Late summer, 2001. Almost a quarter-century ago. (Jesus Christ, seriously?)
College-kid Chris had lived in Burlington for all of 48 hours, sleeping on a mattress in an otherwise unfurnished room with a tiny stereo and a bag of Tostitos. I was a week out from classes starting in a city where I didn’t know a single soul — unless you counted the Burlington College admissions officer, who, when I asked where to see live music in town, responded that there was a kids’ musician playing at the Fletcher Free Library that afternoon. I almost said, “Hey, I drink whiskey and have had sex, lady! I’m a big boy! I mean, that is, I’m an adult, OK?”
Fortunately, none of that came out of my mouth. I merely thanked her, signed off on a couple grand of student loans — Smart play, Chris. That definitely won’t come back to haunt you — and decided I’d wander the streets to explore my new city. I walked out of my Pearl Street apartment, pointed myself like an arrow downtown and set forth.
I discovered Radio Bean almost immediately, but it was a slam poetry open mic, so I pressed on. In what’s now Asiana House, there used to be a club called Valencia. A jam band called Family Dog was playing that night, but that wasn’t my vibe either. (Though a Deadhead who called himself “Ned the Super Conductor” sold me some weed and told me to avoid 242 Main because “It’s straight-edge, and the punks will kick your ass if they smell pot on you.”)
Halvorson’s Upstreet Café, Red Square and even Rí Rá had live music. But I finally found what I was really looking for on Main Street once I saw the big, rotating Nectar’s sign glowing in the night.
I recognized something wonderfully familiar the moment I approached the venue: the crowd smoking cigarettes outside, making its own social scene by the curb; the sounds of music coming from both floors of the club; the smell of greasy French fries served out of a walk-up window…
Oh, this was the fucking spot.
Downstairs at Nectar’s was a stacked bill with plenty of bands I barely recall and that likely no longer exist, but the place was chock-full of metalheads. Club Metronome upstairs was just as packed for an EDM showcase, with a completely different set of fans. It ended up being one of the most memorable nights of my early years in Vermont, full of killer music and new friends in a city that seemed to offer endless possibilities.
By the time I made it back to my mattress on the floor that night, I was beyond pleased with myself. I was in my early twenties, so finding a music venue and hangout was more important to me than turning on my utilities. And indeed, over the next decade or so, I spent a lot of time at Nectar’s and Club Metronome.
The combination of me getting older and Nectar’s shifting away from local acts to focus on touring jam bands over the past few years curtailed my visits. I still played trivia there weekly and caught the odd show from time to time — I am a Vermont music journalist, after all. But a few weeks ago, when the club announced its impending summer hiatus following the Burlington Discover Jazz Festival last weekend — which spurred speculation that the club could be closing for good — I knew I needed to go and pay my respects to Nectar’s.
Set as they were during jazz fest, the club’s last few nights had a celebratory vibe. Friday’s show felt more like the homecoming/farewell-for-now performance, as longtime Nectar’s heroes the Grippo Funk Band held court. Clad in a black Konflik T-shirt shouting out the local rapper, Grippo led his six-piece through some fiery, funky jams, just as he’s done countless times on that stage over the years. Upstairs at Metron… er, the Lounge at Nectar’s, the new-look Madaila rocked a fresh batch of indie-pop and dance tunes.
Those two acts have had such a strong association with the venue — who could forget Madaila’s epic Main Street block party out front in 2016? — that it seemed like the perfect cap-off before the club went dark.
But there was one more night left, the final Nectar’s show on Saturday, featuring Fort Worth, Texas, drummer Blaque Dynamite and Burlington jazz-fusion band Breathwork. I decided to approach the show much like I did that very first night at Nectar’s. I parked downtown and swung through performances at Orlando’s, Big Joe’s (aka Vermont Comedy Club), Red Square and, of course, the big jazz fest sets at Waterfront Park — shout-out to the Soul Rebels for absolutely crushing their set.
I was expecting a reserved, maybe even defeated atmosphere at Nectar’s. It was anything but. Blaque Dynamite, who drums for funk bassist Thundercat, was electric as his band had the entire upstairs Lounge grooving hard. It was a younger crowd than Grippo had the previous evening, but the room was just as full and suffused with energy.
“The big picture here is that everyone involved really gives a shit about this place.” Tyler Nettleton
Back downstairs, as I ordered a drink and stared up at the giant chandelier hanging above the bar— a relic from the old Hi-Hat club that Nectar Rorris kept after buying the building in 1975— I couldn’t help but feel like I was in the middle of a story, not the end. It was just a sensation, bereft of facts or reason, but I wasn’t the only one not in the mood for a memorial. Optimism among fans and staff that the club will eventually return was pervasive. Nectar’s general manager Tyler Nettleton struck a defiant tone when I asked him a few days earlier if this would be the club’s final show.
“The big picture here is that everyone involved really gives a shit about this place,” he said. “We have a lot of ideas and plans for the future, and we really want to keep going with this project. We just need to take the summer to recalibrate and figure out the best way forward.”
When it comes to the music industry, I’ve learned to take nothing for granted. The vast majority of my all-time-favorite venues have closed, rebranded, reopened and subsequently re-closed, been bought by venture capital firms, burned down, turned into condos, or even been left to sit and rot (cough, 242 Main, cough). It’s just the nature of the business, kid.
But as I dragged my exhausted ass back to my car around 1:20 a.m. on Sunday morning, I turned to look back at the famous sign. I’d stared at it countless times over the years and had even come to take the sight of it for granted, much to my sudden chagrin. I tried to imagine peering down the street and not seeing it lit up while music poured from the club’s open windows. But my brain wouldn’t craft the image.
Nectar’s was a beacon to me when I was young and in search of my new city’s music scene. Will it reopen again and be that beacon for a new generation of Burlingtonians? It remains to be seen.
But if not, it’s fitting that Nectar’s went out of my life the same way it came in: as an oasis of music and community.
Related Stories
No Encore: Nectar’s Closes for Good
This article appears in Jun 11-17, 2025.
Got something to say?
Send a letter to the editor and we'll publish your feedback in print!