Farewell, Steam Hostel

After nearly a decade as the go-to, late-night hangout for musicians, artists and travelers alike, Chengdu’s beloved bar and venue Steam Hostel has closed its doors for the last time.

Another one bites the dust — Steam is the latest casualty to fall to the pressure of prolonged business closures and wilting tourism, just weeks shy of Chengdu’s current citywide lockdown. The venue’s final ‘再见’ post on WeChat last month (viewed over 32,000 times) was met with an outpouring of 😭 and ❤️ from fans around the country, as heartfelt tributes flowed in alongside the doomscroll of cancellations, natural disasters, and fish being hesuan’ed by dabai…

Founded in the spring of 2013 in a neglected set of buildings at the back of an aging state-owned xiaoqu on Wuhouci Street, nestled between the Tibetan Quarter and the giant ship on the Second Ring Road, Steam Hostel was the labour of love of a small local crew, including a rock musician, an architect and an engineer. While the gargantuan, multibillion yuan New Century Global Center swallowed the streets of south Tianfu — Steam moved into the quiet backbones of the old city, with a scruffy, unpretentious appeal.

As the top leadership changed in Beijing, it was a landmark year for the Chengdu underground, where the seeds planted across unlicensed street parties and stage takeovers in the mid-late ‘00s began to sprout up around the city — the inaugural Chun You festival kicked off from a makeshift pallet stage in the outskirts of Flower Town, and the hedonistic rave scene exploded in the Poly Centre at clubs like Here We Go and .TAG, bubbling alongside a nexus of hippie dive bars like Hemp House, Lan Town and Machu Picchu, and the sweaty mosh-pits of stalwart venues Little Bar and Jah Bar. Nine years is an aeon in a Chinese megacity — where for most, only the stories remain.

Enter the gates beneath the rusty blue Sichuan Chemical Co. sign, give the bao’an 1 kuai to open the door after midnight, turn left and you’d arrived. As a DIY venue, 24/7 bar and youth hostel with 26 rooms spread across a pair of three-story brick walk-ups, Steam felt like a small village unto itself — a hidden, tree-covered utopia, home to live-in staff, touring musicians, waimai guys and wanderlust backpackers, who mingled with a flow of late-night regulars that floated in after the main gigs had ended elsewhere — bandmates, stragglers and instruments in tow.

Anchored by a low stage, wood-top bar and foosball table, the bar was an 86 square meter concrete lounge, fitted with a steel-framed mezzanine, which spewed out into courtyard furnished with a pool table and tatty sofas — the feeding grounds for a long lineage of Wuhou street cats and the most bloodthirsty mosquitos south of the Nan River. Above the dorms, the rooftop was prime for sinking bevs in the summer and roasting potatoes in the winter, which in the early days was heaped with a pile of old mattresses that were playfully (or perilously) reimagined as an open-air bouncy castle.

A bit hippie, a bit grunge, and at times, a bit gross (lol), Steam had a dilapidated charm that set it apart from the sleek aesthetic of the new livehouses. Loud metal pipes gurgled alongside the clatter of the foosball table, and sometimes in the quiet hours, rats could be seen scuttling up the shelves. Like an artist squat or student flat, it was a magnet for random furniture and quirky decor — a living, breathing organism that grew as we did, morphing with each layer of posters and spray paint. Walls were tattooed with graffiti and toilet jokes, adorned with dismembered guitar limbs, while glasses sat atop the chassis of an old piano, and the beer fridges were plastered with so many stickers you could barely see the contents.

On any given night, members of bands like Mosaic 马赛克, Stolen 秘密行动 and Sound Toy 声音玩具 could be found among the bar’s faithful, a motley assemblage of VJs, promoters, barbers, dancers, slackers and white collars. Rockstars like Black Rebel Motorcycle Club, Joyside and even Ezra Miller came through the doors, drinking shoulder to shoulder with broke students and bunk-bed renters, shrouded beneath the same blueish-orange glow.

As was tradition, guests were treated to a ‘Steam Hostel’ on arrival — a nauseating hit of flaming absinthe inhaled through a straw, while a gold bell dangled proudly from the ceiling, vigorously clanged at any given moment to herald another round of shots for the bar. People and pets came and went. The doors were always open.

While the bar doubled as the reception, nights regularly drew out into the early hours, often resulting in dazed travelers from Hostelworld and Qunar trying to check-in amidst a cacophony of beer-chugging tunes and screeches of “我排一个！” from the foosball table. Manned by the friendly face of long-term bar manager Dalong and a cheeky band of young part-timers, who flocked to Chengdu from neighboring provinces like Yunnan, Guizhou and Chongqing — the rowdy front-of-house crew were as much a part of the party as the punters themselves.

Over the years, Steam was host to several hallmark events that defined the general vibe: the hotly-contested Foosball Competition, complete with monthly rankings, trophies and of course, Queen, the cheeky ‘乱听乱放’ series of DJ sets by non-DJs — a messy array of RATM head-bangers back-to-back with Lion King scream-a-longs, and Elec-Gym 电子健身房, which owing to the propulsion of Mao Mao, a former guitarist turned modular synthesizer addict, rose from the ashes of likeminded hardware meet-ups like Shift A and SYNC to create space for beats and bleeps to be cranked through the venue’s banging soundsystem.

Steam had a plug-in-and-play attitude, free of the red-tape that looms over the livehouses — no permits, no set start or finish times, no fuss. Never fully defined as ‘live venue’ per se, Steam gigs were unrivaled nights of indulgence — from punk shows by XI’ER喜儿 and Big Fight Chengdu, to the immersive psychedelia of Cosmyte from France, to premieres and piss-ups by local video makers. Birthdays, anniversaries, leaving parties, after after parties… mishmash line-ups of DJs and live artists that pinged back and forth between the stage and a wobbly makeshift booth in the centre of the bar, which had crowds heaving across the dancefloor to everything from acid house to ABBA.

Bands were formed and destroyed upon its hallowed blue stage, witness to both mind-blowing musical magic and downright offensive assaults on the senses. Those late-night jams are some of my fondest memories, galvanized by a ready rotation of regulars on guitar, bass and drums. The gear was haggard (the kick pedal skewered together with a chopstick), and like everything about the place, improvisation was key.

After gigs finished at NU SPACE, I’d often bring through curious international bands to see how they’d play out in wildcard combinations on stage, like a twisted lab experiment: add beer, amplifiers, and stir. On his second trip to Chengdu, eclectic electronic loop artist Jacques revelled in a week-long residency, while French A/V experimentalists Grand 8 and Pabloïd loved the vibe so much they added an extra show. Much like the ‘sunrise syndrome’ of clubbers at .TAG, those enraptured by the bar were often found bleary-eyed, button-mashing their phones at 5am, trying change their outgoing flights.

Indeed, Steam’s gradual evolution from rock dive to techno testing zone was emblematic of the city’s growing hunger for club music — dating back to the burgeoning dancefloors of Underground and Xiong Mao, to the hectic clubs of the Poly Centre, which spread like wildfire across Kehua Beilu to 339 TV Tower and beyond.

As the citywide ‘noise pollution’ campaign saw the downfall of the Poly Centre in mid-2017, Steam opened the second floor of the dorm block to a small community of tattooists, videographers and vinyl shops, including Shiquannn Ink, New Noise, and Havoc Studio, which saw its symbiotic, living room energy blossom even further. It was only in 2019, when the hostel was purchased by Together and set for a full renovation, that a padlock was acquired to lock the bar doors for the first time. Less than a year after its head-to-toe glow up, Covid hit, and the rest is history.

Steam’s closure marks the end of an era, as another of Chengdu’s grimy, inner-city venues fades into local nightlife folklore, and the mainstream venues continue their cycle of raze, replace, repeat. As China slogs through its third year of Zero-Covid with no sign of letting up, countless bars, clubs and music spots remain on tenterhooks around the country, waiting to see what changes, if any, will come from the National Congress meeting in October.

Nights at Steam were visceral displays of both joyous revelry and shitfaced carnage, from impromptu karaoke, mijiu-fuelled dance frenzies, collective Christmas memory blanks (where we managed to blow up two turntables), the ritual anniversary sprawl of comatose bodies, and perhaps the most quintessential Steam moment ever — where the police shutdown my 30th birthday,  then a drunken companion slipped in a pool of vomit and smashed her two front teeth out. Steam, my friend, it’s been real.

Owing to lockdown and financial ruin, Steam was deprived of the emotional farewell piss-up she deserved. Yet as we gaze back into the bloodshot eyes of the past — older and perhaps a little wiser — one can’t help but wonder: can we still drink like that? Do we still want to drink like that? As much of the flock settle down with yoga, tea and/or babies, the answer is probably: I’m good, but thanks.

Steam was our happy place — a space to congregate and conversate, to drink and be merry, recharge batteries, or to borrow an OG Chengdu catchphrase, to ‘Fly Eat Sleep’. It wasn’t just a bar, or a hostel — it was a faithful friend who was there to catch us when we fell (off a barstool or otherwise).

The Queen is Dead. To all those who at some point found solace in her scruffy, beer-splattered bosom, she will continue to resonate in our hearts (and livers) for the rest of our days.

Shine on, Steam, you crazy diamond.
Thanks for the memories, we will always love you.

近十年来，不论是音乐人，艺术从业者，还是外地来成都的背包客们的心头好，也是深夜休闲不二选择的蒸汽旅舍，这次是真的关了。

又一个家伙完蛋了——蒸汽是最近一个被长期停业和旅游业萎靡压倒的受害者，距这个城市近期“原则居家”政策的实施开始仅几周时间。这个场地在上个月发出了最后一个名为“再见”的微信推送（浏览量超过32000次），此后，帖子下面涌现出来自全国各地带有😭和❤️的跟帖。在一片暖心的赞辞涌现的同时，社交媒体上令人沮丧的消息也层出不穷：活动取消，自然灾害，甚至还有鱼被“大白”捅喉咙测核酸的新闻。

蒸汽旅舍位于武侯祠大街上一个不起眼的老旧国有小区，隐匿于藏民聚集区和二环路巨大船型建筑万里号之间，由摇滚乐手，建筑设计师，工程师于2013年一起创立。当耗资数十亿元的庞大建筑“新世纪环球中心”吞没了天府大道南段的街道时，蒸汽带着它邋遢又朴实无华的魅力，静悄悄地搬到了老城区的主干道。

随着北京最高领导层的更替，成都的青年文化迎来了具有里程碑意义的一年。2000年代中后期，在没有许可证的街头派对以及俱乐部策划的音乐活动中播下的种子开始在这座城市遍地发芽。首届春游音乐节在市郊三圣乡一个临时搭建的舞台上拉开了帷幕，一场接一场以享乐主义为核心的锐舞派对在保利中心的俱乐部HereWeGo, .TAG等不断迸发，与此同时，一连串嬉皮士潜水的酒吧，例如麻糖，蓝堂，和马丘比丘也相继出现，另外还有汗水坑一般的摇滚音乐胜地小酒馆和家吧。九年时间对一个人口超过千万的中国城市来说也许是漫长的，但对于大部分的人，留下的也只是回忆了。 

穿过四川化工工业研究设计院生锈的蓝色大门，过了午夜需交给保安一块钱开门费，再左转，就来到蒸汽旅舍了。作为一个DIY的场地，蒸汽有一个每天24小时营业的酒吧，还有一部分则是分布在三层楼上的，由两个步行楼梯连接的总共26个房间的青年旅舍。蒸汽旅舍本身的感觉就像一个小村庄，一个绿树成荫的乌托邦，这里住着他们的员工，巡演的音乐人，外卖送餐员，还有永远在路上的背包客。这些人跟演出结束后带着乐器在深夜出现的乐队成员，以及那些从别的派对上落单的人混在一起。

蒸汽酒吧的主要组成部分是一个低矮的舞台，一个木制吧台和一个波比球桌。这个配有钢架夹层楼的86平米水泥休息室大门外面的庭院里放着一张台球桌和一长排破旧的沙发，让武侯区街上的夜猫子们，还有南河南岸嗜血的蚊子们流连忘返。位于宿舍上方的屋顶也成了玩乐的胜地，夏天可以畅饮，冬天可以烤土豆，这里曾经还堆了一些旧床垫，被大家当成充气城堡玩。

有一些嬉皮，有一些颓废，还一直挺恶心（笑），蒸汽旅舍有一种破破烂烂的独特魅力，使它与新的livehouse整洁大气的审美区别开来。酒吧里的波比球的金属管在咔哒声中发出响亮的咯咯声，有时候大家安静下来了，还能看见老鼠在架子上爬来爬去。这里就如被艺术家占领来进行艺术创作的废弃楼房，亦或学生公寓一般，是一块总会吸来胡乱又随意的家具和古怪装饰物的磁铁。这是一个有生命，有呼吸，和我们共同生长的有机体，它随着每一层活动海报和每一次涂鸦变化着形态。酒吧墙上写满了涂鸦和厕所笑话，被肢解的吉他衬托着又显得挺好看，旧钢琴的底盘上面放了一堆杯子，装啤酒的冰箱玻璃门上粘满了贴纸，几乎看不见冰箱的内容物。

在随便一个晚上，在混杂着VJ，活动策划，理发师，舞者，游手好闲人士和白领的一票忠粉中，总能看见马赛克，秘密行动，声音玩具这些乐队成员的身影。像Black Rebel Motorcycle Club，Joyside这样的摇滚明星，甚至还有著名影星Ezra Miller也都从这个门口走进来，跟破产的学生，睡双层床的租客们并肩喝酒，笼罩在同样的蓝橘色灯光下。

按照传统，外地来的客人抵达后都有个特殊待遇，即用吸管干完一杯燃烧的苦艾酒。天花板上挂的金色铃铛发出的剧烈响声预示着吧台正在准备进行新一轮一饮而尽。人和宠物在这里来来去去，大门却总是敞开。

蒸汽酒吧有“即插即演”的态度，省去了笼罩在livehouse上方的繁文缛节，无需许可证，不规定演出开始和结束的时间，更随意。蒸汽本身并没有把自己定义为现场演出的场所，蒸汽的演出是一次次无与伦比的放纵之夜。从喜儿，BFCD的朋克，到法国的Cosmyte的沉浸式迷幻，再到本地制片人的首映式和畅饮派对。在生日派对，周年庆，告别派对，派对以后再以后的派对上，风格各异的DJ们和做live演出的艺人们在舞台和酒吧中央摇摇晃晃的设备台子之间来回穿梭，让人群跟着Acid House或者ABBA的歌疯狂舞动。

这个空空的舞台上，有乐队不断地组合又解散，它亲眼目睹了音乐的魔力也亲历了彻头彻尾的攻击性噪音。由酒吧常客们的贝司，吉他，鼓激情碰撞出的深夜即兴演奏环节成了我最美好的回忆片段。和这里别的东西一样，乐器很陈旧（底鼓的脚踏板用筷子串在一起），但任意拼凑恰恰正是即兴的关键。我经常在Nu Space的演出结束后带一些好奇的外国乐队来这里，他们对这种野路子的玩法跃跃欲试，就像是要去做一个把啤酒，音响都放进去再搅一搅的扭曲实验。

蒸汽吧台同时也是蒸汽旅舍的前台，由于这些夜晚常常拉到天亮，于是常常会有从Hostelworld还有去哪儿上找过来的，还在懵逼的旅客走进来，在大口干啤酒的人和波比球边高喊着“我排一个！”的人发出的一片嘈杂声中办理入住。酒吧员工由经理大龙，还有来自云南，贵州，重庆等周边省份的活泼的年轻人构成。这个吵吵闹闹的员工组合正如他们中每一个人鲜明的个性一样，代表着蒸汽独特的个性。

多年来，蒸汽举办的诸多标志性的活动也定义了它整体的氛围：有以评级和奖品作为奖励机制，竞争激烈的波比球比赛；名为“乱听乱放”的派对，只邀请不是DJ的人来播放音乐，其间你能听到暴力反抗机器般的热血旋律，也能听到狮子王式的嚎叫；还有名为“Elec-Gym”的合成器爱好者音乐活动。由前吉他手，现狂热合成器发烧友毛毛发起，一票志同道合的爱好者在Shift A和SYNC这样的即兴现场音乐活动中开始渐渐熟悉，并最终汇集在“电子音乐健身房”，一同利用蒸汽的声音系统用硬件调出各自的声音。

事实上，蒸汽从观众玩跳水那样的摇滚场地演化到科技舞曲的实验场地，正是这个城市对俱乐部音乐日益渴望的象征——从最早的Underground和Xiongmao俱乐部里朝气蓬勃的舞池，一直到2010年代，俱乐部文化像野火一样从保利中心蔓延到339电视塔甚至其他区域。

2017年，一场全市范围内清除噪音污染的运动直接导致了保利中心的俱乐部在同年中期大量关停。蒸汽同时也把其旅舍的其中一层楼面向一小众纹身师，影视制作人，黑胶唱片店开放了，这其中有石泉刺青小屋， New Noise 和 Havoc Studio。自此，蒸汽本身那种共生的，包容友好的能量变得愈发明显。2019年，当一起一起旅舍买下这个旅舍并决定对其进行整体改造的时候，蒸汽才第一次锁上了大门。然而就在蒸汽容光焕发后不到仅仅一年，新冠疫情开始了，剩下的事情大家就都知道了。

蒸汽的结束标志着一个时代的结束，当这个城市又一个脏兮兮的小场地渐渐变成人们口中的城市夜生活都市传说，其他的主流夜店也在不断重复着从垮掉到更替的循环。随着中国在完全没有任何结束迹象的新冠疫情清零政策里的艰难跋涉进入第三个年头，全国无数个酒吧和音乐场地都在提心吊胆地等待着即将在十月召开的“二十大”的结果。

不论是喜悦的狂欢还是借酒浇愁的烂醉，蒸汽的夜总是发自肺腑地真实。从毫无准备的卡拉OK，米酒助兴的纵情狂舞，到圣诞夜晚上的集体失忆（烧坏了两台黑胶唱机），喝到七歪八倒的周年庆，还有也许也是最典型的蒸汽——警察叫停了我30岁的生日派对，然后一个伙伴摔进一滩呕吐物并且撞掉了她的两颗门牙。蒸汽，我的朋友，这一切都太真实。

由于疫情封控和蒸汽的财务状况，蒸汽没有举办它应当有的告别派对。当我们凝视曾经布满血丝的眼睛——年纪大了，也许也更聪明了——不禁忍不住思考：我们还像以前那样喝酒吗？我们还想不想像以前那样喝酒？我们中的很多人已经在家中跟瑜伽，茶，亦或与小孩安顿下来，答案或许是：不用，谢谢。

蒸汽是我们的快乐老家，是一个聚会交流，欢乐畅饮的空间，放飞自我，吃好睡好，或引用一个OG成都的口号：Fly Eat Sleep。蒸汽不仅仅是一个酒吧或一个旅舍。当我们从高脚凳或从别的地方摔下来的时候，蒸汽是一个会及时出现并张开双臂接住我们的忠实的朋友。

女王走了。对于所有曾经在她溅满啤酒渍的邋遢胸膛得到过慰藉的人，在我们余下的人生中，蒸汽会永远在我们的心（还有肝脏）里与我们共鸣。

Shine on you crazy diamond, 蒸汽。
感谢你留给我们的回忆，我们会永远爱你。

中文翻译：Luna Li