Lee AdcockIt’s been a tough year for the DIY scene. True, the Bakery has earned its corner among certain scenesters, and the newly expanded 529 continues to welcome locals and lesser-known touring bands. But thanks to a deadly fire on South Broad Street back in February, both Mammal Gallery and Eyedrum had to surrender their buildings to their landlord, development firm Newport Holding. And while both are actively seeking new homes, leaving considerable cause for optimism, there’s no telling what the future holds for either organization. Couple that with WonderRoot having pulled their hat out of the ring some time ago, and a house show scene that often feels in disarray, and anyone who’s not part of any in-crowd has every right to worry about where they can go.
Out on the fringes of Decatur, though, Dakota Floyd hopes to level the playing field. We’re sitting in a corner of his tiny new DIY venue, Camp Hope, beside a mountain of gear that the house show veteran has accrued from 13 years of booking shows in multiple states. (To prove this point, Floyd reaches up to the speaker directly behind him and curls back its peeling felt back panel. “Cats,” he says.) Before us, we can clearly see faded black footprints on the sky blue back wall. “That’s a sign that people were in here,” he remarks cheerily. “And what’s a wall for if you’re not going to prop up on it?”
Those prints were the marks left by Camp Hope’s first crowd about a month ago, barely a week after Floyd finally signed the lease he’d been gunning for since March. And while he’s hosted only one other show since then, he’s confident that his single-room venue was well worth the wait.
“There are a lot of places in Atlanta for bigger shows to happen, but not a lot of places where you can put on some super young band’s first show, where maybe no one’s going to come,” Floyd tells me. “[I wanted] a space that allows that outlet to exist, and this size seems like a pretty good venue for that.”
The Mall on Glenwood Road
When I first turn into the L-shaped strip mall where Floyd said we’d meet, I can’t spot Camp Hope. Every storefront under the cobalt blue roof appears old and neglected in the sun’s harsh glare, and the generous parking lot enclosed within the mall looks deserted. I step out of the car and peek around; only when I find Floyd do I also see the white letters splayed across the door like refrigerator magnets.
Prior to now, I’d only ever met Floyd a couple of times, all within a single year year. The first time was at Jortsfest 2015, before I even knew Immersive existed; I had zero clout in this city, and yet he invited me to his atlDIY Facebook group that night, just because I was there. The second time we met, he was sipping a cup of tea in the kitchen of his last house show space on Moreland Avenue, Parts Unknown. I don’t recall that we spoke much then—he seemed to have been hiding the entire evening.
As you might expect, Floyd doesn’t live there anymore. Indeed, the veteran musician and booker found himself in a sort of limbo earlier this year. “It’s been a goal since I was in high school to have a permanent space to do stuff,” he says. “And for a while, it seemed very much like WonderRoot was that spot.”
After trying and failing to help the arts non-profit reboot their music programming, he found himself stuck with tons of great shows to book and nowhere to land them. “This is stupid,” he recalls telling himself. “Either there aren’t enough spaces available, or they’re going to charge an exorbitant production fee for a DIY show, where I’m like, ‘No, I really can’t pay you a couple $100 for a show that maybe 20 people are going to come to, and still pay the two touring bands.’ That doesn’t make any sense.”
So when spring break rolled around (Floyd teaches middle school English), he decided to search his neighborhood for a vacant spot. After some diligent research (and a crash course on how to decipher commercial real estate listings), he singled out the lot at 4469 Glenwood Drive—the price was right, the neighbors didn’t mind noise, the asphalt parking lot could fit plenty of cars, and a wheelchair ramp led straight up to the door. And while the strip mall might reside a fair distance away from East Atlanta or Little Five Points, Floyd argues that it’s not too far, especially now as the Bakery continues to attract gig-goers. “If people will drive 15-20 minutes to the Bakery to go to a DIY show, what’s stopping them from going 15-20 minutes in the opposite direction to go see a DIY show?”
Still, even when Floyd settled on the ideal place in March, planting the Camp Hope flag has proven to be a challenge. As he tried to close a deal with the owner, the building slipped away to someone else, and no one, not even the other tenants in the mall, could identify the new owner.
Enter Detective Floyd.
“I would come up to here, and I would go to the little restaurant next door, once or twice a week, order some food, and then say, ‘Hey, Tony, I’m going to pester you again, do you know who your landlord is?'” As he scouted the area for clues, he came to know his future neighbors—all five of them—and learned that everyone closed shop at 8 p.m., except for the bar on the opposite end of the lot. “I said, ‘If we’re ever too loud, let us know,'” he recalls. “And they said, ‘No, you’re fine.’ Everyone was super sweet.”
Floyd’s investigations eventually paid off. After a month of chasing down the mystery buyer, he finally secured a lease in early May, with “for music performance” written directly in the contract. That legal stamp of approval was important; as someone who knows too well how swiftly authorities can shut down DIY spaces, Floyd wants to ensure that Camp Hope stays on the level.
An outlet to learn, not earn
“The first step to be really good at something is to be really bad at it,” Floyd tells his English students. And back in 2008—when the singer-songwriter had just turned 18—WonderRoot was the place where he could make his first stabs at songs and learn how to improve. Like Mammal Gallery and Eyedrum, the basement where Floyd cut his teeth could run all ages shows; now that all three have been knocked out, younger bands and gig-goers have even less places to turn to. As Floyd reminds me, larger venues like the Masquerade and the Drunken Unicorn can accommodate teen crowds—but not if they won’t profit from it. “It’s just a matter of getting different staffing, which comes with increased costs,” he says.
Camp Hope, on the other hand, will always host all ages shows. There’s no bar to watch over (“I don’t drink. I don’t care. And there’s also a package store right on the corner”), no smoking, and no bouncers at the door. And Floyd doesn’t plan on reeling in money, either; in fact, he’s prepared for just the opposite. “With my teacher’s salary, if zero dollars were to come in per month, I’d still be able to pay for this space, as well as all my bills,” he remarks. “I wouldn’t want to do that, but it’s doable.” Every show, he insists, should cost no more than five bucks.
So at Camp Hope, teens and kids can test out their first works, and young audiences can witness affirmative DIY action during the trying years of high school. “Not that this is a space for people just to be bad at things,” Floyd quickly points out. “But I think it’s important to have an outlet in the city for people to learn. Like, how do I play a show? What’s the proper etiquette? Do I show up on time? Yes, you do!”
Granted, there’s a practical angle to this open arms policy, too. While some outside promoters have pitched shows to Floyd, he’s more or less on his own at Camp Hope. That means that the space can’t put on more than the host can handle—right now, that’s about four to six shows a month. And for the first six months (at least!), Floyd plans to attend every one. “I’d hate for the one show I don’t come to be the one where something bad happens,” he says. Yet, that responsibility doesn’t daunt the seasoned vet one bit. “I’ve been booking shows for long enough at this point, where it’s not hard,” he says with a shrug. “You have the basic stuff—you have the space, you have the PA. That’s it.”
From baby vomit to showtime
Still, even Floyd admits that prepping Camp Hope for its opening night was a bit hairy. While the future venue owner was still scrambling to find the elusive landlord, he’d learned that his friend Mark Mooradian of pop punk locals Wayward Kid was looking for somewhere to commemorate both his band’s debut album release and upcoming tour. So the day that Floyd finally signed the lease, he came back to Mooradian and asked when he aimed to launch that celebratory show. The answer, June 6, seemed totally feasible from a month away, but Floyd didn’t get the keys to Camp Hope until May 26th. “Oh crap, this is bad, but we’re going to make it happen,” he told himself.
Not that anyone doubted him. Over email, Mooradian and bandmate Hannah White couldn’t stress enough how stoked they were to learn that Floyd had finally acquired a venue of his own. “Atlanta needs an all ages venue that is consistent,” Mooradian says. “Atlanta needs someone like Dakota running a space.”
And sure enough, in a little over a week, Floyd dressed Camp Hope for its first date. “[I had to] paint all the walls. They were this horrible pink color, like baby vomit pink,” he explains. “[Then] string up the lights, get the sound set up, test everything, make sure the breakers won’t blow, try to get the air conditioning working. And it works now, thankfully, [but] it almost electrocuted me multiple times!” Another good friend, Jeremy Ray, whipped up the pristine forest mural that now adorns the main stage within a day. (It’s also a visual reminder of where Floyd copped the name from, the weight loss camp from Disney’s Heavyweights, aka his “favorite movie since it came out in 1995.”)
For everyone, that inaugural show proved that Camp Hope was something special. Wayward Kid brought along math-y pop punk locals Champagne Colored Cars; Floyd played with his full band for the first time in seven years, and his old band the Wild returned after a two-and-a-half year hiatus. The room was packed, but not too packed, at what Tyler Perkins of CCC guesses was about 50 people. “It felt very very full, but not uncomfortable,” he says. Both White and Mooradian, meanwhile, could feel the love and care that Floyd poured into Camp Hope. “The space and the events held there thus far feel very genuine,” remarks White. “It’s very clear that Dakota cares about serving the best interests of artists, and that he wants everyone to feel welcomed there.”
Even as everyone sings praises about Camp Hope, Floyd doesn’t think the space will ever draw a full house. His second gig garnered the type of crowd that he expects he’ll see from now on, with maybe 20 people sharing a cozy evening together. “The first show will probably be the biggest show we’ll ever have, to be totally real,” he tells me. “And I’m a-OK with that.”
Moving on
I’d hoped to end this piece on a high note—like how, just a few days later, Camp Hope’s Facebook page announced a show with a touring band I adore who’s been trying to break into Atlanta for years (the artist is Karen Meat, if you must know). Alas, however, Floyd already faces a crisis: within a week of our interview, someone broke in from the storefront next door and lifted that whole mountain of gear, much of it belonging to local punk group New Junk City, from the room.
Still, Floyd remains undaunted. “This is one of the worst things that can happen to a band or space, but we’re not canceling any shows,” he stated on Facebook. “This is a huge setback, but sometimes you’ve gotta keep on going.” That commitment proves, yet again, that the beloved booker intends to fill the all ages gap in Atlanta for the long haul, no matter what the cost.
Camp Hope is hosting a benefit show on Fri., July 27 to help the venue and New Junk City get back on their feet. Performing are Swingset, Shoplifter, New Junk City, and Dakota Floyd. Doors open at 8 p.m. Donations of $5 (or more!) accepted at the door. All ages.
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