Tucson Audio Tour: Tracks, Tales & Timeless Walls

Now, imagine it’s 1920—Congress Street is buzzing, people in bowler hats and flapper dresses crowd the sidewalks, and right here, the Rialto Theatre opens its doors for the very first time. Back then, the excitement wasn’t for rock bands or stand-up comedy, but for silent movies flickering away on the big screen and vaudeville acts that could make you laugh, gasp, or even hide your eyes behind your popcorn. The first movie ever shown here? An old western called “The Toll Gate.” Picture the crowd, holding their breath as a villain gets chased across the wild frontier! Just across the street, the builders of the Rialto were also busy finishing up the Hotel Congress—same year, same team, two historic landmarks rising together. In those days, the Rialto was state-of-the-art, though believe it or not, “state-of-the-art” meant a swamp cooler for air conditioning—a far cry from the chilly blasts you get in theaters today. In 1929, the glamour got cranked up another notch when a big corporation, Paramount-Publix, took over. That’s when “talkies” arrived—movies with sound, if you can imagine the crowd’s excitement the first time voices crackled out of those big speakers! New red plush seats, fancy Art Nouveau decorations, and—trust me—some very relieved theatergoers when that swamp cooler was installed. But the Rialto’s life wasn’t all glitz and glamour. In the 1960s, things got tough. Downtown Tucson faced hard times, people moved out, and business dropped off. By 1963, the grand old theater was shut down, its grand stage forgotten as it filled up with dusty couches and dressers for a furniture store. Then came a new name—El Cine Plaza—and a totally new crowd, with Spanish-language films lighting up the screen. And, just when you think this theater’s seen it all, it briefly turned into an adult movie house! Yes, really—this place has probably seen more plot twists than a soap opera. Local legend even talks about an outraged resident who tried to burn the theater down, and actually succeeded in setting the balcony stairs on fire! After another stint as a Spanish-language cinema, a disastrous boiler explosion in 1984 nearly ended the story for good. The blast destroyed the stage and forced the city to shut the building down. For years, the Rialto just sat here, silent and empty, saved only by its sturdy walls and the memories of thousands of Tucsonans. But in 1995, the Rialto’s hero moment arrived. Paul Bear and Jeb Schoonover took a gamble, bought the theater, and brought the music roaring back. Suddenly, the Rialto was hosting some of the biggest acts around—from rock bands like The Black Crowes and Linkin Park to comedy legends like Dave Chappelle. It was the place to be, drawing crowds downtown once again. Every show brought its own rhythm and roar; you could practically feel the bass shaking the walls during a good concert! In 2004, a new era began when the City of Tucson purchased the building and the Rialto Theatre Foundation stepped in. Over two million dollars went into sprucing up those battered old seats, patching up walls, polishing historic Art Nouveau touches—and, finally, putting in some REAL air conditioning. Now, with improved acoustics and a dazzling mix of concerts, dance, and special events, the Rialto welcomes over 100,000 visitors a year and throws more than 150 events annually.

Alright, let’s time travel just a bit, right where you’re standing. Imagine this place not as a simple building, but as a living, humming beehive of creative energy and clashing sounds: guitars tuning up, sneakers squeaking across the floor, bursts of laughter, the muffled thump of breakdancing beats, and the ever-present shuffle of young people coming and going. Skrappy’s was founded back in 1995 by Kathy Wooldridge, but calling it just a venue doesn’t really do it justice—it was more like a secret clubhouse that the whole city was invited to join, as long as you followed one big rule: “No bad vibes allowed, folks!” The walls inside buzzed with posters and art. It was the kind of place where graffiti was encouraged, poetry flowed from open mics, and the hum of sewing machines might mingle with the feedback from an amp. It didn’t matter what you wore or where you came from: all you had to bring was yourself—and maybe a friend or two. Need a place to rock out without the booze and mess? This was your spot. Wanted to learn karate, photography, or how to print your own zines? You name it, Skrappy’s probably had a class for it. But hey, this story has some drama! One wild night in 2005, a brawl broke out during a hard-core metal show that spilled out into the parking lot—think more “Wild West” than “peaceful youth center.” It got so hairy, someone ended up drawing a weapon, and, believe it or not, someone was shot. The person who fired wasn’t charged, but the organization running Skrappy’s had to dig deep for a big settlement, and their finances never quite bounced back. Still, as wild as it got sometimes, the heart of Skrappy’s kept beating—offering jobs, food, counseling, and especially, hope. More than 16,000 young people got help here—sometimes a warm meal, sometimes just a hug, sometimes a ticket to their first ever punk show.

Directly ahead, look for a bold red two-story corner building with big “CHICAGO STORE” letters painted across its front—mural art and arched windows will help it stand out. Welcome to the J. C. Penney–Chicago Store Building! Imagine yourself back in 1903—horses clopping down the street, the air buzzing with talk of new hope as this building first opened its doors as the Los Angeles Furniture Co. Picture families peeking through grand windows, dazzled by furnishings they never dreamed of owning. Now, fast forward a few decades—by 1942, the J. C. Penney sign took its place, and the floors creaked under the steady march of customers chasing the latest fashion deals. In 1957, the Penney magic moved across the street, and the building welcomed the Aaronson Brothers, who tried their hand at the retail game. Finally, in 1967, the Chicago Store moved in, cramming the building with music—imagine trumpets and tambourines echoing through stamped tin ceilings and old, polished wood. This place was a time capsule of Tucson’s downtown, until the bittersweet sound of hammers and saws gutted the inside from 2020 to 2022. It’s a building shaped by dreams, ambition, and maybe a little bit of mystery—just think of all the secrets these walls have heard over more than a century!

Right now, you’re standing before a living slice of Tucson’s storied past! The James A. Walsh United States Courthouse may look like it’s keeping secrets behind its dignified Neoclassical face, but trust me, it’s got quite the tale—full of political wrangling, missed deadlines, and, believe it or not, a gas station or two. Imagine Tucson over a century ago, when the area around this very spot buzzed with anticipation. Back in 1910, Congress finally decided Arizona was worthy of statehood. Cue the confetti, right? Well, almost… They also approved the plan to pick a spot for a grand post office in Tucson—although for the next 20 years, Uncle Sam seemed to run on desert time. Every time Congress dragged its feet (which was often), the city of Tucson took action and even bought the perfect plot of land in 1911, eager to gift it to the federal government. But then, oh—the drama! It turns out that Congress decided to hit pause on building anything new. There was a moratorium, and while the feds twiddled their thumbs, the empty lot practically became the Swiss Army knife of Tucson, with businesses and a gas station popping up for a few years. Imagine—judges and lawyers now stroll across floors where “Fill ’er up!” once echoed. But at long last, in 1926, the moratorium lifted, and finally, in 1928, money appeared for design and construction. The Office of the Supervising Architect—under a fellow named James A. Wetmore—put together a Neoclassical dream with just a hint of Mission style, nodding respectfully to Arizona’s Spanish heritage. The result? The building you see before you—a boxy, powerful beauty finished with ornate terracotta, slender columns, and a truly impressive classical front that just dares you to walk up to its broad doors. Take a good look at the corners—those chunky terracotta quoins—almost like the courthouse is wearing a fancy suit with reinforced elbows! If we stood here on September 19, 1930, you would have seen Tucsonians in Sunday best, streaming in for the grand opening. Back then, the first floor was all humming post office action: letters, telegrams, coins clinking in brass tills, and the hope of airmail from faraway places. For decades, this was the beating heart of local communications, reporting everything from birthdays to broken hearts. But life in court is rarely still, and neither is this building. In the 1970s, the post office packed its bags for a new home, and the courtroom drama moved downstairs. The lovely, sunlight-drenched lobby where postmasters once greeted their neighbors was turned into a jury assembly room. Even the original skylight was covered up—though, don’t fret! When renovations swept through in the 2000s, many beautiful touches returned, like the basketweave-patterned terracotta floor tiles, smooth marble, and even those stately plaster crowns on the ceilings that turn every jury pool into a regal occasion. Through these walls echoed some of the most important cases in southern Arizona history: for most of his 29 years here, Judge James A. Walsh was the lone federal judge stationed in Tucson—talk about job security! The building took his name in 1985 as a tribute. In 2000, the U.S. District Court headed to a newer home, but this landmark wasn’t ready for retirement. No, sir! The U.S. Bankruptcy Court moved in, and by 2008, with major restoration work finished, the building had a new lease on life—all while preserving the fancy courtroom woodwork, high-beamed ceilings, and stenciled patterns that would make even the strictest judge smile. And there’s something else magical about this site. Even as the world outside changed, the courthouse kept most of its grand 1930 face intact. The Primary (South) Facade remains the showstopper, with double entryways sporting dramatic stone surrounds and two rows of tall, shapely pilasters. Look up for stylized eagles peering out between the top windows, almost like the building’s personal security detail!

Now, while you’re standing here craning your neck, let me tell you a tall tale—literally. Back in the 1980s, Tucson wanted more than just saguaros and sunsets; it aimed for the sky. Enter One South Church! We’re talking 23 stories—making it the undisputed tallest building in all of Tucson. Locals know it as “the one with the blue roof” or “the tallest building downtown,” and you’ve probably already used its shining glass walls as a beacon to find your way. Designed by Fentress Bradbrum Associates, this building was actually supposed to have a twin. Imagine—two shiny towers dominating the skyline… but alas, only one made it, so you’re gazing at Tucson’s lone skyscraper hero. Construction started in 1985, and when it opened in 1986, it was known as United Bank Tower—so banking folks must have felt on top of the world. Over the years, the building changed names and tenants—today you might find everything from insurance companies to fancy law firms working behind those mirrored windows. And get this: the bottom nine floors now host the sleek Leo Kent Hotel, ready for anyone dreaming of sleeping among the clouds.

Alright, here you are! Imagine standing on this very corner almost a century ago—Tucson’s streets buzzing with dreams, dust, and maybe the odd cowboy boot slipping during monsoon season. Before you rises Tucson’s oldest skyscraper, the mighty Valley National Bank Building, which first pierced the skyline in 1929. If you think today’s rents are high, try building a skyscraper back then for a cool million dollars! That’s right, when this ten-story giant opened, folks were so impressed, they might’ve needed to sit down…and fortunately, there was plenty of room in the original grand banking hall. Long before this elegant tower dominated the corner, banking began here in 1901 when the site was snapped up from General Levi Howard Manning—yep, the general himself. In those days, the very first building was designed by Henry Trost, but as Tucson grew, it simply couldn’t contain the city’s riches (or its big dreams), so it was torn down for something grander…and then, in a twist, that second building was too small too! What can I say, Tucsonans always aim high, especially in hats and architecture. Fast forward to 1928. Consolidated National decides Tucson needs something truly bold—a skyscraper, inspired by the flagship designs of the great 1893 Columbian Exposition in Chicago. It channels the Italian Renaissance Revival: that’s why you see those lush terra cotta trims, the cream and brick contrast, those gentle arches at the base, and even a cornice with Italianate panache. Peek near the roof and you’ll spot a black-and-red Southwest geometric motif, a nod to local native patterns. So yes, this bank made sure it had plenty of style to spare. Inside, it was a wonderland of art and luxury. Imagine stepping in to see murals painted by Anthony Heinsbergen, one of LA’s finest muralists, who adorned the lobby with scenes of manifest destiny and floral motifs celebrating America as “New Eden.” The beams were meticulously carved and painted with golden leaves, reds, greens, and blues. There was even a special director’s office walled in rare Bataan mahogany and a lounge catering specifically to ladies, trimmed with sparkling crystal chandeliers. And the vault? It held 3,000 safety deposit boxes. That’s a lot of family jewels…or perhaps just Tucson’s best collection of secret cookie recipes. Over time, the bank changed hands—Valley National out of Phoenix swept in during 1935, eventually merging into the big Bank One, and then Chase. The building kept hustling as a bank branch until the doors closed in December 2023, ending a chapter that spanned nearly a hundred years. Oh, and for movie buffs—parts of the 1956 thriller A Kiss Before Dying were set right here, so keep a lookout; you never know when Hollywood will sneak through Tucson again. Would you believe, underneath all this, it’s still a fortress: fireproof steel frame, poured concrete, and meant to stand forever.

Take a step closer to this dazzling piece of Tucson’s history and imagine downtown buzzing just like it did in 1930. Picture warm desert air, the slick shine on Congress Street reflecting festival lights, and a crowd so excited they could barely stand still—because on April 11th, 1930, the Fox Tucson Theatre opened its doors for the very first time. No kidding, it was the biggest party Tucson had ever seen: four live bands ringing out across the street, a live radio broadcast capturing the excitement, and folks doing the Charleston thanks to the freshly waxed street! They even handed out free trolley rides. I guess nobody was worrying about stepping on toes that night! But, let’s rewind just a little. The Fox was originally going to be called “The Tower” and was cooked up by Tucson’s theater-loving Diamos family as part of their Lyric Amusement chain. Well, along came the Fox company with a deal the Diamos family just couldn’t refuse—you know, like when you’re trying to hang on to the last piece of cake at a party and someone offers you a whole bakery instead. So, the Fox folks bought it, hired the former owners to manage it, and raised the bar for movie palaces in the whole Southwest. In fact, the Fox Tucson Theatre is the only Southwestern Art Deco movie palace of its kind—so take an extra look at the details, especially that stunning marquee. From its earliest days, the Fox was a dual-purpose venue, built for both vaudeville and those brand-new “talkie” movies. There were plans for a massive stage and dressing rooms, but the Great Depression had other ideas. In the scramble to finish, the budget ballooned and some spaces, like the dressing rooms under the stage, never got completed. Even so, the Fox stage still became the heart of Tucson’s entertainment scene, packed to its 1,200-seat limit for movies, community events, and even the ever-popular Mickey Mouse Club. Imagine the giggles, the hush when the lights fell, and, yes, the cheers for those early cartoons. But, just as in the movies, there’s always a twist. Despite the joy inside, not everyone got to sit where they wanted—the sad truth is the rest of programming was segregated and African American moviegoers were limited to the back balcony. It’s a somber reminder of our history, echoed by longtime Tucsonians like Flyod Thompson. For forty lively years, this theater dazzled the city, but a new reel started spinning: competition from other theaters and televisions flickering to life in living rooms meant fewer ticket stubs. The grand Fox closed its doors in 1974. Then came a long, dusty silence. The building fell into disrepair, unused and unloved for 25 years—a ghostly shell of its former glory, even housing more than 40 homeless people at its lowest point. But Tucson loves a comeback story! After long negotiations, a community group, the Fox Tucson Theatre Foundation, bought the building in 1999 for a quarter of a million dollars and rolled up their sleeves for a top-to-bottom rescue mission. Water damage, vandalism, peeling decorative plaster, missing lights—you name it, they fixed it. With public and private funding, plus a very creative use of historic tax credits, the Fox was restored piece by piece over six years, including that one-of-a-kind “Acoustone” sound treatment that makes the acoustics here so special.

Picture yourself in Tucson back in 1977—bell bottoms, disco, and suddenly, this gleaming giant called the Bank of America Plaza shoots up into the sky! It was taller than anything else around, stealing the spotlight from the Pima County Legal Services Building, which must have felt like an older sibling getting outgrown overnight. Architects Friedman & Jobusch wanted to build something you couldn’t miss, and with DEFCO Construction on the job, they made sure you’d spot this building from all over downtown. For almost a decade, it was Tucson’s tallest, giving everyone else a serious case of “building envy” until One South Church finally topped it in 1986.

Alright, take a good look up—you’re standing in front of one of Tucson’s most storied towers. If you had visited in 1929, you’d have probably had to dodge a parade of fancy hats and tuxedos, because the Pioneer Hotel was the glittering social hotspot of its time! Designed by Roy Place with elegant Spanish Revival touches, it quickly soared, both literally and socially, as Tucson’s first high-rise. Believe it or not, this place once held the largest ballroom in the entire country. Imagine the music, laughter, and the swish of ballgowns echoing across the marble floors—Tucson’s elite danced the nights away right above your head. Back in those days, the penthouse was home to Harold and Margaret Steinfeld, bigwigs who owned a bustling department store downtown. From their rooftop perch, they could gaze out over the city’s lights, surely never imagining the twist their fates would take. But we'll come back to that in a moment—hold on to your hat! In the mid-20th century, the Pioneer was where business cut deals by day and parties reigned by night. But just as this sparkling landmark shone its brightest, darkness fell in December 1970. Shortly after midnight, the unthinkable happened—a roaring fire broke out, consuming the upper floors as guests scrambled for safety. This tragic blaze became Arizona’s deadliest, claiming the lives of 29 people, including the Steinfelds themselves. The whole city woke to sirens and heartbreak that morning. For years, mystery and controversy swirled around that night. A teenager, Louis C. Taylor, was blamed for starting the fire, convicted by an all-white jury amid a city tense with racial strife. But later evidence showed things might not have been so simple: today’s investigators, with all their forensics know-how, can’t even pin down the cause. Taylor had actually helped rescue guests, banging on doors and pulling people to safety before being swept up by suspicion. The fire changed everything. The building was stripped of much of its old Spanish Revival splendor, "modernized" in the 1970s and 1980s to reflect the tastes of a new era—out went the ornate stonework, in came the reflective glass strips you see now. The rooftop terrace arcade disappeared. Even the soaring lobby was reconfigured, but the stories—and a sense of awe—never left. Since then, the Pioneer’s seen developers come and go: extensive remodeling, new metal frames, and business deals stacked as high as its floors. And now, as of May 2024, it’s getting another makeover by its new owners, with fresh renovations promised for the lobby and common spaces.

Imagine yourself standing here back in the 1930s, when the echoes of footsteps and the clack of heels on tiled floors filled this grand hallway as judges, lawyers, and families paraded in through those arched doorways. The Pima County Courthouse has always been a bit of a show-off, dressed in its elegant Mission Revival and Spanish Colonial Revival finery—pink stucco walls, red-tiled roofs, and that irresistible, blue-green dome glinting under the Tucson sun like a giant gemstone. Designed by Roy Place in 1928, this building quickly became the beating heart of downtown, where serious matters—sometimes dramatic, sometimes downright bizarre—unfolded every day. You might sense a bit of tension in the air; after all, for almost half a century, this was where lives could change in an instant. The Superior Court called it home from 1930 to 1977, making it a stage for justice, big decisions, and small claims, and later, the bustling Justice Court handled everything from neighborhood squabbles to criminal misadventures until 2015. Legend has it, if these walls could talk, they’d whisper stories of courtroom showdowns, last-minute confessions, and even a little courtroom drama worthy of its own TV show. But Tucson doesn’t let good bones go to waste! As the gavels and legal pads moved out, hopes for a vibrant future moved in. Now, the old courthouse is a treasure chest of Southern Arizona history. It’s home to the Southern Arizona Heritage & Visitor Center, buzzing with life, and the University of Arizona Mineral Museum, where crystals and gemstones have replaced legal briefs. There’s even a café if you need to refuel after all your sightseeing. And, standing respectful amid all this beauty, you’ll find a memorial to the victims of the 2011 Tucson shooting—a quiet place to remember, reflect, and feel the resilience of this incredible community.

Alright, take a step closer and get ready to step way, way back in time! Imagine it’s the summer of 1775. The hot desert sun beats down, and a group of Spanish soldiers, led by Captain Hugh O’Conor – who, fun fact, was actually an Irishman working for Spain – set up camp on this very spot, picking it for its grand view over the Santa Cruz River. Maybe O’Conor had an eye for real estate! Of course, he didn’t come alone: right nearby sat the O’odham village of Cuk Ṣon, which means “black base,” named after the dark roots of Sentinel Peak. That’s where Tucson gets its name. At first, this was no castle. It started as a scrappy cluster of buildings with just a wooden fence. The Spanish had big dreams, but like many projects, the fancy adobe walls went on hold because, well, someone forgot to handle the budget. Typical, right? Plans moved slowly until their enemies, the Apaches, showed up in 1782, thundering in for a raid. Picture the shouting, hurried footsteps, and the sudden clamor as the soldiers scrambled to defend their new home. That was enough motivation – the walls finally went up, thick and sturdy, with towers on the corners and a busy interior lined with homes, horses, and stores. Through the years, the Presidio saw just about everything: tense standoffs, celebrations, desperate repairs when raids were rumored, and the lively bustle as Spanish, O’odham, Pima, and other native peoples worked together – or sometimes, against each other – to survive. This spot stayed alive even when others faded from the map, with Tucson’s small population never quite hitting 500, but busy enough to send expeditions into what they called “Indian country.” The fort’s defenders were outnumbered, outgunned, but stubborn as desert rocks. Fast forward to 1821, and just as Mexico wins independence, Tucson’s Spanish soldiers shrug, switch sides, and serve a new flag – think “same office, new boss.” Tucson still had lots of Native residents; in fact, up to three-quarters of the town was Native American during this period. Everyone faced tough times: food ran short, supplies from Mexico City rarely made the journey, and the powerful Apache kept the town on its toes. Sometimes, Tucson stood as one of the last safe spots in hundreds of miles! War came again in 1846. The U.S. Army’s Mormon Battalion approached, and for a minute, it looked like there might be a firefight. But the Mexican commander pulled back, and the presidio saw another change of hands, as flags went up and down on the dusty plaza. After the U.S. bought the land in the Gadsden Purchase, the Americans took over, and Tucson grew into the Wild West town you see in the movies – mining boomed, scandal pulsed through town, and every character from outlaws to prospectors left their mark. The presidio walls, though, began to disappear, stones pulled down here and there for new buildings or, rather less glamorously, a parking lot. But you can’t keep history buried forever. Just when everyone thought it was lost, local archaeologists and determined citizens revealed the remains of the northeast corner – and in 2007, the walls you see now were rebuilt, brick by brick, on the spot where those Spanish soldiers once held their breath and kept a wary eye on the horizon.