Not My Job
After posting Wednesday’s blog, I figured it would be a good service to go out and see if Wednesday really was the new Friday in Westport.
It is…almost. OK, it’s not the new Friday, but it’s a damn good night to go out. I started at the Westport Beach Club, where I’ve never gone before on purpose, and was pleased to discover giant $4 margaritas and the musical stylings of bros. Oz and Joe McGuire. Actually, I should mention something about the margaritas, and it’s that they didn’t have salt, and a margarita without salt is like a breast without a nipple. But if it’s big enough, bigger than the palm of your hand, say, and full of love, well, then it can still provide the needed comfort. Anyway, at the Beach Club, volleyball games were in full swing, and only a few people lingered on the deck near the DJ table, PA and bar. To be honest, the music wasn’t that interesting at first. It was kind of jammy-sounding, and I felt like going up and demanding they stop playing “fucking Santana,” which would have been akin to slamming my palm on a spinning record and spitting in their faces. Also, I’m of the mindset that if you respect the DJ, then you gotta trust him — shut up and listen, you know? Sure enough, the grooves turned from lead into gold when the brothers began laying down Afrobeat records and working in samples from a laptop and keyboard. A group of two guys and two girls led by a Jamaican dude came in and immediately began dancing Salsa-like to the beats, absolutely revelling in being able to hear music like that in the Midwest. I stuck around for another margarita and split.
It was about 11:30 when I got to Karma, where DJ Robert Moore was in charge. There were maybe a dozen people in the (excessively, I think) red-lit bar that used to be home to Stanford & Son, then Johnny Dare’s then American Chrome. Word on the streets is Karma’s become the 3 a.m. bar that the Record Bar crowd hits after that place shuts down at 1:30, but Karma’s not unknown to the usual maddening Westport weekend crowd, either. But let’s not split hairs. Robert Moore was there, which means we got to hear some XTC and Television Personalities alongside Pantera and AC/DC. I sat at the copper-covered bar and ordered G&Ts served up by a bartender with a really long ponytail and more energy than a Yngwie guitar solo, who would toss lime slices from behind his back and catch them in your drink. After two such acrobatically served concoctions, I departed.
Last stop: Buzzard Beach. (Yes, by the way, I really do go on pub crawls all by myself. I even wear a custom printed T-shirt and wristband, which I have a hard time getting bar owners to recognize and give me free pitchers for having “purchased,” the charity-hating Scrooges.) Many people don’t like Buzzard, and it’s easy to see why — it’s a filthy, smoky playground for people who like bars full of out-of-control drunk people, most of whom are in their 20s and don’t know how to behave whether drunk or sober. Damn, I wish I had a younger brother I could take there. Usual Wednesday nighters Metal Mark and Steve Tulipana were spinning, this week holding off on the crowd-pleasing tracks until around 2 a.m., when the room got too wild for the DJs to refuse placating the masses with some classic Jacko.
I ran into Jon Yeager, who spilled the beans on a new record label that tattooed Buzzard bartender and ex-Frogpond member Megan Hamilton and the very same Robert Moore are starting. Megan said it’s going to be called Oxblood Records. (You heard it here first, bitches!) If any bands were mentioned as being on the Oxblood launchpad, I’ve forgotten — it’s not like it’s my job to keep up with these things.
