A Weekend Trip to Olympia, Washington

A musical undercurrent keeps this sleepy city buzzin'

Olympia, Washington - Illustration by Jake Inferrera.

Here are the things I knew about Olympia, Washington before considering a visit.

Kurt Cobain was born nearby in Aberdeen and later lived in the area for a few years.

The Riot grrrl movement started there (Kill Rockstars, Bikini Kill, Sleater-Kinney, etc)

Rancid wrote an instant classic titled “Olympia, WA” off their career catapulting record “…And Out Come the Wolves.”

Olympia Beer was originally brewed here.

It’s the capital of Washington state.

No one in the Northwest talks about it.

You’d think between its proximity to Tacoma (30min), Seattle (90min), and Portland (2 hours), along with being the capital, it would get mentioned in casual conversation more, but it does not. The music history is significant for a city of just 55,000, and still there seems to be little to say. What whispers I had heard made me think it might have a Tacoma kind of vibe (if you didn’t read that one, I LOVE Tacoma), and being so close to home, it made for a trip that required little planning.

Olympia’s modest size was apparent driving in. It doesn’t really matter where you’re staying, wherever you exit 1-5 in Olympia, you’ll be just a couple minutes from your destination. There’s no skyline that denotes downtown, only a glimpse of the state Capitol’s dome and the realization that with all these old buildings and businesses, you’re in the middle of it.

To make sense of how small Olympia really is, there are only a handful of hotel options, and I was at what appeared to be the best and most centrally located one in town – the very average Doubletree by Hilton. Average as it was, the front desk staff was extremely friendly (they asked what I was doing and immediately concurred that my Tacoma thoughts were reasonable) and despite being a bit weathered, the hotel was in good shape. Clean and bland rooms. What more can you ask for when expectations are low?

Downtown is where most of the action is – bars, restaurants, coffee, and shopping. There are a few small drags elsewhere, but mostly it’s residential outside the city center. It has the feel of any small city’s downtown – walkable, full of murals, and plenty of quirky spots to poke your head in. But it’s a little edgier. The city has a small homeless population, but because the streets are consistently quiet even when businesses are bustling (and many were), it magnifies their presence. It was often me and a rambling homeless person sharing a block. It’s strange to think that the same interaction back home will evoke nothing from me but in a new environment I’m more on edge.

I hit up the Oly Taproom to ease into the evening, a block away and just off the water. It’s your standard beer bar, complete with fridges for to-go cans and bottles. The pizza was unremarkable, but the vibe was solid with a good happy hour crowd, waterfront views, and free raffles from E9 Brewery taking place every 30 minutes, no ticket purchase required.

From top left, clockwise: Mural downtown; Squaxin Park; View of Capitol Lake, Washington Capitol 2X; Rainbow Rails

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The main drag downtown is 4^th Ave. My first stop was the Eastside Club Tavern, a brick façade with a neon size that’s more tacky than classic. Inside you’ll find small booths to the left, a long bar to the right, drop ceilings and yellow lighting throughout, and a back that opens to several pool tables and more seating. Being cash only with some TVs playing sports and random art and beer signs on the walls, it’s got the vibe of a damn good dive. Except, they only serve beer and wine. When I asked about the lack of liquor the bartender said, “I let the other places deal with that,” as though he’d either dealt with enough shit in previous bartending gigs or knew how nights ended at the other spots.

I went a block further to McCoy’s Tavern, it seemed to have the quintessential rock ’n’ roll element. It was all blacked out – painted black and blacked out windows – with a true classic the neon bar sign out front, one that’s sure to give you the warm fuzzies. The bar is a big wavy S-shape with bolted down diner stools and a few two-tops opposite of it. It’s painted black inside as well, but there’s good lighting so you’re neither lost in the dark nor drenched in light.

Past the bar, you’ll walk by some booths to one side and a foosball table awkwardly jammed on the other side by the bathrooms. Beyond that the back opens up, allowing space for two pool tables, a stage, and a back bar to sling drinks during shows. There is also the door to the patio, which is just a sad fenced off section of the parking lot. There’s ample kitsch, stickers slapped throughout place, and some moderately gross bathrooms with great drunk scripture on the walls. But all around it doesn’t feel decrepit or wholly unsanitary. McCoys’ walks the line of punk rock club house and selectively curated, revamped dive bar. I like both, and the middle ground they achieve is a sweet spot.

With only a few groups at the bar, it was easy to pick up on the vibe and scene. One guy sitting at the bar had manic coke energy and controlled half the room’s conversation. He went from casually mentioning his band opening for NOFX when they came on the stereo to singing the parody lyrics of Nookie, triggered by something someone had said. He was partially talking to his friend, the bartender, and a table behind him, but really he was just talking to the room, getting attention where he could.

The bartender made sure the guy two seats down from me would be attending his Dad’s memorial service. He had just locked down the venue which was another nearby bar. There was clearly bad blood between his friend and the staff at the memorial location but the bartender assured him he was welcome. It was clear the McCoy’s crowd was tight knit. I got the sense that most friend groups across Olympia were cliquey like that.

I passed the Clipper and Cryptatropa Bar but both were better suited for late-night action so I ended at Brotherhood Lounge. This spot was lively, with a hint of college kids, and all around a more varied crowd. While I posted up at the bar, the place is filled with booths and tables, plus a pool table, shuffleboard, and pinball. You know you’re in a good spot when the drinks are stiff and they offer 3-7 daily happy hour - $3.50 wells, $5 micro pints, and $3 Rainier pints. After a couple rounds I walked two blocks back to my hotel for crappy leftover pizza and a solid night of sleep.

Eastside Club Tavern 2X; Brotherhood Lounge 2X; Kurt Cobain's old home (front and back house)

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The next day I began with a coffee at Olympia Coffee Roasters which was busy, airy, and welcoming. If you need that yuppy vibe to balance out the working-class feel of Olympia, this is a safe bet. The coffee and croissants were just what I needed to get my head straight.

Adequately caffeinated, I started my run uphill, going south through a stretch of downtown, towards the Capitol building. It was Friday at 10:30a and the streets were basically dead. Just me and the occasional homeless person. The city feels pretty unremarkable save for an unexpected alleyway mural, so hitting the Capitol grounds was actually quite impressive. The Capitol Building (technically the Legislative Building) is a gorgeous classic like our Nation’s. But the grounds itself are well manicured with multiple other buildings, statues, and monuments peppered throughout the lawns. Perched at the top of a hill, the Capitol’s dome must give way to epic Olympic and Rainer views.

In the foreground, a small trail has switchbacks all the way down to Capitol Lake, a man-made lake fed by the end of the Deschutes River. On the North side of the lake is the Olympia Yashiro Friendship bridge that divides it from the southern point of the Olympic Peninsula, Budd’s Inlet.

On the following day’s run, I had crossed that bridge from Downtown taking it to the west side of town which is mostly residential streets on sloping hills. On the bridge I stopped to watch a few harbor seals swimming in the inlet. People from the coast may regard seals in the same way those of us from landlocked states do deer – boring and omnipresent. But to me they are magic. A mix of elegance and goofball – they’re mammals that swim as gracefully as fish, and yet seem deliberate in acting like big, dumb water dogs. They’re the best and I’ll always take a moment to enjoy them.

Further northwest was Evergreen State College but I turned back well before it. There was a single strip on Harrison Ave that seemed to have some cool spots – the Westside Tavern, the Olympia Coffee Roasters drive thru, and Hash Olympia. Sadly, I made it to none.

But on this first morning, after circling the lake, I went back up the switchbacks to the Capitol Grounds, I cut east across town and ran north along East Bay Drive to Squaxin Park (formerly Priest Point Park). The initial stretch of the Drive, past downtown, was lined by suburban-esque condos and apartments with waterfront views. Except they looked across the busy road to the water, and not to idyllic waters filled with Orcas that one might dream up, but instead to the swampy dredges of the Sound.

Thankfully, this suburbanized hellscape was short-lived as the Inlet improved with each step north. The condos turned to homes that were actually on the waterfront. And after about a mile, it all faded into classic northwest forest. Squaxin Park, though small at 314 acres and about 4 miles of trails, does a great job of getting you into nature without leaving the city limits. It’s similar Point Defiance, Forest Park, or Seward Park in that regard. The highlight is a series of bridges and trails that wrap around Ellis Cove, ending with the option to go down to the water or up to the Priest Point lookout. It’s a classic mix of fern forest beds and towering Doug Firs with the bonus of waterfront trails. Mixed with a little sunshine, the ten mile recharge did a number for my mood as I returned downtown.

Poster for the show; Chelsea Farms; 4th Ave Tavern 4X (note the pear!)

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The first order of business was grabbing a quick lunch. The easy answer was Dos Hermanos Mexican Kitchen, part of the 222 Market, an open space market occupied by multiple restaurants and shops that takes up about half a block. The tacos are definitely worth getting but the setting felt more like eating in a mall.

Every shop in Olympia had a catchy name that would make a hipster squeal, but the best was Dumpster Values. It was a fantastic thrift shop with so many fun vintage tees and button downs, shoes, and random kitsch. Unfortunately, everything I wanted was about two sizes off.

Next was Rainy Day records, which in perfect fashion, I ran into after being caught in a sudden downpour. Holy shit, Rainy Day must’ve killed in their heyday. Think of your favorite record store from back in the day and all the best parts of High Fidelity, wrapped in genuine love for preserving that era. This place made me yearn badly for the 90’s when the record store was the only way to get music. Not only was their selection diverse and ostensibly cool for every genre, but they carried new and used vinyl, CDs, cassettes, and DVDs. They also had a handful of tees, some audio equipment, buttons, post cards, stickers, and trading cards. But best was that you could buy mix tapes curated by the employees themselves.

This was the perfect record store, then and now. I left with Dire Straits and Genesis tapes, a Rainy Day Records sticker, and the piece de resistance, a black and white Chris Cornell postcard. I don’t know the details of the photo shoot, but it’s a ’91 photo, he’s in the desert mountains alone wearing mid-calf boots, long, baggy shorts, an unbuttoned long sleeve shirt, necklaces, and recently curled hair down to his chest. It’s an iconic image that captures the 80’s confusingly fading into the 90’s.

But of course a town this size, with a disproportionately large music history, has a record store a block from the other record store. So, I popped into Lantern Records which is an entirely different feel. It’s smaller and feels a bit more intentional. It felt focused towards vinyl and classic used tees. I was intrigued by the NOFX - Punk in Drublic tee that looked old enough to be from that original ’94 tour, but I just can’t buy $50 worn shirts that may not fit.

With the rain gone, I kept the musical exploration going with a stop at 114 Pear St. NE. Yes, this is the old home of Kurt Cobain. I don’t really care what you think of the band, but you’re a fool if you deny their influence. The way they shifted rock and roll, and music generally in the 90’s, was remarkable. Given their brief career, it was supernatural. You don’t have to love them, but you are a liar if you don’t like them, and you’re just dumb if you can’t appreciate their significance.

And this home is where Kurt wrote about 50% of their catalog. Living here from ‘88 to ‘91, this was his bridge from Aberdeen to Seattle, where he really found his voice, and where Nirvana got their footing. And with a lot of free time, a girlfriend paying the bills, and a creative hot streak, Cobain cranked out, at minimum, the framework for Nevermind.

The house itself? It would be just another house if not for Kurt. It has the feel of a college duplex, with two units for the main house and one in the back. From what I gather Kurt lived in one of the front units briefly, but primarily in the back unit. Kathleen Hanna even scribbled “Kurt smells like teen spirit” on one of the walls here, yes, the inspiration for the title of their biggest hit. It’s worth seeing, and you can even stay in the unit, it’s listed on Airbnb. I still don’t know how I feel about that.

I made my way back to the 222 Market for some oysters at Chelsea Farms before getting a proper dinner. This spot had a full dining area and bar, and felt fully removed from the Market. Instead, it was light and airy and felt like the bougie escape in the middle of town. They had ‘shuckers choice’ oysters for $2 a pop during happy hour, so I landed a half dozen along with a $6 glass of pinot gris. It was the perfect starter, but when the couple next to me had their chicken sandwiches arrive, I had a feeling this was the place for dinner. This sandwich was covered in buffalo sauce so evenly, just enough to keep it manageable and the fry crispy, with slaw poking out the sides ready to tame the heat.

I headed out for my main course at Olympia Oyster House. As soon as I walked in, I knew I had made a mistake. It was basically the family owned version of Applebee’s, with a seafood menu. It seemed everyone on staff was in high school and likely all went to the same school together. And since I was going to dinner at the senior hour of 5p, it was me and a couple geriatrics seemingly crashing these kids’ party of rolling silverware and not working. The food was actually good, and the kids were as nice as they could be for not wanting to be there, in particular at the slow start to a shift. But the depression hit me while eating alone on a Friday at what feels like a Chili’s, listening to high school gossip.

Dumpster Values 2X; Rainy Day Records 4X

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I needed to feel something positive after that dinner so I went back to the drag to find a new bar and landed at the 4^th Ave Tavern. This place is a genuine dive – the floor was some kind of linoleum over concrete that was chipping away in spots, the walls were cheap wood paneling, and half of it was drop ceilings. It was cold inside, and the booths were too, so most people kept their jackets on. The back was busy with multiple pool tables occupied by several kids who looked under 21 with a runaway vibe, plus there was a kitchen that seemed to be operating separately from the bar up front. Part of the bar was behind glass but it was unclear if it was a relic of covid or past crimes. I felt comfortable sitting down but the place had an unsettling vibe.

My hope was to post up at the bar, watch some March Madness basketball, and tie on a buzz until the night got started. Instead, I sat a booth and people watched in awe. How can I even begin to describe the clientele? If I was a parole officer in Olympia, the 4^th Ave Tavern would be the place I went whenever a parolee missed a check-in. No one was unfriendly to me here, but just about everyone looked like they were a drink away from smashing a glass over someone’s head. They looked worse for the wear, and there was no fun in the drinking here, it was solely for getting through.

I sat in the only booth that had a decent view of the TV, every other television was in the backroom. The TV was oddly located, up too high without any seating around it, and away from the bar and booths. People would try to watch sitting at a distance like me, or periodically stand below it, looking up for 5 minutes at a time. A man in a camo jacket came in and sat at the bar. As he feigned interest in the game, he pulled a whole pear from his coat pocket, chomping away, no drink in sight.

Having the culture of the 4^th Ave Tavern come at you in broad daylight is an unnerving experience. I was no longer looking to catch a buzz and instead needed to recalibrate in the peace of my room.

As I closed my tab, a lineman sized man, who appeared and sounded mentally challenged, was sitting at the bar and said to me, “if you wanna play pool next time, I will.”

I took a second to get my bearings, we had not seen or spoken to each other prior to this.

“OK, for sure, next time.”

“Cause some guy asked me if he wanted to play cause he was playing alone… It’s fun.”

“Yeah, I have to leave now, but if I come back, I will.” Part of me wanted to see what the hell the place was like late at night, but I knew I wasn’t coming back.

There was a sense of relief in no longer being the squarest guy at the 4^th Ave Tavern, but let’s be real, an average hotel room is nothing if not depressing. They’re uninviting and bland, you can hear all the hall and neighbor noise, and the carpets and walls seem to reveal new stains every time you pace by. Why carpet is chosen over vinyl flooring, I’ll never understand. Is the goal to trap the falling follicles of every dirty human that’s passed through as some celebration of filth? It seems simple enough to me but until the industry takes notice, I’ll continue to wear slides in every hotel.

My attempt at a disco nap was a failure, instead I found myself lying on my bed, eyes closed, thoughts racing about nothing, exhausted but anxious. I needed a buffer before the show but nothing was on my radar so I went to the McMenamins Spar Cafe. Kurt used to spend a lot of time here, so why not get as much Nirvana nostalgia as I can?

It was lively, but I once again felt like I was at the TGI Friday’s run mostly by high school kids. With my day buzz waning towards a hangover and the need to make it out past midnight, I ordered some food and a couple drinks. Earlier in the evening, at the Olympia Oyster House, I had brushed off a weird reoccurrence. It was this in-your-face, over-the-top politeness that was displayed to me by all of the male waitstaff. The same thing happened at the Spar.

“Hey there buddy, everything all right? Anything else I can get you?” It was said with a big smile, in a corny, jolly tone. And they moved in close to my face and kept their eyes locked on me.

It felt sarcastic, yet they seemed genuine in their delivery. Buried behind the grin, as they walked off, was some kind of endearing sincerity, but it came off as mimicking the famous side character from Office Space - the waiter with 30+ pieces of flare. If I was getting clowned, I didn’t know what to do differently, or what to get upset about. Like many McMenamins, the Spar was strange in its total benign-ness that is somehow beloved. It gets the job done, but nothing more.

McCoys 2X; Black Ends; Loolowningen; Manic Pixie Dreamboat 2X

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Whether it was anticipation for one of the groups, or just having a show on a Friday, McCoy’s had a palpable vibe. It still had the scene-y feel as the night before, all the same faces appeared again, but this time it was packed out and jubilant. All I knew from chatting with the bartender the previous night was that it was a rock show and the headliner was from Japan.

“Should be cool.”

Indeed.

I let the Rainiers start to flow and settled in the back as the first band took the stage. The back room is so ill-equipped for a show, which in turn creates a kind of magical setting, like it’s a miracle it’s happening at all. Who cares there’s a pool table taking up half of the standing room, the place is sold out and alive. Black Ends were the perfect band to kick things off.

They’re a trio fronted by a short, black woman on guitar who appears unassuming for the role. And she immediately makes you regret assuming anything other than she is a fucking rocker. They’re from Seattle and felt like they were meant to be here after a long Cobain themed day. They have a sound that seemed to mesh some Melvins’ elements into the more prevalent indie rock sounds of the pacific northwest today. She has a damn good voice, can scream her ass off, and has that surf-y punk shred-ability down. The band kicked ass too, they even had a fill in on drums but you wouldn’t have ever known it if they didn’t call it out.

They brought the energy and got the crowd pumped. Like any good opener, they left you thinking “shit, they could’ve headlined this and I would’ve been happy.” For some reason though, our headliner from Japan, Loolowningen and the Far East Idiots, were setting up on stage. Never mind why, it was time to refill drinks and get back into our cramped corner to watch.

This band, holy shit. Like so many things in life, they were a fleeting moment that can’t be adequately described. Listening to their record or watching youtube won’t do their live performance justice. I could make an argument to not do that, as it could wrongly invalidate their greatness. Just see them if they ever hit your town.

They came on stage and immediately jumped into a funky, danceable, but heavily-fuzzed out bass line and drum beat. The singer never even acknowledged his guitar, and instead stood front and center dancing, ignoring the crowd. It was some kind of swimming arm movement while staying in one place, then rocking back and forth, leg to leg.

And then the Japanese lyrics hit and my brain melted. Altogether it was a sound I’d never heard before. The song kept the same beat while speeding up and slowing down into these ridiculously fun breakdowns. The lyrics slowed down, and the dancing went along with the deceleration too, and then all of the sudden, we’re running in place as it methodically revs back up into chaos. Then we’re breaking down again, singing in harmonies, before coming back to a frenetic pace once more.

That was just the first song. It came so far out of left field, everyone in the crowd was hooked, bobbing around with dumbstruck smiles on our faces. On the next song he brought up the guitar and immediately went in a bizarre dissonant direction. It landed somewhere between a kid randomly bending strings on the guitar and a coffee house jazz band. Except these were intentional and repeated bends and through all the dissonant sound, they somehow made it work. Other songs followed with similar divergent noise that later synched into harmony. At one point I thought to myself, “who writes a song like this?”

And sure enough, when the song ended the guy next to me screamed, “How the fuck do you come up with that?” Their music may have felt disparate, but they had us all in sync watching their every move. I watched in anticipation for where the next song would turn and what dance move came next.

It was a wild ride, but they ended up being the perfect middle act to break up some more traditional rock ’n’ roll. The now-headliner was Olympia’s own Manic Pixie Dreamboat, another trio of super young kids (or so they seemed). And once again, any assumptions I might have had were immediately squashed within the first song.

Call me lazy and old, but they had a sound that sat somewhere in between early White Stripes, Butthole Surfers, Sonic Youth, and Amyl & the Sniffers. It was a perfect blend of pure rock, indie, and punk. They’re young and they shred. And any time you have a trio making more noise than should be expected, with two singers, it’s a great thing.

They played fast, bluesy punk songs with the female bass player keeping everything centered. The guitarist crushed with surprisingly husky vocals emanating from his babyface, effortlessly charging from heavy riffs to shredding solos. When their female drummer sang, the songs oscillated between more spacey vibes to the straightforward marching screams of punk rock. It was high energy with a ton of variety and they kept the crowd engaged.

As the show ended, the cramped back room vacated, cutting off my mainline supply of energy from rowdy fans and frenetic bands. My exhausted state was left with the age-old dilemma of more alcohol or sleep. I walked home drunk, but with some clarity from the high of the show. Up to that point, Olympia didn’t need redemption, per se, it had already given sufficiently. But to stumble upon a show so overwhelming good, and totally free of expectation, well, it changed the whole tone of the place.

While taking in Olympia my first night, my initial reaction was that it’s a city where people won’t be convinced to visit, but if their car broke down there, they’d be pleasantly surprised in what they found. I think that still holds true.

But there was something else deeper here, there’s something musical in the bones of this city. It felt almost transcendent for that show to occur and hit so hard following a day filled with heavy nostalgia for everything that shaped how I came to understand and appreciate music in the first place. The classic record stores, walking in the steps of childhood rock gods, and a devotion to the eras and bands that I love - this city was a living example of what made music both accessible and larger than life to me as a kid. And then it managed to top it off with a show that recaptured the same energy and curiosity I had at my first punk shows some 25 years ago.

It was uncanny but it makes sense. That can only happen in a genuine setting, and being genuine is easy when not held to any expectations. And that’s exactly why Olympia is the Real McCoy.