That was the address, Ten Sixty-Seven Granville. It didn’t look like much. Just another building on a forgettable stretch of Granville Street downtown. The kind of place you’d pass a hundred times and never notice. Its entrance wasn’t even on the street, but down the alley, past the puddles, the graffiti, and the ever-present stink of rain-soaked garbage from a dumpster that had seen far too much.

The door was heavy metal, scuffed, dented, and handleless. There was no sign, no welcome, nothing to suggest you should try to go in. Just a single, easily missed detail: the word “music” scrawled in faint Sharpie in the top right corner. You’d only notice it if you knew to look, and even then, only if you were tall. That was the only hint. Everything about the door seemed to say, “Keep walking. There’s nothing for you here.”

If a show was on, and you’d only know if someone told you directly, because it was never posted online or announced anywhere publicly, you’d make your way to that door a little before start time. You’d knock, glance up at the small hidden camera above, and wait for the click. The door would swing open, and you’d find yourself face-to-face with an art school kid giving you a deadpan look. You’d hand over five bucks, mumble “here for the show,” and they’d step aside.

What followed was a walk through time. Long, empty hallways that echoed with the silence of decades. Then, finally, the room. It was a cavernous space, sloping downward toward a makeshift stage. At the bottom, on a worn area rug, were a few old lights, some mic stands, and instruments waiting to come alive. Rows of mismatched couches, sagging, threadbare, rescued from curbs and back alleys, faced the stage like pews in some strange, sacred church of sound.

The air hung heavy with the sweet, familiar haze of weed smoke. Red-glowing joints passed between hands. The crowd murmured, their voices reverent with anticipation. People clutched tall cans of cheap beer, sold for five bucks a pop by another hipster stationed behind a mini fridge in the back.

Then, a few musicians would quietly step onto the carpet beneath the lights and begin picking up their instruments. Slowly, a hush would ripple through the crowd as it became clear that the show was about to begin.

Then, the sound. The sound that was created there was indescribable. It filled every inch of space, slipping into every crack, corner, and crevice of that big sloping room. I had never experienced anything like it. The entire crowd was unanimous, completely focused, as if nothing else existed beyond that moment and that music.

It felt sacred. Like I was witnessing something holy.

I went to a handful of shows there, all completely different, all weird, and all magical. Eventually, people stopped talking about 1067. Then I heard it had closed. 

It wasn’t fancy. It wasn’t clean. But 1067 was magic. A hidden pocket in time where music felt secret and alive, where everyone who made it inside knew they were part of something fleeting and special. You didn’t find 1067. Someone had to bring you. And once you’d been, you never really left it behind.

Written by Alana Black | Evolution Media

www.alanablackmedia.com

Contact: ablack23@my.bcit.ca