Lenox — The candy red door of Rumpy’s (short for Rumpelstiltskin’s) announces itself off the back left corner of the Village Inn, a sprawling colonial featuring 4-poster beds and flowered wallpaper for those seeking a restful country experience after an evening at Tanglewood. Rumpy’s feels like the semi-hidden red light district of its host building.
I am not inclined to frequent red light districts. I am a wife and mother of three small children, age-wise a product of the 80’s. My husband and my go-to spot for a night without the kids serves handmade prosciutto cured by an in-house butcher. Generally speaking, I’m more likely to be grabbing a mocha latte at 7 a.m. in yoga pants than I am to be ordering a beer at 10 p.m. in tight jeans. The exceptions are Thursday nights every couple of months, when my karaoke club meets.
Our gatherings over the past two and a half years have numbered at least a baker’s dozen, with, I’d guess, about 150 songs sung. (One particular song accounts for as many as a baker’s dozen on its own. More about that later.) Judging by our staying power — the first night in late 2013 was meant to be a one time thing — my singing sisters are as pleased as I am to have a found a home together at Rumpy’s.
Before my karaoke club, I hadn’t voluntarily spent a second inside a dark, loud, low-ceilinged basement bar since a short-lived experiment with fraternity parties in the fall of 1990. Back then, it was a long trip down a dim, grimy stairway in uncertain heels to a dark space where an unfamiliar song was blasting. The trip foretold of sticky floors and shadowy men holding bottles of Jack Daniels.
But at Rumpy’s? Here I fairly leap the stairs in clogs or flip flops to where my song is playing, down to big smiles from Troy the bartender, down to DJ Laurie, warm and generous, and my corner of old friends and new, my corner that will eventually spill out to embrace the room. In winter, if I arrive before 9 p.m., the karaoke screen beside our corner warms us up with a fireplace; in summer yellow fish and peachy coral sway about.
All year round there are red lights strung along the top of the long bar and walls, giving everyone a vampiry glow in the darkness. It’s hard to get a good photo in Rumpy’s, but you don’t need to take down evidence when you’re busy loving humanity. Before long, I might only associate dark basement bars with the ingredients of world peace.
Troy is the only person since my father died who’s addressed me as “Love.” He’s got a big smile and blond-tipped hair, and keeps the beer and popcorn going all night. For special occasions he’ll make use of a button under the bar to turn on a crazy blue/green/red swirl that makes me feel like my beer was infused with something magical.
Among the Rumpy’s Thursday karaoke regulars outside of my club is a fellow we know as Dirty Bob. One night around 9:30, the room went crazy in a blue/green/red swirl. What was the big occasion? A celebrity in our midst, a big delivery of kegs? No. Dirty Bob was making his belated entrance, looking sharp in pressed white shirt and bolo tie. He shuffled gratefully into the psychedelic swirl amid loud cheers of “Dirty Bob!” and smiled shyly. He offered a meek wave to the rowdy ladies in the corner.
I’m home. It’s a Thursday night in January. The kids are in bed. I don’t want to leave my spot on the couch in front of the fire. But karaoke is a primal urge. It must be satisfied. I get off the couch and go find a pair of tight jeans.
As I enter Rumpy’s at 8:45 Jen is starting a tab at the bar. “Hey! Whaddaya want? This one’s on me!”
We get a “Hey Loves!” from Troy, collect our good, cold beers, and put our stuff down on some seats in the corner. In the early days, I’d possessively spread clothing and bags down all along the banquette that runs from the corner to the karaoke screen, but I soon learned that what worked for a showing of Star Wars, would not at Rumpy’s. If space gets tight here, we’ll share tables and song binders with Dirty Bob and Taco Nick and The Skipper and Super Joel, or a couple on date night, or a posse of long-haired kids. We’ll stand if we have to, or we’ll dance all night. (In Rumpy’s after 9 p.m., “I” turns into “we,” and “my” turns into “our.”)
I sit down and get serious with the song binder and by the time I come up for air, the corner is full. Liz, Susan, Elisa with Maggie, Ilana (a new addition), Giovanna, Annie, Danielle, another Jen. I’m thinking of asking Maggie to join me on “Landslide.” (Another habit I’ve discarded is stage hoarding; my only solos now are for Coal Miner’s Daughter or the Dixie Chicks. It’s lonely being a country music fan in Massachusetts.) But Laurie is calling, “The ladies gettin’ us off and running tonight! Sheela and Liz with ‘Under Pressure!’ ”
At the sound of my name, my heart goes a-flutter. No matter how many times I do this, it’s still nerve-wracking to get up from my beer and conversation and voluntarily fill the room with my amplified voice. Liz and I each pick up a mike from DJ Laurie’s table, and stand expectantly in the small adjacent area that serves as stage and dance floor, facing the screen….. I can’t do it. I mean, we do sing “Under Pressure,” but I’d wanted to explain to you here what it’s like to sing a song at Rumpy’s. I’m going to wait for a song that received justice. “Under Pressure” did not. We’re sorry, Mr. Bowie, it was meant to be a tribute.
“Thank you, ladies. Up next, please welcome Dirty Bob!” So here’s the thing: if your name is called, we won’t intrude upon your moment in the spotlight. We will, however, offer up our back up services if our participation would be an enhancement and not a detraction. For Dirty Bob we’re always ready to gather around for “Sweet Caroline,” and he’s always happy to have us.
Tonight, he is the only male in a quintet, holding the microphone as his ladies lean in close to lend volume and acoustic support. Room-wide, enthusiasm builds and lyric coherence wanes with the big windup to the chorus, “Touching me! Touching YOUUUUUUU!” and just after crooning, “Sweeeeet Car-oline!” instead of shouting out the usual audience contribution of “ba, ba, ba” we shout, “Dir-ty Bob!”
That’s fun. “Next up! Danielle and Elisa with some Britney!” So here’s another karaoke etiquette thing. Do it full tilt, whole hog, all in, 110 percent, body and soul, shake it like a polaroid picture. If you’re considering “Hit me baby one more time” for your next karaoke outing (and I highly recommend you do) keep that bit of wisdom in mind.
We have had duet or group success with “99 Red Balloons,” “Royals,” and Jane’s Addiction, among others. I’ve had a few strong, or at least evocative, performances. “Maybe this time” and “Cowboy Take Me Away” are crowd-pleasers, and as I would look over at my corner, the eyes of my companions would be smiling. There are other performances I would pay to erase from the public record. (Note to self: never try to replicate Billy Idol.) There are songs whose energy I love but have never known the words for, and realize reading the screen that it was better that way. “Walk on the Wild Side” and “Paradise by the Dashboard Lights” come to mind. Singing karaoke is sometimes like a jet ski ride over a swamp. It’s really fun, but you don’t want to think about what’s under the surface.
It’s 11:30. I need to be up at 6 a.m. But there’s no leaving without our traditional closing number, the one we’ve done at least a dozen times before, so we ask DJ Laurie if she’ll push our swan song to the top of the list. She agrees, word goes around the room, and then the ten or twelve of us are on our feet. I take one mike and Liz has the other, forming two sub-posses. We wait, facing the screen, hunched over a bit like sprinters at the starting line.
We are a scrum of mid-life-approaching women who have among us produced twenty children. We are a Congregational minister, a doctor, a Latin teacher and a math teacher, a school lunch lady, a copyright lawyer, an Italian student, a nutritionist. Our arms are slung over the shoulder of a best friend or a brand new friend, in a 6 foot by 4 foot rectangle of space.
Somewhere in the ether we can hear the delicate opening notes of “Total Eclipse of the Heart,” Bonnie Tyler’s immortal 1980’s anthem. We’re off and swaying. The words appear on the screen, “Turn around…..every now and then I get a little bit lonely and you’re never comin’ ‘round…..” The scrum breaks apart for some leaps in the direction of the back door, or some twirling in place. We come back together at the microphones as the tension mounts in the second verse. “Every now and then I get a little bit restless and I dream of something wild!” We break apart again for interpretative dancing during the long instrumental interlude.
Our hands form fists and come together at our hearts, our knees buckle and straighten, our heads fly backwards and hair flies forward. The climax of our evening together is approaching, the moment just beyond which we will separate, when we’ll put on our jackets and find the keys to our mini-vans. We come back together as we sense the approach of the consequential words. We are making it count. The microphones are superfluous.
“I don’t know what to DO and I’m ALways in the dark! We’re living in a powder keg and GIVIN’ OFF SPARKS!” da, da, da, da, da, da, da, “I really need you toNIGHT! Forever’s gonna start tonight…forever’s gonna start tonight!” Then, it’s time for a gentle denouement, and, finally, “a total eclipse of the heart……turn around, bright eyes….” We let it go, and return the microphones amidst maybe some cheering from the bar, maybe not. I’m so caught up in the moment, I never notice. OK, time for real life. I give quick hugs to everyone, grab my stuff off a chair and head up the stairs. I remember that there’s no bread in the house for lunches tomorrow.
Postscript:
I’m afraid this essay has come across like Facebook photos from a party you weren’t invited to. No, no, no! Sing one, sing all! I was working on this essay just as I received notice via Facebook that Rumpy’s had closed! Was our last “Total Eclipse of the Heart” really our swan song? No, the latest good news is that Rumpy’s is undergoing some renovations but it is open for business. Phew. That was very close. We’re living in a powder keg, ladies. Thank goodness we have our Rumpy’s where we can give off sparks.
