Bringin’ It

“Throw your middle fingers in the air!” shouts the DJ as he drops the needle on the Youngbloodz’s anti-social anthem “Damn!”

Dancers rush to the floor after hearing the initial tremors of the song’s deep, rib-cracking bass, spacing themselves for maximum maneuverability. The room resonates during the chorus: If you don’t give a damn/ We don’t give a fuck … Don’t start no shit/It won’t be no shit.

But there are few responses to the DJ’s request for upright fingers. These dancers are anything but rebellious.

Meanwhile, in one corner of the room, a movie-theater-sized screen displays flashy hip-hop and R&B videos. The clips, like this party, are populated exclusively by African-Americans, but the scenes — which spotlight bling-bling jewelry, garish throwback jerseys and graphic grind dancing — are strikingly dissimilar. The guests at this party appear nothing like these black-entertainment stereotypes.

Here, the men wear sharp blazers or color-coordinated sweater-shoes-and-hat ensembles. The women are clad in formal gowns or classy yet provocative cocktail dresses; nearly all of them are in high heels. The majority of those in attendance are in their twenties, but the range extends to include revelers in their thirties and forties. In keeping with the night’s blackout theme, a nod to Black History Month at this February 26 event, at least half of the 600 or so guests are wearing entirely ebony-hued outfits.

There is a dress code in place, but unlike the discriminatory no-cornrows policies instituted by clubs such as Roadhouse Ruby’s, these rules are set and enforced by African-Americans. Collared shirts are required; athletic wear, casual hats, work boots, flannel shirts and jumpsuits are all outlawed. The doorman turns away a handful of patrons. None of them protest, and several return within an hour in upscale attire. These are the most extreme cases; most offenders warrant only a trip back to the car. “If you come in with that, I’m going to have people arguing,” the gatekeeper says to a man sporting a wicker cap. The patron, still smiling, heads to the parking lot.

There’s none of the strutting attitude, none of the clenched fists, savage scowls and what-are-you-looking-at posturing that dominate the videos and, for that matter, local venues such as Stanford’s. Patrons greet each other with high-fives instead of steely stares, and the female guests enjoy a largely harassment-free environment. The room’s vibe is relaxed, and when the DJ spins gunshot samples into the mix, none of the patrons seek cover. People place their expensive leather jackets and suit jackets on hangers in the corner, unconcerned that the informal coat-check area is unattended. Outside, a couple in matching turtleneck sweaters hold hands and walk unmocked past a caravan of bass-blasting SUVs.

VIP tables on the east side of the room offer a soul-food buffet. Some of the patrons in this section stand near their seats and sway to hip-hop hits, still holding their wineglasses. Others sit around the round table, drinking and chatting like guests at some exclusive adult prom.

In the lobby, framed pictures of Mahalia Jackson, Charlie Parker and Langston Hughes line the walls. Guests sip martinis on cushy couches and chairs; a few even take brief naps. Even the conversations don’t sound like typical club fare. “I’m somewhat of a historian by nature,” one man tells his date.

This event takes place in a ballroom at the Adam’s Mark Hotel near the sports stadiums, but the establishment itself isn’t responsible for the entertainment or the ambience. The DJ, soul food, framed portraits — all of these come from Ken Lumpkins’ Higher Ground Entertainment, a tiny upstart company that’s changing the essence of local black night life.

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For Kansas City’s African-American residents, disillusionment with local entertainment options begins at an early age. City-sponsored programs such as Hot Summer Nights (weekend dances for teenagers at Penn Valley Community College and Bishop Hogan High School from 1994 to 1999) once offered an appealing alternative to Westport. Now, though, the Jackson County Parks and Recreation Department’s solutions, such as bowling nights, lure few minors away from the city’s entertainment district. In the summer, thousands of black teens swarm the sidewalks, congregating outside establishments they’re too young to enter while a prominent police presence eyes the activity.

A few entrepreneurs attempted to fill this void, with limited success. Bill “Dusty” Rhodes drew hundreds to Da Joint at Sni-A-Bar and Blue Ridge Cutoff, but the club was unable to renew its dance-hall license at the end of September 2001, largely because of a fatal shooting at a convenience store near the venue earlier that month. Marc Coyazo and Robert McDaniel drew modest crowds at Cozmo’s Bar and Grill in Lee’s Summit for several months before closing because of losses. The Main Street Multiplex barely opened its doors before being extinguished by the same neighborhood group that thwarted the Madrid Theatre’s chances at regular live music. And independent promoters who rent banquet halls, long a staple of the underage social scene, have been laying low, heeding the cautionary tale of John Haynes, who became legally liable when teen Kristi Carroll was shot to death at an event that took place at his Troostwood Banquet Hall (“The Last Dance,” by Joe Miller, April 1).

Once African-Americans turn 21, their options improve only slightly. Kabal, a hip-hop hot spot in the City Market neighborhood that recently acquired a 3 a.m. license, and the Hurricane in Westport provide decent dance- and DJ-driven environments for casual clubgoing. Club Chemical, located downtown at 1111 Grand, offers consistent crowds and booming beats, but its grinding sameness drives some regulars to distraction, and two fatal shootings outside its doors in the past year have left some potential patrons wary.

White bar-hoppers can move from dives to rock clubs to glitzy martini bars, encountering people like themselves at each location, but local blacks interested in upscale night life have had difficulty finding a consistent venue. Named after a fictional Kansas City restaurant co-owned by native comedian Eddie Griffin on the sitcom Malcolm and Eddie, 50/50, a star-crossed bar near 39th Street and Main, came closer than any midtown establishment to being a consistent upmarket success. DJs mixed mellow hip-hop and neosoul with the occasional Tech N9ne party-starter while diners smoked cigars and downed martinis and appetizers.

Owned by temperamental former Chiefs football player Wayne Simmons, who was cut from the team after drawing several unsportsmanlike-conduct penalties during the team’s infamous 1998 “Monday night meltdown” game, 50/50 got off to a rough start. First, its neighbors, especially St. Paul’s Episcopal Church, protested its existence, delaying its opening for almost a year. The club opened its doors in March 2001, only to be shut permanently a year later when 50/50 failed to submit its liquor-license renewal on time. Several months after that, Simmons died in a car wreck.

Area neosoul singer and First Fridays regular OnJaLee, who worked as a waitress at 50/50, remembers the place fondly. “People would dress up, and the atmosphere was very refreshing,” she recalls. But she quit after tiring of both Simmons’ prickly personality and a fire-code-flouting design that required staff members to weave through thin, congested hallways with their martini trays.

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Simmons’ place seemed especially upscale when contrasted with its Westport neighbor Studio 504, located inside Stanford’s Comedy Club. OnJaLee, to whom every stranger is “sweetie” and every icebreaker might lead to a gig, stood silently in the corner at Stanford’s during a March weekend trip to the club, approaching no one and speaking only to spurn uncouth advances.

She hadn’t visited the club in two years and was willing to give it another try for the benefit of some out-of-town friends who were curious about Westport night life. In the past, she’s gone to Studio Soy in a dress and heels, hoping to import some First Friday ambience. But her appearance only made the experience more excruciating. The catcalls she heard soon after entering and the walk-by gropings that she had to endure on the way to the dance floor solidified her disdain for 504. Hands clutched at her curves as she moved, then disappeared into the pack when she searched for the culprit. This time, she wore a casual jeans-and-shirt ensemble in hopes of attracting less attention. No such luck.

“Damn, baby,” one baby-faced suitor in an oversized throwback jersey said after brushing against her in a move that seemed anything but accidental, regardless of the crowded conditions. “You gotta let me hit that,” a larger, older, gruff-voiced man shouted through an unkempt beard. It wasn’t clear if he was addressing OnJaLee or the venue’s entire female population. There were a lot of hovering come-ons like that one — brash, offensive phrases that male patrons would bellow loudly to no one in particular, hoping that at least one woman would take the bait.

This is exactly what Higher Ground and the people who attend its events are battling. These crude, demeaning conditions might play well on a UPN sitcom or in a Dr. Dre video, but hundreds of area adult African-Americans demand better. Now someone has answered the call.

It’s the night after Thanksgiving, and the 33-year-old Lumpkins is dancing at Quincy’s, the basement bar at the Adam’s Mark Hotel, where he’s overseeing a party called Chocolate Rain. He moves with a smooth style that matches his silk-toned promotional pitches. The growing early-evening crowd is still small, and Lumpkins can afford some time to enjoy himself.

“Fellas, don’t be scared of these ladies,” DJ Rice, Lumpkins’ resident spinner, instructs. There’s an eerie glow around the DJ booth, the only illumination in the dim, chandelier-lighted room other than the world’s loneliest Golden Tee game. It’s 10:45 p.m., and women — many of them glamorous and model-gorgeous — dominate the room as a result of Lumpkins’ ladies-free-before-10:30 policy. The interaction between the sexes is almost reminiscent of a middle school mixer, with boys on one side of the space and girls on the other. But after midnight, the sounds of conversation and laughter become louder, and mingling begins.

The party feels more like a private club than a dance house. Many of those in attendance arrive in packs and stay with their friends throughout the night, so introductions occur in comfortable group settings. There’s plenty of room to maneuver on the dance floor because the majority of the patrons spend the night seated in booths. The testosterone-driven desperation that can make Westport venues uncomfortable for women, especially on weekends, is notably absent.

Chocolate Rain is one of several names for parties that Lumpkins organizes under his Collective Soul banner, including other holiday-themed parties such as December’s Rock Tha Bells and the Valentine’s Day affair Red. The Collective Soul parties are less formal than Lumpkins’ Higher Ground affairs, using a relaxed version of the “dress to impress” code Lumpkins enforces at the other events. Jerseys, T-shirts and baggy jeans occasionally slip past the venue’s velvet-rope keeper, especially if the violator in question is the guest of a family member.

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But Lumpkins’ most popular events by far are his First Friday parties, at which up to 1,000 revelers kick off each month’s opening weekend. It’s the First Friday parties that might generate enough revenue to allow Lumpkins to walk away from his full-time marketing job and work exclusively on Higher Ground Entertainment, to which he already devotes forty hours a week. But these events, profitable as they are, also present the biggest headaches.

The initial First Friday party, held January 2 this year, was simply too popular. The Adam’s Mark’s enormous parking lot was packed, resembling a small-scale version of game-day Arrowhead. There was plenty of fragrant smoke, but it wasn’t wafting from grills.

“Kansas City’s kinda wack, so you gotta party whenever you can,” said one obvious good-times expert as he rolled a joint in his hands like a child crafting a clay snake. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I gotta go light up in my car.”

Others headed for their cars after realizing how overpacked the party had become. “I should’ve stayed in bed,” one disappointed deserter noted, bemoaning the crowded conditions. “I’m about to leave because of this crowd,” another said into her cell phone. “I’m never coming here again,” a woman announced to no one in particular after making her exit.

Inside, the doorman offered each early exit a chance to return. “Stamp your hand?” he asked a woman.

“Don’t you dare!” she warned as she sped past him.

But even during this packed party, dancers had sufficient space for creative choreography. Drinks were another story. A single overworked bartender did his best to deal with a line that reached across the room and cut a swath through the dance floor.

“I wish we had more staff tonight,” Lumpkins said, surveying the scene with a sigh. As on most nights, he’d relied on four contracted laborers and three volunteers. But with the crowd ballooning to 1,000, it wasn’t enough.

Lumpkins attributes his events’ nonthreatening ambience and spotless record (there hasn’t been a single significant fight in Higher Ground’s seven-year history, he says) to his bartenders’ aggressive cutoff standards. But to justify the thirty-minute wait, patrons at the January 2 party were picking up three drinks at a time and downing them quickly. As a result, there’d been some uncharacteristically bad behavior.

“Sweaty pussy, can’t handle no dick,” a stumbling, obviously drunk man shouted repeatedly outside the hotel. “You know he ain’t got no woman,” an incoming visitor remarked, rolling her eyes.

“First Friday is always pretty big, and that’s how I wanted to start off the new year,” Lumpkins says a week after the January date. “A lot of the clubs promoted New Year’s Eve so much that we were the last man standing for that weekend. It’s always hard to tell how well we’ll do. It’s a guessing game.”

Lumpkins limited the turnout the next month by throwing his February First Friday at the American Jazz Museum’s Blue Room, which seats fewer than 200 people. At regular intervals, Lumpkins inserts a low-key First Friday, one that focuses more on his ultimate goal: creating a strong network of African-American professionals, specifically within the entertainment industry.

“Variety, that’s the edge,” he says. “We want to provide a change of space and pace. Part of my goal is to offer a new experience, outside of parties with DJs. So after the big party kickoff, I wanted to have a networking event for people who weren’t looking to party, people who just wanted to talk. I don’t want to hang my hat on First Fridays. I don’t really like doing just parties, and some of these events end up being that way more than I’d like them to. It should always be something special. Sometimes, though, it’s special having the event at all, because it breaks the monotony of the standard club setting.”

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Lumpkins relies mostly on word of mouth and a mailing list that includes more than 3,000 names to spread the word about his events. OnJaLee, who also compiles listings of poetry slams, concerts and other independent events, sends out her own reminders. Initially, she spread the word through phone calls. In March 2003, she launched her eponymous Web site, showcasing her music as well as providing free forum space for worthy listings. Her e-mail database for updates now includes more than 700 names.

Maurice Fanning found out about the Higher Ground events through OnJaLee’s e-mails. Though he dislikes the dress code — “This is 2004, and there are lots of successful professionals like Russell Simmons and Damon Dash who don’t run around in suits and ties,” he says — he still prefers the Higher Ground affairs to other African-American night-life options. “The atmosphere is more conservative and professional at First Fridays,” he says. “At clubs like Stanford’s and Chemical, it’s just about fun, dance and quick romance.”

Those venues also attract the just-out-of-college crowd, which many First Fridays regulars are eager to avoid.

“They need to completely eliminate the 25-and-under crowd [at Club Chemical and Stanford’s] and include a VIP section for the young Chiefs players they want inside,” says First Friday attendee Cat Holman, who no longer attends either club. “And First Fridays should be a networking opportunity for working adults, not college students or club hoppers.”

Holman isn’t alone in wishing for an older-crowd-only admission policy. In fact, the most frequent complaint from First Fridays regulars seems to be a disdain for the “college crowd,” well behaved as they might be. In an odd twist, adult African-Americans have joined the chorus of voices that would like blacks ages 18-25 to stay away from their hangouts.

To meet that demand, Lumpkins created Savoy Nights, an event on the final Friday of every month that admits no one younger than 30. (April’s installment will take place at the Del-Mar Restaurant.) Whereas First Fridays dwarf Savoy Nights in terms of profile and attendance, the latter event is remarkable because it caters exclusively to mature black professionals, a demographic that’s practically invisible in terms of media representation — you just don’t see blacks over 25 enjoying themselves on television. It shouldn’t be surprising that area African-American adults desire a comfortable meeting place, one far away from edgy rap and flavorless suburban surroundings, but it took Lumpkins’ promotional prowess to make it finally happen.

At every Higher Ground event, there are sign-up tables with information about becoming a dues-paying member of the team. (Benefits include business discounts and free admission to select HGE happenings.) Visitors can apply for a “Platinum Passport” card, which allows members to sign in at the door and receive credit for attending. Occasionally, there’s a HGE slide presentation in the ballroom: “Join the Higher Ground crew,” invites the final panel. Other brochures tout Art & Soul, Lumpkins’ nonprofit organization, which aims to unite artists in a variety of disciplines in an entertainment association.

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There’s almost never any action around these tables. By the end of the night, even the no-commitment mailing lists have added only about five signatures.

Lumpkins admits he’s not getting much response at the events. “By that time, people are ready to party or chill,” he says. But, he adds, the responses trickle in by e-mail eventually.

When Lumpkins started Art & Soul seven years ago, one year after introducing Higher Ground, he imagined a formidable fusion of local actors, musicians, promoters, models, label owners and journalists, all of whom would work to bring Kansas City’s entertainment community into the national spotlight. Art & Soul spawned several success stories, including its annual Classic Black Gala from 1997 to 2002, an impeccably tasteful black-tie affair for which Lumpkins booked impressive national talent such as Floetry. But attendance at that festival waned, and Lumpkins discontinued the Classic Black Gala.

Lumpkins first experimented with what would become the current First Friday format in 2001, when he hosted a number of what he calls “upscale groove” events at Californos in Westport. Eventually, that event lost business because of its 1 a.m. closing time, so Lumpkins sought a venue that could accommodate more appropriate party hours. In May 2002, he relaunched First Fridays at the Westin Crown Center after a six-month hiatus. In February 2003, he contacted the Adam’s Mark Hotel.

African-American promoters often have had difficulty finding homes for events at which hip-hop will be played. But Lumpkins’ established track record and respectable marketing background (a UMKC business degree and a stint at the advertising firm Bernstein-Rein) allow him to rent spaces without much hesitation. “We developed a rapport,” he says of the Adam’s Mark. “And they were impressed by the crowds.”

Crowds were less impressive during Lumpkins’ early years. He recalls an event at the Blue Room several years ago that suffered from a light early turnout; the venue’s wall-of-windows layout tipped off late arrivals, too. “I saw people look in, check out the crowd and just keep driving,” he says.

Lumpkins spread the word, using direct mail and cold phone calls. He started designing fliers and distributing them himself on the windshields of cars parked outside concerts and poetry events.

“We have an upscale clientele, and these professionals don’t come out at every event,” Lumpkins says. “We can’t build an event just based on regulars. We cater to certain crowds for certain events and hope the dress code manages everything else.”

Higher Ground’s April 2 event, Ffantasy, took place at the Arrowhead Stadium Club, the first time in two years that Lumpkins had rented the facility. Sponsored in part by Anheuser-Busch, now in its first year as a corporate partner of Higher Ground, Ffantasy was Lumpkins’ most ambitious undertaking. More than 1,000 partiers jammed the massive, tentlike structure, moving between a dim dance floor and a brighter chill-out room with a buffet table and a live band.

“I wish there could be more events here,” said Tania Mays, a partygoer in her midtwenties. “This space is hot.”

“We don’t ever go to Stanford’s or Chemical anymore,” added Mays’ friend Kelly Moechoe. “This is where the grown folks kick it.”

“At the clubs, it’s too wild,” said a well-dressed diner named Malik as he sat alone at a table in the chill-out room. He took a bite out of a barbecued rib. “No matter how many people go to First Fridays, it’s always real cool.”

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“We’d like to get as large as we can,” Lumpkins says, noting that St. Louis, with its larger African-American population, averages about 1,000 guests an event. The next First Friday party, on May 7, moves back to Quincy’s at the Adam’s Mark Hotel. “We move around, but we tend to fill up any space we enter. I started First Fridays big, and I just want to keep that. Sometimes the event itself won’t be big, but the concept or purpose should always be that way.”