NASHVILLE, Tenn. (WTVF) — There used to be this place in the Berry Hill community. It opened in 1978, closed about 16 years later. To describe what it was like to you, you'll need to know the sense of community. You'll need a mirror ball. You'll need music. It was a gay club called Warehouse 28.
In the early days, Macon Kimbrough was a bartender and assistant manager.
"Bars are where gay people went to meet," Macon said. "Oh, it's absolutely shaped who I am."
"It was a refuge for all of us," added patron John Bridges.
"It was predominantly a dance bar," said Joey Clay, who was once one of the DJs.
In the early 80s in Nashville, fitting in meant many gay people were not open about their lives.
"People didn't know if they'd lose their jobs, lose their friends, their famlies wouldn't agree," John said.
"For a lot of people, that was the only place where they could go and meet other people like themselves and not feel so alone," added Macon. "It's our safe haven. You are not going to come in and make trouble."
"You met people for the first time who became life-long friends," said Joey.
By 3am, lights up. Everybody go home. Tomorrow night, come back and dance again.
"Mike Wilson and Steve Smith, they were the heart and soul of Warehouse 28," Macon continued. "Berry Hill treated us like gold. I was talking Steve, one of the owners. He said, 'Macon, the Warehouse 28 at this time is the single biggest tax contributor to the city of Berry Hill. Of course they're going to be nice to us!'"
The 28 in the name was in reference to the owners' June 28 anniversary. They were strong proponents of gay rights and set out to create a place for everyone to have fun.
"There was a lot of straight people!" Joey said.
"They wanted to dance," John shrugged.
"There was resistance," Macon continued. "When Warehouse 28 first opened, it got firebombed. They had to be shut down for a while."
"The community just came in, cleaned the thing up, and it was open again," John added.
"It's like with anything, we just live our lives," Macon said.
It was in the midst of the early days of Warehouse 28, something was happening in the community. It was something that wasn't yet getting much talk on TV. By 1982, the CDC began calling it AIDS.
"Our friends were dying," John said.
"By the middle of 1981, we knew exactly how it was being transmitted," said Macon. "I have lost some close friends, yeah."
"There was a lot of fear," said Joey. "You started to take death much more casually, which is tragic."
"In the darkest days, sometimes we'd go to two funerals a week, once I went to three funerals in one week," John said. "Kurt Benz. Kurt really was the cleverest and smartest guy I knew. I'd lost lots of friends, but Kurt was the first of my dearest friends. Kurt was gone, but he was dear."
"You just had to be safe, be smart, and just keep living," Macon added.
The people at Warehouse 28 knew something.
"If nobody else is going to help us, we have to do it ourselves," Joey said.
Led by Steve and Michael, they began raising money through drag shows and auctions, which in 1985 played a key role in the creation of Nashville CARES, an HIV/AIDS service organization still in Nashville today.
"Something needed to be done," John said. "They did it."
"Mike and Steve loved people," Macon said. "They loved this city. It all comes from the heart. This stuff happened because people cared."
By the late 80s, attention did change. An AIDS commission was established. People living with AIDS were cautious about sharing their stories publicly, but conversations were happening.
"We all had a mustache!" Joey smiled, looking through some old pictures of Warehouse 28. "Mustaches were the thing! We all did the cowboy boots and the cowboy hats."
"Was that the Urban Cowboy era?" I asked Joey.
"It was actually more Village People!" he laughed.
"I wonder if people know when they're making history that they're making history," said Macon.
A historical marker now stands on 8th Ave. S. where Warehouse 28 used to be.
Owner Steve Smith died from AIDS-related causes in 1995 while Michael Wilson now lives in the Dominican Republic. Michael spoke to NewsChannel 5 through Zoom alongside best friend and fellow gay rights advocate Ron Sanford.
"I never realized what we did would get me to this point," Michael said. "I'm extremely honored that this is being recognized."
"We were fighting for our lives," Ron added. "We never really thought what would come from it."
At the marker unveiling, John spoke to a crowd.
"I met all my best friends here," John said. "The Warehouse brings back memories that hurt of people we'll never see again. In The Warehouse, we danced all night. The night's a little brighter now because of The Warehouse."
"They saved lives, and that right there, it's plenty for a marker," Macon said.
It's truly the small things that add up to a great day - and Warrick in Lebanon is having a big impact. His familiar face is becoming a staple in one part of the community and inspiring closer connection in the simplest way. Enjoy his warm personality! You may even feel inclined to wave to a stranger today, too.
-Rebecca Schleicher
