple pages to list every musician or band featured on Zelisko's posters, but it's easy to tell that he is particularly fond of vintage posters and memorabilia featuring Pink Floyd, the Grateful Dead, and Jeff Beck, among many others.

To Zelisko, the most satisfying aspect of keeping his collection is knowing the story of each piece and sharing it with others who are interested. "Everything's got a value to somebody!" he says with a smile.

Bikini Lounge
Benjamin Leatherman

Housed on Grand Avenue, a road with quite a history of its own, Bikini Lounge is a Phoenix cocktail staple. In fact, the tiki-themed dive bar has been open since 1947, when Grand Avenue was at the Phoenix end of U.S. 60, long before Interstate 10 was completed. Because the diagonal street was the light at the end of the tunnel (or desert) leading from Los Angeles, Bikini Lounge (1502 Grand Avenue) welcomed many weary travelers straight off the road and into the sight of a much-needed drink.

It's rumored that most of the tiki decorations that adorn the dark, windowless walls of Bikini are the same ones that were placed there upon the lounge's opening — and looking around, we believe it.


Check out the complete slideshow of Bikini Lounge here.

Today, Bikini Lounge is a popular host to many First Friday festivities and has earned its cred as a hipster hangout. The cheap, cash-only drinks and anything-goes attitude (minus one rule: a sign reads "NO DRUNKS ON TOP OF FUSE BOX") certainly make it popular among younger crowds. An eclectic bunch of all different ages are frequent visitors, though, so don't worry about any single social group taking over the scene.

Vintage but not outdated, Bikini Lounge is still hopping, so don't be intimidated by a little grunge — join in on the fun and go tiki-crazy.

Anderson's Fifth Estate

It was 1981. We were young, and there was nothing better to do.

And so my girl friends and I — a bony chick we called Uncle who rarely spoke and her best friend, Laytchie McJeep, a corpulent girl who never stopped talking — got dressed up in funny clothes and went to discos.

Being fashionable required an entire weekend. On Saturday mornings we'd drive downtown — a daring thing for kids from the suburbs to do — because that's where the good junk stores were. We'd forage at Goodwill and Salvation Army for old military uniforms and '50s housedresses and old dinner jackets and paste brooches. Then we'd take everything back to my apartment and make it "better."


Listen to Robrt Pela's podcast "Dance Hall Days" here.

Uncle liked to belt things and wear them as dresses. She'd put on a giant men's shirt or a huge, ratty old sweater that barely covered her ass and wrap a length of chain from the hardware store around her middle, and that was her outfit. I'd cut up a pair of Boy Scout trousers with pinking shears, then safety-pin them back together. Lapel pins with punk rock sayings were my favorite accessory; I wore my "Fuck art, let's dance!" button for an entire summer.

Laytchie favored sleeveless polyester shifts in patterns so ugly, they hurt your eyes. She was proud that one of her outfits — a complicated black-and-white-checked number that Unc called The Twilight Zone Dress — made a girl vomit, right on the dance floor at Discovery one warm Saturday night.

We got drunk, and we danced. We were poseurs from the 'burbs, but never before 10 in the evening, because being seen early wasn't fashionable. We started out at more respectable places, like Anderson's Fifth Estate in downtown Scottsdale, where we danced to populist disco by Donna Summer and the Bar-Kays, and where some of our dance floor friends were discovered and became regulars on a low-rent American Bandstand knockoff that aired in Los Angeles. And at Tommy's Copa on Camelback Road, where the lighted dance floor throbbed in time to the music and where Laytchie — our designated driver because she didn't drink or smoke dope — flirted with all the ugly guys, just to be nice.

After we had gotten, in disco parlance, "sufficiently cocktailed," we'd head way downtown to the trashy gay nightclubs, places with names like Bullwinkle's and Hotbods Desert Dance Palace and our favorite, Sammy's Steak House — a sleazy toilet that served neither steak nor any other kind of meal. The gay clubs played the best music — a combination of hardcore disco (Lime, Sylvester, The Twins Plus Him) and dance-punk (New Order, The B-52s, The Thompson Twins) that drove us mad with pleasure. Here, in the "bad part of town" at 2 in the morning, freaking out to DJ Hubert's obscure Eurotrash mixes, we could forget the suburban strip-mall jobs and junior-college grind that awaited us on Monday. And Tuesday. And, we feared, forever.

The dumps where we danced in our weird rags are long gone; downtown Phoenix no longer is a bombed-out ruin where bored suburban teens can go to hide. Not long ago, I saw an ad for Anderson's Fifth Estate, the last of the hoary old discos of our past, now recently closed. Among its weekly themes was a Retro Night, featuring a DJ playing classics by The B-52s and The Thompson Twins.

How trashy.

She looked like an Indian princess. Tiny and dark, with huge, sad eyes that filled up her face, like a kid in a Keane painting. I was 6 years old, so it was easy for me to imagine her riding atop a big, bejeweled elephant.

Teresa Amelia Gomez was my first Mexican. Somehow, even though my family had settled on the west side, only a hundred yards from the Glendale border, I'd never met one before. I wondered: Did everyone from Mexico carry themselves with such regal bearing? Did all the girls from south of the border line their eyes with kohl and speak in tiny, hushed voices? I didn't care. Terry did, and — because she had married one of my brothers — she was my sister now.


Listen to Robrt Pela's podcast "My First Mexican" here.

Her timing was good. It was the Summer of Love, and my real sister had recently, as my father liked to say, "run off with a ditch digger. " I needed a new sister, and I got one who listened to me when I spoke, loved cats, and owned a wiglet. Terry was a superb visual artist and had flawless taste in music. When I loaned her my stack of Archies 45s, she told me she'd listened to each of them and liked them all. I knew she was just being nice, but it didn't matter. When she lied to me, it sounded like "Te amo."

My mother, usually slow to warm to people, was charmed by her new daughter-in-law. Terry taught Mom to make enchiladas and refried beans and quesadillas — strange, wonderful foods that no one I knew had ever even heard of before. And Mom, who didn't approve of house pets or guests who brought food to her dinner parties, only smiled when Terry arrived at our house on Christmas Eve with a mynah bird and seven dozen tamales. Terry was exotic.

More important, she didn't treat me like a little kid. She loaned me collections of short stories by Edgar Allan Poe and dime novels about extraterrestrials. She didn't laugh at me for wearing tie-dye and braided headbands and candy necklaces. Terry was the only grownup who saw what I saw when I looked in the mirror: a hippie who happened to also be in the first grade.

I saw less of Terry after my brother left her for the drug-addicted cocktail waitress who lived across the street, but she never abandoned me. She sent handmade Christmas cards and turned up at my high school graduation. I knew Terry was out there, somewhere, even if she couldn't join us for Christmas Eve dinner anymore.

She came to my art gallery the other night. At one point, we sat together on a bench, staring up at a complicated trio of abstract paintings I was especially proud to be showing. We gazed at the paintings for a long time without saying a word, and I thought, This is going to be one of those moments where Terry says something I never, ever forget. I was right. After awhile, Terry leaned slowly toward me and, without taking her eyes off the paintings, whispered, "No comprende."

I nearly levitated with joy.

Later that night, I asked her what it was like, marrying into my family all those years ago.

"I'd never met anyone like you guys," she said, a trace of wonderment still in her voice. "Italian people from Ohio! Your mom had a lace tablecloth, and everyone ate dinner together at the same time, and there were two dining rooms."

"Well, one was for company," I reminded her. "You were always so nice to me, even when I was pretending to be a 6-year-old beatnik."

Terry looked startled. "Sweetheart, you were my little brother," she said, then laughed. "Besides, when you were around, I didn't feel like the weirdest person in the room."

Azteca Bridal

What started as five wedding dresses in the back of a furniture shop is now the fully operational bridal, tuxedo, and quinceañera megastore that is Azteca Bridal. The original part of the store, now dedicated to fitting rooms and expansive mirrors, contains a vintage stairwell that has existed since Azteca's first days, and Royna Roselle says it is the oldest single object in the store. Even though most of Azteca's attire may be of the newest fashions for trendy Phoenicians, the store retains its classic feel. Upstairs, retro-looking colorful carpet and charming railings pop out among the racks upon racks of white dresses and highlight the store's character. The buzzing, familial staff is attentive to both the business side of things and the obvious excitement of their customers. By keeping the store in the family, the children of the Torrez store founders create a welcoming atmosphere and feel that they are continuing to honor their parents.


See our complete slideshow of Azteca Bridal here.

Roselle estimates that Azteca in some way services about 1,500 Valley weddings each year, between dresses, tuxedos, and a plethora of other decorations and supplies. Even she seems overwhelmed by the grandness of that number. With Azteca reaching its 51st year in business, it's easy to see why the store has established itself as a Phoenix wedding institution. In addition to wedding dresses, the store is packed full of everything else one could need for a ceremony and celebration, from flower girl and ring bearer attire to sparkly tiaras and cake cutters. Beyond wedding materials, Azteca's quinceañera room is an eye-popping burst of color and quite a departure from the rows of traditional white bridal gowns. Stacks of catalogs sit on a counter for girls to flip through and view their options, which also serves as a nice reminder of the pre-online shopping days. Ruffles, beads, neons, animal prints, and more: There's something for every taste, and even for a quinceañera queen's damas as well. When it comes to big dresses, stunning tuxes, and everything fit for a party, Azteca has it all. — Valerie Hoke

Vintage Phoenix Collection: Steve Davis' Mexican Folk Art

Steve Davis opens a tattered old book and flips through the pages covered with photos and descriptions of Mexican folk art. He lands on the right image and points to a standing figure of a woman, dressed in white and carrying a blue umbrella, in the artistic style of the Día de los Muertos holiday. This figure is Katrina, the original of which is standing five feet away at the foot of a bed in Davis' Paradise Valley home. He explains that a famous Diego Rivera painting called Sunday Afternoon in Alameda Park inspired the three-dimensional Katrina figure because she was one of the people who strolled around the park. This book Davis references is what initially sparked his interest in vintage Mexican art, and to own such a collectible piece from its pages is very special to him.


Take a video tour of Steve Davis' home.

A Phoenix native and former stockbroker, Davis maintains a massive collection of Mexican folk and fine art that is the product of his love and appreciation for the country's culture. His vintage Mexican pottery is a highlight of the whole collection, originating mainly from the 1920s-30s. Davis was immediately drawn to the art when he first visited Mexico on a trip organized by the Phoenix Art Museum in 1988. He heard about the trip through his membership in the museum and took the opportunity to visit the country with a group of experienced guides and Spanish-speakers. It was during that travel experience that he acquired the exotic Katrina figure, making it the very first piece of his collection.

Since then, he has enjoyed filling his Southwest-style home with vintage Mexican art, with the help of his wife, Sandy, who has also gotten involved in collecting. Warm red, brown, and cream colors throughout the house provide the perfect backdrop against which to feature the masses of Mexican pottery, paintings, and figurines. Every space in the house is decorated with various pieces, because as Davis says with a smile, "when you collect art, you have to find a place to put it."

Davis specifically shows us his extensive collection of Mexican folk pottery, most of which is from a small pueblo in the Guadalajara area called Tonalá. He explains how several of the pots are signed on the bottom, which is a valuable feature since the artists so rarely felt the need to do so. A father and son by the names of Augustine and Balbino Lucano, respectively, crafted several of the pots, and Davis feels especially fortunate to have signed pieces of their work in his collection. On one of Davis' subsequent trips to Mexico, he was able to visit Tonalá, which he feels gave him greater insight into his vintage pottery. In the pueblo, Davis could observe the actual environment where so much of his pottery was made and could even view contemporary Tonalá pottery in a quaint museum.

When it comes to collecting, Davis acquires most of his art on trips to Mexico. In fact, he says that the most recent addition to his collection was at an auction in Mexico City over the summer. However, he admits that eBay can be a practical way of searching, especially for those who are knowledgeable enough about the art to know exactly what they are looking for. Although new additions to his collections occasionally fall into place, it is usually his searches for particular pieces that yield the best findings. Even though it might take him six months or a year to find the essential piece of art, the satisfaction of expanding his collection keeps him searching. — Valerie Hoke

Best Of Phoenix®

Best Of