BUTTE, Mont.—Ever since he proposed limits on this city's long-standing tradition of public drinking, Sheriff Ed Lester has heard a barrage of insults. "Teetotaler" and "prohibitionist" were bad enough. But "do-gooder"?
In this 134-year-old, rough-and-tumble mining town, even the top lawman cherishes being a part of its rugged image. "It's just something I never envisioned myself to be," the sheriff sniffed.
Enlarge Image
Revelers carry their beers with them on a recent Friday night in Butte, Mont., where a proposal to limit public drinking has fueled a raucous debate. Lisa Wareham for The Wall Street Journal
Mr. Lester finds himself in the middle of a raucous debate in Butte, one of a few U.S. municipalities that allows drinking in public. His proposal is part of a municipal identity crisis, pitting the city's hopes of encouraging new investment against a desire to stay true to its roots as a blue-collar outpost that likes its whiskey straight and its government hands-off.
Earlier this year, after getting complaints about noise and vandalism in Butte's historic uptown area, the sheriff proposed a ban on public drinking between the hours of 2 a.m. and 8 a.m. The long-forsaken uptown with its cluster of remaining bars was the round-the-clock heart of Butte when it was a copper-mine boomtown a century ago. Today, as new residents and businesses have begun to move in, the late-night carousing out on the streets has gotten more notice.
"Butte is a hard-drinking, hard-fighting town," said Mr. Lester, a short, sturdy 47-year-old. "I'm not a teetotaler or a prohibitionist, but at some point we have to stop some of the issues that are coming up."
Even with assurances that the ban wouldn't be extended to 24 hours a day, the proposal is viewed by many residents as an assault on Butte's history and culture. Outside the popular Party Palace bar recently, Ken Mord, a jowly 59-year-old with a Budweiser in hand, summed up his feelings on the proposed legislation.
"Tell them to kiss my a—," said Mr. Mord, who then spelled out the epithet for good measure.
"We're in Butte, America," he growled, "the only place in the United States of America where you can drink out on the street."
Actually, a handful of cities allow public drinking, but few are as permissive as Butte. In Memphis, Tenn., open containers are allowed, but only in the entertainment district along Beale Street. In New Orleans, public drinkers have free rein, but they can't carry glass containers. Las Vegas also allows it within certain parameters.
Some cities are moving in the opposite direction of the Butte proposal, easing public-drinking bans in efforts to revitalize moribund downtowns. This year, Lincoln, Neb., officials created an entertainment district that allows open containers. In Ohio, a state senator has introduced a bill to let cities exempt certain areas from the state's open-container ban.
In its early days, Butte prospered as the Anaconda Copper Mining Co. busily extracted copper, silver and other metals from the "richest hill on earth." Workers poured out of the mines at all hours—and bars, brothels and restaurants flourished in the uptown area. At its height in 1917, Butte was home to some 100,000 residents, according to local historians. But as copper mining slowed, the population fell precipitously, and Butte's fortunes sank. The city has about 33,000 residents today.
A group of uptown business owners and residents, which has pushed the sheriff's proposal, says the loud late-night partying, with its accompanying broken windows and litter, discourages new businesses and residents. A merchants association has created a window-replacement program that helps pay for installing new panes.
"Let's grow up," said George Everett, executive director of Mainstreet Uptown Butte. "It's not a badge of honor to say you can drink all day on the street."
Opponents of drinking restrictions, including some bar owners and city leaders, say there already are laws on the books against vandalism and disorderly conduct. Some also say the city's liberal open-container law is a tourist draw, citing the large crowds that stream into town for St. Patrick's Day and a summer festival that celebrates Butte's famous daredevil: the late Evel Knievel.
The city's governing body, the Council of Commissioners of the City and County of Butte-Silverbow, is divided on the issue. Currently, a committee is hammering out the geographic scope of the proposed ban, and a vote on the ordinance could come next month. Bill Andersen, a council commissioner and bartender, said he was leaning toward a "yes" vote because Butte was "on a precipice," and the legislation would help push the city in the right direction. But he said he had doubts that it would pass, and acknowledged that his position could be "political suicide."
That concern is borne out in Butte bars like Maloney's, a saloon whose taxidermy moose head has a cigarette dangling from its lips and features two hunting rifles up for raffle behind the bar.
"Butte has never been a quiet town—it was a mining town," Maloney's barkeeper, John Cox, 72, a fit, white-haired former Marine, said when asked about the proposed ban. "I'm dead-set against it."
Write to Zusha Elinson at zusha.elinson@wsj.com