It's after midnight on Monday, which means it's technically Tuesday, which means it's officially Valentine's Day. Time to celebrate! A punkish duo is locking lips nearby when I see the guy pull his head away. "Babe," he exclaims, "you got your toungue pierced! Let me see!"
It's love, Double Down-style.
Me, I had no plans to go out that evening—I have no Valentine or anything. But I got an e-mail from my friend Jesse Del Quadro, a guitarist for the local band Thee Swank Bastards, that changed my non-plans:
... special Valentine's day show ... candlelight ... softer music ... we'll even have some guest vocalists ... it should be a lot of fun ... we play at the Double Down at 10 ...
The band isn't around when I get there at 10:10, so I down a bacon martini—complete with grease floating on top like a tragic oil slick mucking up an ocean—and scan the place.
It's a typical Double Down crowd: musicians, bikers, one lovely lady with a striking rose tattoo covering her sinewy—yes, sinewy!—calf muscle, students wearing Runnin' Rebel regalia, one well-dressed businessman. An effete gentleman in perfectly creased jeans carps on his cell phone about leaving his boyfriend at a gay bar down the road because he was being an "impossible bitch." Central Casting duly take note.
It's easy to dismiss the Double Down as slightly labored kitsch—the wildly colorful murals, the super-eclectic music on the jukebox (from reggae to zombie metal) and a television set that plays a loop of bad movie trailers, anime, outtakes from old sitcoms, you get it—but I've always liked its casual appeal. I find a seat on one of the pool tables (moved to the side them to make room for the stage), when a tall, gawky, hyperactive kid approaches. "Dude, I've got to go to the can—can you watch, it's one of those!"
Relax; he meant watch the door, not the act itself. Another charm of the DD is that their toilets don't have locks, so it's not uncommon to be approached by a patron for guard duty. It would be bad form not to agree.
"Sure," I tell him.
It's around 10:40 p.m., and Eric, the Bastards' drummer, walks in with his drum set. Outside, Jesse's unloading the van. He hands me some mike stands. "Could you take these in for me?" he asks.
Hey, ladies, I'm with the band!
I return to my spot on the pool table while the band sets up and fine-tunes. Then they sit on cocktail chairs and start playing some nice, slow-burning surf numbers that draw the crowd away from the bar and closer to the stage. I leave the pool table to get a better view. My attention is drawn to a cute redhead who's dancing to the bouncier numbers. We exchange smiles as friendly people do when they faintly recognize each other at a favorite watering hole. Maybe I'll introduce myself:
"Hi, I'm Michael"
"Hey, Nikki."
We shake hands.
"I've seen you here before, right?" Nikki asks.
"Yep, I like the band and the bar."
She nods quickly. "Oh, me too. This is my favorite bar to get drunk—even the bad bands sound okay after awhile in here when you're tanked."
"You're a spirited lass," I assure her.
For their second set, the Bastards are joined onstage by several more musicians and a trio of lady singers in form-fitting, black-satin dresses. The music proves to be a surprisingly winsome take on girl-group nostalgia, with numbers like the Marvelettes "Please Mr. Postman," Brenda Lee's "Sweet Nothins," and the Supremes "You Keep Me Hangin' On," complete with roller-rink organ and syncopated hand clapping.
Not everything goes smoothly, though. At one point, a singer's mike starts to slide down, but instead of breaking her routine, she simply keeps lowering herself, until finally an audience member runs up to readjust it. I'll take fun, unplanned moments like that over too-polished craftsmanship anyday.
During the second set, a few in the crowd noticed that it's after midnight—Valentine's Day, and a couple or two start to celebrate. I stay for a few numbers of the third set, which clearly rocks louder than anything before it, but—without a punked-up, tongue-pierced, rock 'n' roll Valentine to call my own—I decide to check out early.
It amazes me, the way this culture makes a crass spectacle out of what's essentially a Hallmark holiday. You know what I mean: the predictable media interviews with owners of wedding chapels, or hotel managers regarding the bridal suites; the "couples-on-the-street" Q & A. That's what made this evening so refreshing—it was a counterculture tonic to all that stuff.
Only one question: Why didn't I get a number for the woman with the sinewy calf?