Mekhi Bessel was maybe the top indie promoter in all of Greater Boston. He could get anyone to come to anything. He could get the Saudi kids from BU to show up to a football game at BC. He could get the cokehead finals club WASPs from Harvard to a poetry slam at Chocolate City, the Afro-theme house at MIT. And he knew from experience he could get the Euro-Latins from Emerson to dance salsa in the freezing cold to Israeli rock music in the parking lot outside the Beanpot hockey semi-final. He had been an indiscriminate impresario since his sophomore year in college when he produced his first play and charged for it in violation of Theater Club rules. Now, at 24, he had a whole series of gigs under his belt: nightclubs, rock and roll bands, hockey, football, girl’s lacrosse, good seating at the Head of the Charles, poetry reading, hip-hop (battles, a-cappella, and instrumental), dj’s, album launch, magazine launch, school committee candidate (Alan Price, Democrat, victorious), class day at Lesley University, ill-fated steak-and-live-blues restaurant, not-ill-fated brunch-and-live-blues restaurant, independent movie premieres, and the highly lucrative after-hours party. Boston shut down at 1 a.m., so the party had to go somewhere just as it was getting going. Mekhi found the lofts, bought the liquor, paid the dj, and collected the bar and gate.
This is how he had run afoul of the Tygers brothers. They cooked all the nightlife in Boston. Last night was the first time they had given him such a serious beating.
