By IndySocial Columnist Sally Staffer
“First things first. Let’s go over the rules of the road.”
The voice belonged to this evening's
designated driver. We were four grown-up girlfriends who had set out for a night on the town, and he had agreed to play chauffeur.
“There’ll be no smoking,” he continued in a friendly but firm tone. “Let’s keep the car conversation down to a small roar. No screaming. And, please, ladies, contain your backseat driving to polite instruction…I know I can’t restrain you completely.”
The gaggle erupted into giggles, and we were off. Destination downtown: Athenaeum.
The sisters and I were headed to a
rock show. We’d read a lot about this “Hoosier Dylan” tribute, and were curious. The event was put together by Indiana’s departing poet laureate, Norbert Krapf, and the roster read like a who’s-who of Indy's working rock community. We were excited to go.
“Now I don’t know much about Dylan,” said one of girls as our journey began. “I think there’s only five songs I can sing.”
The giggle gaggle pulsed. They knew the driver was a Dylan freak, and had agreed to squire the group tonight, and to remain sober, in part because he was eager to hear the local heroes perform some of his favorite songs.
“Hmm. And what five are those?” he inquired.
“I don’t know the names,” she said. “but I like the one that goes something like, and stiffly she began: ‘you’re a big girl now.’ ”
Immediately, in a voice resonant of
Hokey Wolf, our chauffeur recognized the tune, and completed the lyric with a cartoonish caricature rendition: “you-Re Invisi-Able now, You’ve-got-no SeCrets to reveaaal. How does it feeeeal?....”
And together the car erupted in a glad chorus:
“TO-BE-ON-YOUR-OWN,
LIKE A ROL-LING STONE.”
"Take Fall Creek,” a lone voice interrupted the singing.
“No. No” disagreed another. "Keystone to 70 West."
This last one belonged to the girlfriend of our designated driver. Long ago we discovered that she was the one among us who always carried the good purse -- the one with the tissues and gum and other lifestyle essentials -- and ever since we'd naturally agreed to listen to her.
Excuse me dear readers, I have forgotten to mention the reason for tonight’s designated driver. You see, we four old friends had decided that this particular Saturday Night soiree out was to be a slumber party – and we envisioned a sloshy one at that. We began the evening early with an extended cocktail hour, and we had stuffed our jammies into our purses and were on the road to staying out late. One of us had even decided to wear a swim suit under her clothes, because, as she explained, you never know -- any night could end in hot tub splash, and she wanted to be prepared.
“Get in the middle lane. Take Michigan Street” a voice called.
“There’s no right turn," retorted another take Delaware.
“Alabama”
“No, no, no, New York”
It was hard for the driver to distinguish the individual voices. The gaggle spoke in tongues. A cacophony of competing instructions filled the vehicle.
“Just pick one, ladies,” he pleaded, taking a long gulp from his bottled water. “I feel like Washington crossing the Delaware.”
“Did you see that truck?" Screamed Drunk Girl No. 3.
“Where? Where” returned the chorus.
“Keep your eye on the road cupcake,” responded the ever-diligent driver.
“Where do you want me to go?" he pleaded as he pointed the touring car toward the exit, and began our quest for convenient parking. And again, everyone had an opinion.
“It’s colder than a witches tit out there, let’s park close. I don’t want to walk too far.”
“Not here, too slushy.”
“There, there.”
“Back it up, baby,” instructed the girlfriend, and dutifully the driver complied and eased the sedan into a snow-packed spot.
The group spilled onto the curb, and after making several mis-attempts at “entering the building,” paid our $18 entrance fee and made our way into the auditorium. Following the bass boom into the dark room, we discovered the place to be packed, but eerily still. Hardly a sound could be heard, as a sleepy crowd sat numbly through the elongated set.
There were no vacant seats left to accommodate all of us , so I left the gaggle and made my way on my own. I had, of couse, reserved a place with a friend of mine, so I push my way through the crowd and settled in to enjoy the show with him.
My compatriots, left to stand in the wings balancing their cocktails and craning their necks around ornate columns to catch the show, quickly grew impatient with the Dylan tribute.
"Snooze Rock" sniffed the driver. "Adequate but uninspired." The gaggle agreed, and they departed after the first set, in search of livelier fare. Later, I found them downstairs at the
Rathskeller, where they had crashed a Polish wedding - Rumba-ing the night away alongside a bevvy of college girls in short skirts and long boots and their guys in sneakers, buzz haircuts and
Colts colors.
While my friends rocked it out to
Benny and the Jets, I stayed upstairs, enjoying the tinkling sounds of Gordon Bonham, Jason Wilber,
Jennie DeVoe and Tim Grimm. So many of my Indy Social friends were there. David Yosha, joined the party for some drinks, fresh from the studios of
Magnet Films, where is he putting the final touches on a very cool, very top secret project. The
Phoenix Theatre's Bryan Fonseca was there with the lovely Sharon Gamble (Art of the Matter). IBJ heavyweight
Lou Harry was ensconced in one of the comfortable seats, holding court while we watched from the periphery. And so many more.
Back downstairs at the bar, I found the rest of my entourage munching away on fried German mustard balls and doing the hokey pokey. I returned upstairs for the rest of the second set, and was happy I had stayed to catch the lovely dark Stella.
I really enjoyed the show. But out of my friends, apparently I was the only one.
The gaggle moved en masse down the street, and alighted at the nearby Chatterbox, where the erstwhile David Andrichik was standing his usual weekend animated watch: “Great to see you” he effused, grasping our hands and welcoming us into his club.
He warmly pushed us through the crowded venue, and whispered into my ear, “I’ll talk to you later, Sally”
The
Chatterbox was all aglitter and still quite festive even after the holidays. This place is a tiny slice of Hoosier Manhattan. I made my way through the storefront-bar and found my friends happily snapping away on iPhones, spouting impromptu haiku.
Despite the cold outside, the place was steamy, and everyone was bopping to the sounds of
The Impossible Jazz Collaboration, accompanied by a talented young reed player. When I asked around, a fellow imbiber told me her name was Shawn Plonski, and then recounted a most curious tale. According to the story, this young talent had begun her jazz career at the Chatterbox. As an 18 year-old she could not legally get past the diligent doorman, so she used to camp outside the club on weekends instead, even during the long brutal Indiana winters, just so she could listen and learn her trade.
The Chatterbox is not a large venue, and the stage is situated just inside the club’s front door, and so the young reed player had no trouble hearing the stray notes that seeped from the ancient stage. Watching the seasoned musicians work their magic through the etched glass, for the price of enduring the elements she was able to learn the classic songbook, and master the art of passing the tip bucket from barfly to barfly to booth.
Five years later, and she had arrived on stage: one of the anointed few. Her dream had come true, and she was now a Chatterbox troubadour, helping to make my sisters and I feel good about staying out late. We had a blast. It had turned out to be quite an IndySocial kind of Saturday night after all.
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