Sixth Street’s Identity Crisis

Photo by Raw Access/Shutterstock.

The pictures were everywhere last spring, when Austin was first shaken by the initial wave of the COVID-19 pandemic. They depicted Sixth Street—a thoroughfare so often teeming with inebriated co-eds and tourists—boarded up and vacant, its bars, restaurants, and music venues left to languish in solitude in the name of social distancing. For the casual observer, it was a sign of the times: Even the famed area between Congress Avenue and I-35, which had played an unmatched role in the city’s evolution by drawing millions of partygoers and festival attendees over the years,had been brought to its knees. But when you step back and examine Sixth Street’s maturation, and gradual decay, it becomes clear that its problems began long before 2020. Even more, its present state and role in the capital city’s future are anything but certain.

The story behind the historic stretch mirrors that of Austin itself. In the early 1970s, when the city’s burgeoning reputation as an outlaw country haven drew nightly crowds to the Vulcan Gas Company (Congress Ave.) and the Armadillo World Headquarters (Barton Springs Road), Sixth Street was hardly a nightlife hotspot.

“In 1975, Sixth Street in downtown Austin wasn’t exactly a groover’s paradise,” music industry executive and longtime Austin Chronicle contributor Bill Bentley wrote in 2017. “There was a sprinkling of bars like the Green Spot and Triple J, a drugstore, some nefarious buildings that possessed their own hidden charms, and even a barbecue shack that catered to the street’s working girls… Of course, the area was the perfect location for a blues club.”

That’s where Clifford Antone and his eponymous club come in. Opened on Sixth Street on July 15, 1975, the club’s first showcase featured a performance by zydeco legend Clifton Chenier and the Red Hot Louisiana Band. The move signaled the arrival of Antone’s (and the road on which it sat) as one of the city’s preeminent places to experience live music.

“East Sixth Street was truly funky in those days, with scattered music clubs, some local businesses that had been there a long time, and a handful of places to eat,” says Austin City Limits producer Terry Lickona, who arrived in town in 1974 after attending Willie’s Fourth of July Picnic. “It was authentic, and our introduction to Austin in the mid-’70s.”

Over the next 20 years, Austin’s population exploded from less than 300,000 to nearly 530,000 by 1995, more than double the rate of Houston’s growth, by comparison. A number of elements fueled this rise, namely UT’s growing student community and the city’s reputation as a tech innovation hub. But it was live music, specifically on Sixth Street, that led the way.

By then, around 50 bars and clubs lined the part of the road between Brazos and Red River Streets—roughly 20 of which offered live music. Haunts like Steamboat, Joe’s Generic Bar, and Bates Motel were among the most cherished venues in town, with the likes of the Black Cat and Babes also doubling as watering holes and stages for local performers. In that vein, it’s fair to say that Sixth Street’s artistic dynamism contributed more to Austin’s economic and cultural evolution than any other stretch in town.

But even amid all that growth, Sixth Street was already showing some signs of wear. In 1996, Andy Langer, a prominent Austin music writer and radio host, wrote a lengthy Austin Chronicle piece titled “Where Live Music is Dead,” as a sort of obit for the famed street’s affinity for original music performances. Most notably, Langer lamented the area’s move toward younger crowds that were less inclined to pay for concert covers and were more drawn to cheaper, booze-filled clubs. Two decades later, he followed up with a 2016 Texas Monthly piece that read more like a call to action than a column.

Sadly, Langer’s call largely went unheard. And, as Austin continued to climb the list of blogs detailing the best places to party, Sixth Street earned its nickname (“Dirty Sixth”) by becoming a debaucherous tourist nest whose rooms are now filled with the sounds of commercial hits and cover bands. Considering it’s been two years since South by Southwest held an in-person festival, it’s that much more difficult for local music fans to fathom a return to the street’s past glory.

Today, not only does original live music not have much of a fighting chance on Sixth Street, but neither do other beloved local businesses. Alamo Drafthouse announced earlier this year it would close its Ritz location as part of its bankruptcy filing. Last September, Easy Tiger, the renowned bakery and beer garden, permanently closed its original Sixth Street shop. Days earlier, the Irish pub B.D. Riley’s chose not to renew its lease, signaling a full-on exodus from the entertainment hub. Although all three have other locations in Austin, the departures of longtime businesses will hinder city leaders’ efforts to clean up the street’s waning reputation around town.

“Sixth Street always seemed like the epicenter of live music and partying growing up here,” says Travis County Judge and lifelong Austinite Andy Brown. “But now I’m older, have kids, and generally recommend outdoor things like Barton Springs, Zilker, and live music.”

Even with Langer’s aforementioned Chronicle piece, it remains hard to pinpoint precisely when the words “Sixth Street” and “live music” stopped being synonymous in Austin, but the disassociation is as loud as a cover band at Maggie Mae’s. “Dirty Sixth has felt like a lost cause since around 2013, when Bob Woody took control of the association down there,” says former Austin City Council Member Chris Riley. “In many ways, that part of Sixth Street is an urban dystopia, with the balance of uses completely out of whack, and I don’t see that changing in my lifetime.”

Woody, the developer/bar magnate behind dozens of downtown bars, is a central figure in this trend. Beyond owning Sixth Street staples like The Blind Pig, Buckshot, and Shakespeare’s Pub, he proudly considers himself one of the leading voices in transforming the area. But when you ask Woody about that stretch of downtown, he makes the argument that the purpose, not the identity, of the historic thoroughfare has changed since its earliest iteration.

“I was doing business when our customer was a college student, now it’s conventioners and visitors,” he says, before referring to Sixth Street as Austin’s version of Bourbon Street in New Orleans. “Tourism is what Austin is, live music is part of what we have to provide as far as any type of entertainment. I’ve pushed it to be what it is now, since back in ’96.”

True as Woody’s words may be today, the question remains: Will the road continue to play a role in attracting newcomers to Austin as it did for decades? The answer isn’t obvious. Unlike when Lickona moved to town almost 50 years ago, folks aren’t flocking to the capital city just for its irreverent culture or vibrant art scene. Rather, many of the newest arrivals—like venture capitalist Joe Lonsdale, who has become one of the leading libertarian voices championing Texas as “the best place to make a stand together as a free society” since moving from California last year—have come here in search of low taxes, a more favorable business environment, and cheap(er) real estate. In that sense, the intangibles that once powered Austin have been supplanted by commodities and material gain.

Given these factors, it’s fair to wonder not just if the magic of Sixth Street is gone, but if it’s ever coming back. Maybe Langer was right when he first mourned its shift those 25 years ago. Maybe locals longing for the live music–rich, free-spirited days of yore are living out a fantasy that is, by now, long gone. Maybe the East Side and Rainey Street have permanently replaced it as more palatable options for older, local consumers. But as Austin grows more and more expensive, as transplants like Lonsdale infuse political sentiments and perspectives that sharply contrast those of the people who built this city, it’s increasingly obvious that Sixth Street will not maintain its ranking as one of the most important live music streets in modern American history. And that’s a damn shame.