| Live, on stage, with an actual band
JAMAICA PLAIN
A hip club spices up the karaoke scene with real musicians By Patrick Gerard Healy GLOBE CORRESPONDENT The Nickel and Dime Band turned me into a rock star. While they played ''Rebel Yell,'' I tried to channel Billy Idol. My voice wavered and my timing was less than perfect, but the band played on and the crowd went wild. Then it was somebody else's turn. Every other Tuesday the Nickel and Dimers transform willing patrons into rock stars at the Jamaica Plain hipster hangout, the Milky Way Lounge. According to club co-owner Carol Downs the bi-weekly event (next on Oct. 19) has drawn as many as 150, and its appeal is growing. For the first time in Boston, it's karaoke with live music. ''I think it's gonna take off like a rocket,'' says Downs. ''People feel like they're really rock stars when a live band is backing them up.'' The lounge imported the idea from the New York City club Arlene's Grocery, which hosts a similar event, but focusing on punk rock and heavy metal. Pete Vasconcellos, a waiter at Bella Luna, the restaurant above the Milky Way, was the host of the Milky Way's already successful traditional karaoke night. But he wanted to spice things up. He'd heard about what New York was doing with karaoke, and he thought it could work locally, but with a twist. After an inspiring Vasconcellos-led field trip to NYC with all of the Milky Way karaoke regulars, he began looking for a band. After several months of no-thank-yous from disinterested bands, Bella Luna chef (and Berklee College of Music graduate) Rob Manochio approached Vasconcellos about taking the gig. With a group of fellow Berklee grads coined the Nickel and Dime Band, Manochio and company taught themselves over 100 songs by ear, from Duran Duran to Justin Timberlake. By June they were ready to bring it to the stage in JP, where they're paid $300 for the night. Vasconcellos ended up moving to New York in August, and Ricky McLean, a friend of the band, took his place as host. The main difference between these performances and standard karaoke is that the evening is devoid of the irony - some would say sarcasm - that sometimes overshadows karaoke. You won't hear an indie-rock mockery of a Celine Dion song at live-band karaoke. Everybody who gets onstage seems genuinely invested. No laughs are had at anybody's expense, either. Where watching bad karaoke can be entertaining in its own right, this is entertaining because it's good. Now appearing live: you and your band Most audience members perform at least once throughout the evening, but even as spectators they are frenetic. The band provides all the lyrics, printed out on the music stand - a departure from the typical karaoke teleprompter. From the moment Manochio begins strumming the open chords for the night's kick-off song, a rendition of ''Every Rose Has its Thorn,'' featuring attorney-by-day Rolfe Hubley, it is obvious that something special is happening. In the crowd eyes sparkle, heads nod and high-held hands make heavy-metal devil horns. The energy bounces from person to person. The crowd's acceptance sets Hubley at ease, so he gets more impassioned, and as he visibly gets more into the song, the band plays with more intensity. ''Folks aren't up there making fun of rock stars,'' says Hubley. ''They are living out some secret dream they have had since they were a kid. I'm Mr. Hubley, the bankruptcy attorney by day, but once in a while, I can be Bret Michaels singing a glam-metal ballad about unrequited love. Doesn't that rock?'' The sound of live drumsticks hitting a snare drum combined with lead guitarist Andrew Brady's note-for-note recreation of the guitar solo provides an entirely different feel than the traditional karaoke machine. If you come in late on a verse, the band plays a measure more to cover your mistake. If you want to rush to the chorus, because you have no idea what the rest of the verse is (which may or may not have happened to this reporter), the band can adjust to that too. It is universally understood here that everyone who performs with the Nickel and Dime Band is a rock star. As soon as you sign up, you are in the process of transformation. ''It can be a little intimidating if you don't know the music,'' says Lisette Garcia, filling in for McLean as host. ''But at the same time, you have a lot of energy because you have a live band behind you. You really feel like you're part of the band.'' High-fives and hugs are doled out to the deserving. And at the Milky Way, everybody is deserving. ''The club itself is the most accepting place you'll ever find,'' gushes Elissa Jordan, who later in the evening sings a steamy duet of Nelly's ''Hot in Here,'' with bartender Darren Ray. As Jordan sings the line, ''I am getting so hot, I wanna take my clothes off,'' the dance floor is full with people actually dancing, which is almost an anomaly in a rock club. And watching hipsters get down to a Nelly song is also a sight not often seen. The crowd is a mix of 20-something scenesters, neighborhood residents, area professionals and aspiring rockers. The club is the sort of environment where 36-year-old software engineer Mike Poirier can wear leather pants, and is taken seriously performing a current top 40 hit by Maroon 5. Not only is this sort of transformation accepted, it is celebrated. ''Everybody here is really gifted, and you don't often associate 'gifted' with karaoke,'' says Poirier. Downs even gets up to sing a spirited version of ''Play That Funky Music,'' with guests hopping onstage unannounced to share the mic with her. Nickel and Dime Band bassist Tom Appleman says he hopes the trend catches on, and he wouldn't even object to other clubs appropriating the idea. ''I think it'd be great. I just hope it doesn't get watered down It is a lot of work, but any cover band could really do it.'' Appleman says the experience of playing with guest singers is more rewarding than playing in a cover band, which he does in addition to Nickel and Dime. ''Karaoke's a lot more fun because you have fresh new energy every song. It's not like a jaded lead singer who has been doing it for 20 years.'' ''There's definitely a guilty pleasure of playing Whitesnake and Def Leppard songs,''says lead guitarist Brady. ''I spent all this time studying jazz at school, and here I am playing '80s power ballads.'' Sarah Lee Tuck, who teaches at the German School in Cambridge, gets up to sing ''These Boots Are Made for Walkin'.'' Even though she is singing in her second language, she is perfectly at ease with the words, barely needing to reference the notebook full of lyrics on the music stand in front of her. At the instrumental outro, she swings her long hair around, and the crowd cheers like it's Elvis on the Ed Sullivan show. ''It's really unbelievable because you could never have this anywhere else; the feeling of a band behind you. They look at you and they know how you're singing and go with the pace, and the audience is just incredible here. They scream and are really supportive and that part of it makes me feel good.'' All participants return from the stage with a similar sense of elation. ''You don't have to actually sing okay. If you feel like you did, it really doesn't matter,'' says a heavy-breathing Brad Reed, a BU student, who has just come down from the stage after singing ''I Believe in a Thing Called Love.'' When Appleman announces that the band is going to take a five-minute break, the crowd objects with cries of despair. Appleman admits that the only reason the band wants a break is to get more beer. Someone asks them what brand they drink, and several patrons rush to the bar to accommodate them. But by far the most touching display of this JP nightlife community camaraderie comes when a Bill Gates doppelganger who calls himself Tron sings Radiohead's ''Creep.'' As Tron is bringing the self-loathing anthem to a close with the refrain ''I don't belong here,'' a heckler pipes up. But as with most aspects of this evening, even the heckling is supportive. ''Yes, you do,'' comes the response from the dance floor. ''You do belong here!'' Back |
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