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The Vault Remembered By Benjy Eisen I remember the first time I went to The Vault in Harrisburg. I was 15 and living in Camp Hill. The year was 1991. When I danced that night, I was transformed. The awkwardness of adolescence disappeared. I danced with abandon. I danced without consciousness. I danced free. Later on, when I would turn 21 and return to The Vault, I danced still. But, by that time, I danced because I wanted to pick up girls, or because I had had a few drinks, or because I got hold of the beat and decided to let it ride. By that time too, you must realize, I had been to college and back, across the country and back, across continents and back. I had danced in nightclubs in Boston, atop the Rockies in Colorado, alongside the Columbia River Gorge in Washington, in a cornfield amphitheater outside of Indianapolis, on an abandoned air force base in Maine, in an oceanfront bar on the Outer Banks of North Carolina, in arenas, amphitheaters, and nightclubs scattered all across America like pushpins on a map, sometimes to music, sometimes to nothing at all, but always dancing. Form wise, I’ve gotten better at dancing just as I’ve gotten better at everything as I’ve grown older. Except innocence perhaps. My arms may work better, my legs may have picked up a fancier two-step, but there was something about it when I danced at The Vault back in those days when it first opened and I was just a teenager, which can never be equaled. There was a certain urgency about it, a certain thrill that is only available to any one once in a lifetime, the thrill of induction into a larger world, and for me that induction came at The Vault. I’m confident that The Vault itself as an establishment has a lot to do with it. Of course, it was the only place around here that had an “Under 21” dance night, without being an all-age venue the rest of the week, and there was something special about that. It was like being given a glimpse into that larger world and, as I later found out, sometimes glimpses are better than the full monty. For a couple hours once a week I was given limited access to an out-of-bound realm, a ninth grade student dancing on an adult floor. I was mesmerized by the atmosphere, by walking up two flights of stairs above a hardware store where lights flashed and music thundered like an electrical storm, the electricity building in the air, kids dancing everywhere, their faces illuminated by the storm, hidden in the darkness under black-lights that made their clothing glow and their confidence grow. I’d sit on the giant steps next to the DJ booth talking with friends of mine that I had met there, on that dance floor, in that room, that went to different schools and had different backgrounds. But there we were at The Vault, every Sunday night, a secret Sunday mass of kids getting down for the ages and a five dollar cover. And oh man, it was beautiful. Eventually The Vault started to fade out, with the accumulation of the years showing through its wrinkles, and new hot spots opened up blocks away with a fresh layer of glitz, gold, and promises. Where do the “Under 21” go to dance anymore? I don’t know. Odyssey perhaps. But Odyssey is always “Under 21” so there can’t be that feeling of covert activity, dancing openly in an otherwise unopened universe. There can’t be the electricity of being downtown, on streets filled with adult activities. And even if there was, it still wouldn’t be The Vault. To me, The Vault represented freedom. The Vault represented a coming of age. As The Vault became older, so did I, and as it closes its doors this month, so, too, closes a chapter of my youth. I sure am going to miss that place. The Vault will host its last show on Friday, June 8. The Martini Bros. headline.