A vacant downtown office building once housed Casper’s hottest nightclub

For the past two weeks, you’ve been working on a rig in the middle of the prairie. Out there, all there is to do is play cards, smoke cigarettes and watch the wind blow.

But tonight, you’re back in town with a wad of cash in your wallet that you can’t wait to burn.

You pull open the lobby doors of the towering building on the corner of First and Center in downtown Casper — and as expected, there’s a long line.

Everyone’s sporting bell bottom jeans, polyester shirts and artificially curly hair. A classy looking crowd, sure, but your orange three-piece leisure suit puts them all to shame.

Fifteen minutes later, and it’s your turn to go up. You flash the bouncer your membership card and squeeze into a wood-paneled cabin with seven strangers.

The doors close, and for 30 seconds, it’s quiet. The elevator dings once, twice, nine times, then slows to a halt.

Even before the doors open, you can tell what song’s playing: “Funkytown” by Lipps Inc. Not your favorite, but you don’t let it ruin your good mood. You make a mental note to request some Bee Gees before the night is over.

The elevator doors part, and suddenly you’re overwhelmed by the smell of smoke and perfume.

The disco ball, the dance floor, the sequined stage curtain. No matter where you look, there’s beams of light in your eyes, putting you in a trance.

You elbow your way through the throngs of people crowding the bar. The brown linoleum countertop is covered in beers, Styrofoam cups and amber-colored ashtrays.

The mustachioed bartender (wearing a collared shirt and, astonishingly, a sweater vest) already knows your cocktail of choice.

He prepares a peach-colored drink with an orange wedge, a maraschino cherry and a little paper umbrella poking out the top. Just how you like it.

You gingerly carry it to an open mushroom-shaped stool on the perimeter of the room, right next to a guy in sunglasses. His rhinestone-studded ranch shirt is halfway unbuttoned. A gold chain dangles from his neck. You exchange a nod.

You turn your gaze to the dancefloor, which is shrouded in a cloud of fog, and see someone who catches your eye. A song booms from the speakers.

You finish your drink and shuffle over.

Have you ever wondered what’s on top of that boxy, beige building on the corner of First and Center? The one that looks like an air traffic control tower, what with all those windows.

Forty-five years ago, it was a nightclub called Studio 9.

Studio 9 burned fast and bright, like a sparkler. When it opened during the height of disco, it was the biggest deal in town. And once it was gone, Casper would never see anything like it again.

The building, constructed in 1954, began as an addition to the former Gladstone hotel.

The ninth floor was originally an upscale restaurant called the Sky Room — the kind of place where social clubs would meet to have tea and gossip to the backdrop of a classical music trio.

But the Gladstone ultimately went out of business and in 1970, the original portion of the building was torn down. The 1954 addition — the part with the Sky Room, that is — was left standing, though it would struggle with turnover for several years.

Fast forward to ’78. The former Gladstone, now an office building, had a new tenant.

This time, the penthouse at 100 N. Center Street would be just as glamorous as the Sky Room, but without all that suffocating modesty. Floral curtains, string trios and napkins folded into little pyramids were out. Sleaze, sparkle and strobe lights were in.

The ceiling and walls were tinted a glittery copper color, and spray painted with cartoonish white, orange and red clouds.

The name Studio 9 was no doubt an homage to New York City’s Studio 54, one of the most famous discos at the time.

Not that they had a ton in common — this was Casper, after all. Not Manhattan.

Still, someone was clearly eager to compare the two. A Star-Tribune edition from November 1978 claims Studio 9 was designed by someone who had worked on Studio 54.

It’s unclear where that rumor came from. The designer of Studio 9 was listed as “Ricardo of Beverly Hills,” but that’s a luggage brand. There’s nothing to suggest the company ever did interior design — let alone for a famous New York nightclub.

In any case, the disco craze couldn’t have come at a better time for Casper. Thanks to the energy boom at the time, the city was flush with spending money and high on optimism.

Alongside The Beacon Club and The Wonder Bar, Studio 9 became part of the trifecta of famed Casper nighttime establishments, former patrons said.

Brenda Evans, who still lives in town, remembers going on a date to Studio 9 with a man who worked for Gulf Oil. (At some point, the company gave its employees free Studio 9 memberships, she said.)

She remembers there being a dress code — she wore a beige satin blouse with a red polyester skirt and platform sandals; he wore a suit.

Funny enough, Evans doesn’t remember dancing. In the establishment’s early days, people may have been little more reserved, she said.

“It was more a place to listen to music and to be seen,” said Evans.

And there was a lot to see: Swimsuit models. Belly dancers. Male strippers on Thursday nights.

For those who did dance, there were fog machines and plenty of lights, said former DJ Duane Tucker.

“You could see all my light shows going on anywhere around town,” he said.

Some of Tucker’s favorite disco songs: “You Dropped a Bomb On Me,” “P.Y.T.,” “On the Radio” and “Shame.” But he played other genres, too; studio 9 had ‘50s and ‘60s nights, for example.

“You got a mixture of culture and music — which, I liked all of them, being a DJ,” he said.

More than anything else, he remembers Studio 9 as a fun, carefree place to enjoy music, dance and spend time with friends.

But all songs come to an end. By 1980 disco fever was subsiding, and a decade of economic recession would soon have Casper by the throat.

Meanwhile, safety concerns and a souring reputation were haunting Studio 9.

According to one Star-Tribune article from that May, the city of Casper threatened to pull Studio 9’s liquor license due to complaints of unruly customers and overcrowding. (Yes, there were fights, Tucker recalls — but he maintains that Studio 9 was no worse than other nighttime establishments.)

Customers weren’t the only ones accused of roughhousing, though; that December, a man filed suit against a Studio 9 bouncer after sustaining injuries that he said put him in a hospital for eight days.

Though the exact circumstances of its closure are uncertain, Studio 9 shuttered the following July.

Don Goodman — a former Studio 9 employee who passed away in 2022 — captured its last night on camera.

His photos depict feather-headed Casper residents crowding the dance floor. Most are in jeans and button-downs, some are in tees, some in dresses and ornately patterned dress shirts.

And they show a close-knit staff not ready to say goodnight.

It’s 11 on a Monday morning. You pull open the lobby doors of the towering building on the corner of First and Center in downtown Casper.

There’s no one inside, all the lights are off and it’s freezing.

The brass elevator buttons are dirty and scratched. Your stomach turns. Should you really be here right now?

You press the up arrow before you change your mind. The wood-paneled elevator cabin arrives promptly.

There’s a lantern on the floor, which gives off a soft orange glow. As you walk inside, you hear something crunch under your shoe — broken glass.

A ceiling panel is missing, and you catch a glimpse of the fathomless elevator shaft looming over your head.

You hold your breath as the cabin dings once, twice, nine times. Your hands are becoming red and stiff from the cold.

When the elevator doors open, there’s no music on the other side. Just the smell of dust and paint.

Today, 100 N. Center Street — now called the First and Center Building — is owned by Casper businessman Marvin Piel.

Piel dreamed of restoring the building. He envisioned a new restaurant on the ninth floor. Floors two through seven would be rentable office space.

With blue and orange shag carpets and pink and green tile bathrooms, those floors are just as much a time capsule as Studio 9. While they’re a little outdated, and hibernating under thick layers of dust, they still manage to look charming.

Including purchase price and renovations, Piel says he’s already poured approximately $675,000 into First and Center.

But updates to local fire codes have added another series of mandatory — but prohibitively expensive — repairs to his list.

The inside staircase would have to be widened by a foot, for example. He’d also have to update the elevator, he said.

He said the whole thing could cost him between $2 million and $3 million.

So he’s trying to cut bait. It’s been on the market for a few years now, though, and he’s losing hope it’ll ever sell.

Like Piel, plenty of people are enamored of the First and Center Street Building’s unique history — not the least because of Studio 9.

Jerry Ressler, the listing agent for the property, said he’s already heard from probably a hundred interested buyers. But everyone balks when they find out how much work it would be to get it up to code.

Is it even possible at this point? The building’s 70 years old, after all. It wasn’t built with today’s safety standards in mind.

While the rules are there for good reason, sometimes there are work-arounds, said Jason Parks, community risk reduction officer for Casper Fire-EMS.

“We take each one case-by-case,” said Parks.

“I guess it’s just going to sit there,” he said. He’s thinking of renting out the lot for parking space.

You exit the elevator, and walk into the open room. It’s dark and gray and empty, like a mausoleum.

Some of the windows are broken. Some of the ceiling lights are dangling from their sockets.

There’s no more disco ball, no more strobe lights.

The ceiling is still a glittery copper. There are white, orange and red clouds on the walls.

You walk up to the big windows and peer down at the city below, at all the cars hurrying down First and Center streets.

For a brief moment, it feels like nothing has changed. But things have. These days, your knees ache. Luckily, there’s a stray chair in the corner of the room.

Gingerly, you lower yourself into the seat. There was a time you could spend all night dancing, but you can hardly believe it now.

Your gaze wanders to the dancefloor — or what’s left of it, anyway. You close your eyes and can almost hear the music.