Take That and Wind It Back

Take That and Wind It Back:

Stamford’s Battle of the Bands

© 2010. All Rights Reserved.

5/31/10

Stamford, CT --- Tigin’s Irish Pub, Stamford, a recent Friday night. A modest crowd warms up to the night with pints of Arrogant Bastard and Guinness, and clear cocktails with slivers of lime bobbing in them. Drum-accented tunes spill from an overhead speaker. Tattered copies of a regional weekly, “The Irish Emigrant”, lay carelessly on speckled bar counters. It was the calm before the storm – a brewing Battle of the Bands wherein a dozen musical acts would be competing at bars around the city for a coveted spot on the popular Alive @ Five summer concert roster.

The carrot-mopped bartender busily moves from tap to tap, like a drone gathering pollen from flower stalks. Chatter and laughter fill the air. Posters and flyers advertising world cup soccer, an international passion, adorn walls. Amongst these, a wooden placard: “Smoke Walnut Plug, made in Cork.” The suggestion makes me think of my dear departed grandmother Julia Marie O’Brien and I give a nod and raise a toast in her honor.

I’m joined by new friends Aaron and Veronica, who slip in beside me at my high perch. Recognizing V’s petite build in contrast to the ridiculously high counters that dwarf her, I place a stack of weeklies on a stool to give her a boost. She hops up and we decide the paper has never enjoyed a better audience!

They notice I’m scribbling my notes with a cheap hotel pen, about which I inform them: “The cheaper the pen, the rounder the point, and the happier I am.”

Eyeing a curious roulette wheel, which I dub the “Wheel of Forture” (Torture and Fortune merged), on the far side of the room, I give it a spin. Eons pass before it stops rotating and comes to rest on “$50 tab.” In the ideal world, I’ve won this offer, but am not sure how to collect.

Not surprisingly, V caught the immediate attention of the bartender and ordered a urine-colored concoction called Palm. It reflected its hue, smelling of wet carpet and tasting of lemon rinds. We cast it aside and checked on the show timing of the featured band, Tuna Fist, not to be confused with the deli sandwich of a similar name. Unfortunately, they weren’t going to be on until 10, which wasn’t aligning with our current scheduling.

So off we went on walkabout, power walking to Hula Hanks, which Aaron had dubbed “Hula Skanks”, certainly a home of short skirts, generous cleavage and 80s beats.

Tiffany Escobar was holding court at the bar and sipping a drink called a Fishbowl. She was unsure of its ingredients but we could say with confidence that it was in a fishbowl-shaped glass, blue (like antifreeze), full of ice and had three wedges of fruit affixed to its rim: an orange, a lemon and a lime. The latter reminded me of the images you’d see displayed in the window of a one-armed bandit in a casino. I remarked that it would have been better (and maybe there would have been a payout) if there were three oranges or three lemons instead! “A triple threat!” said Tiff, a doe-eyed beauty of Portuguese/Columbian stock in a low-dipping mini dress.

Tiff was joined by her diminutive friend Noor. “Say goldfish!” I said, with reference to the fishbowl drink, as I snapped a picture of them.

Kelly and Laura (or Leslie or Stephanie – she was reluctant to reveal her true identity) were perched at a nearby table taking in the scene and not down with the featured band, The Rhodes. They preferred the usual pop house music. In contrast, Aaron, Veronica and I felt inclined to jump right onto the small dance floor in front of the band and dance like the free spirits we are. We shimmied and wiggled with abandon, enjoying the jamming tunes. This was our first band encounter and so far they had our vote.

It was Heading Out time and we had cowbells to smack, so we took a sharp left out of Hula Hanks and padded up to the Black Bear Saloon to enjoy the musical buffet of Psycho Magnet. We three literally dove right in, throwing inhibition on the tracks and engineering our dance floor locomotion, boogying to “My Own Worst Enemy.”

The suds were flowing at the bar but the drafts were pegged a little steep. Time to bargain. “Can I get a $5 draft for $3 if I write about Bear Grill?” I inquired of the bartender. The response: A chuckle, a point at a tap handle, a pour into a plastic cup – even a transfer into a pint glass… and top off… then another point and smile as I received my libation. Shoot, hit, score! The evening had gained true traction.

An Amaretto di Saronno slipped from a hand nearby and crashed to the floor in a spray of ice and liquore. “That’s alcohol abuse!” a bystander observed. The offender saw my notepaper scrawl and said, “You have excellent handwriting for a man!” She would know… she’s a handwriting teacher. Still, I said, “I never really learned to write script. I mostly write in block letters!”

A Hispanic quartet, headed up by Helen the Brazilian, strolled in at that moment “Boa Noite!” I said. “Now the party can get started!” I steered them to the dance floor.

Bradford’s up on Bedford became the next destination. Upstairs, the band Ten Feet Deep was entertaining the masses, who were, coincidentally, ten feet deep at the bar. The group’s licks were keeping the crowd calm.

In the pack at the bar was Ecuadorian beauty Gabby Valdez, surrounded by family and celebrating a cousin’s birthday. Sipping nonchalantly on a Bud Light, she was unaware of “The Battle”, but intrigued.

It was Moving On time again, first to feed the coin gobbler at the parking lot, then to wander to SBC to meet my misplaced two-thirds, V and A. They reported that a band called Consonance was playing there. I would bring the vowels. But not before a return to Tigin to catch Tuna Fist, which we’d missed earlier.

“Pretty good for a bunch of old guys, right?” the lead singer asked, launching into “Living on the Edge” before a now-full house of inebriated revelers. Lights flickered across them in the tight little space into which they’d been herded.

Again I set off for SBC but encountered en route the Brazilian quartet from the Black Bear, and was kidnapped to Butterfield 8 Restaurant & Lounge on Bedford St. Here, the band Cadillac 9 was jamming and suddenly the Coronas were flowing and limes were squirted and bodies were slamming…

Well, suffice it to say that I never did manage to reconnoiter with the other half of my team, nor make it to see the other half-dozen bands around the city, which would have been a tall order anyhow. Unfortunately, this included missing The Woulda Shoulda Couldas who performed at Bobby Valentine’s on Main Street and captured one of six semi-final spots awarded in this first-round bands battle.

I guess we will have to once again gather up the forces to stage another assault on this fair city and be more committed (and less distracted) next time in supporting these musical units. So adieu until the next skirmishes are staged.

Semi-final contests between six bands chosen by the Stamford-Downtown Battle of the Bands organizing committee will perform at street fairs on Bedford Street during three Saturdays in June; two will play each date and people will vote on their favorites. For more info, visit www.stamford-downtown.com