Missing Elvis

In our ongoing quest to track down the oddities of KC nightlife, we headed up north on a recent Friday night to check out Gator’s Eight. Now, if someone had told us we would make the trek for freakin’ karaoke, we would have said he was full of it. However, we had heard from various sources that Gator’s was the place to caterwaul in the Northland. Plus there was this added incentive: a 400-pound Elvis impersonator who apparently frequents Gator’s on Wednesday, Friday and Saturday — karaoke nights. Naturally we notified our most ardent Elvis-loving Research Assistant about this. “Would I like to go? Does a bear shit in the woods?” Kevin said. So off we went with additional RAs Wright and Dave in tow.

Gator’s is in a pseudo strip mall, and the bar has a generic feel to it — pictures of dogs playing poker and a “honk if you want to see my thong” sign. The clientele was made up mostly of middle-aged folks who seemed at home at this neighborhood-type joint. “It’s a bunch of people who are practicing drinking for Chiefs games,” Kevin said. “It’s like Tanner’s for the chewing-tobacco crowd.”

We eagerly looked around for Elvis, but sadly, he was not in the building. (“He’s an unusual person,” owner Doug Soper later told us. “I’m not sure how to describe him. He’s kind of in his own little world.” Unfortunately, he doesn’t wear a white jumpsuit but instead dons a scarf, a T-shirt, sweatpants and sunglasses for his performances.)

All we could do was make the best of our night, so we flipped through the songbook and ordered drinks, which immediately cheered us up. Our Boulevard Wheat arrived in a tall, 22-ounce mug and cost just $4. After sitting through way too many groan-inducing chick renditions of country ballads, the monotony of Faith Hill-wannabes was thankfully broken when the visibly wastoidal Paul and Pammy Sue stumbled into view. Clad in matching white polo shirts and dark pants, they held hands as they walked to the stage. That would have been sweet, but it seemed more for support than for romance. After Pammy Sue settled on a barstool — the first time a chair was broken out — they warbled the Mamas and the Papas’ “Creeque Alley.”

“Is that your song?” we asked them.

“It’s the one we sing together very well,” Paul, 49, said. He and Pammy Sue, 51, met online at an over-40s Web site and have been married for 2 years. “We didn’t do as well as we did before,” he added.

“It’s ’cause we got drunk!” Pammy Sue said.

We were just at that point ourselves when we were called to the stage to perform — of course — “Bust a Move,” the only song we know all the words to. Except when we’re lit, which is usually the case. But on that night, we rocked the house. Yep, the house was rocked, mainly thanks to Wright. With his clipped Mississippi accent and his running-into-the-crowd showmanship, he machine-gunned his way through the verses while Dave provided the falsetto for the chorus. All the NR could do was be a backup dancer, ginormous beer in hand.

We were soon upstaged, though, by Johnny B., a mustachioed, elfin guy in a baseball cap who blew us away with his rendition of “Shout at the Devil.” He was so scarily Vince Neil that it made our night. We complimented Johnny and tried to interview him.

“How old are you?” we asked.

His thoughts were clearly elsewhere. “In 1984, I banged every girl in KC,” he said. “I was born in ’61. I was a wild, criminalistic dude that couldn’t be caught. I mellowed out when I had two daughters. I’m a single dad raising them with no mommy,” he said, looking at us with wide eyes. “I jam every night.”

In the meantime, Kevin was chatting with one of Johnny’s friends. “You guys should come over to our property and hear [Johnny’s] band play,” the friend told him.

“What the hell you doin’?” an older woman sputtered. “Last time you invited people we didn’t know over, we had some dirt bikes stolen!”

“And a car!” said the friend.

Just then, we moved outside and heard a crunch: Paul and Pammy Sue had backed out of their parking spot into Dave’s car. After determining that no real damage had been done, we took the hit as a clear sign to leave. Even though our night was Elvis-less, our Freak Magnet powers managed to reel in some others. And we kinda liked it.