Kenny Rogers on a Rooster

Kenny Rogers on a Rooster. That’s what my eyes are drawn back to, time and time again. That and Kenny Rogers in a blue leisure suit, wide lapels and a pink dress shirt, frozen in place, microphone at his mouth while a framed portrait of a wide-eyed cat drifts above his right shoulder.

What is this? I wonder. The pictures lining the back wall of Rumba Cafe. It is too dark for me to see down to the very end, and there is an older couple sitting in front of the paintings in question, so I can’t get up to read the placards. I can only presume that it is a Kenny Rogers tribute of some sort. Perhaps a contest: Who can make Kenny Rogers—that dapper and debonair gambler man of our mothers’ youth—look the most preposterous. The rooster, definitely, is my pick. Was it some sort of reference to Kenny Rogers Roasters, his line of chicken and rib joints?

This wasn’t supposed to be the focus of the evening. I’d just dropped in (to see what condition my condition was in? No.) to see Tony Monaco. It seemed unbelievable that I’d been back in town for several years and yet hadn’t ever been to see him. (My excuse was that I had no intention of stepping foot inside the Ravari Room.)  But this was Rumba, so here was my chance. Plus, I’m all too aware that my office chair and my skin might fuse if I don’t occasionally get up from it and take a step out into the Desert of the Real.

I arrived a bit early, but that still meant circling the block five times before I found a reasonable parking spot. Reasonable, to me, means I don’t have to walk any more than a block to get to the bar. This isn’t about laziness. It’s because it’s Summit Street at night, and I’m a small woman, and I’d rather not have to find out whether my taser works on some street thug (one of those Juggalos likely to have been hanging out at Jack’s down the block. I can’t help it that seeing them immediately brings to mind thoughts of methadone clinics. Not quite as bad as Oldfield’s on Fourth; however, which brings to mind prostitutes and drug dealers because you can actually see them right out there in the open.)

I actually like Rumba. Some people call it a dive bar, but I don’t know why. It’s charming, and my feet don’t stick to the floor. I also don’t leave there feeling like I need hosed down. (Nor do I enter there wishing I had a Hazmat suit.)

The bar is full, but I’m able to find a table in the back. This put me in direct line of sight with Rogers on a Rooster, so how much luckier could I be? I might be here alone, but I am practically rubbing shoulders with a man whose latest musical creation, “The Love of God” is exclusively available at Cracker Barrel. My proximity to such ridiculousness makes me feel perfectly at ease. Plus, I am the observer rather than the observed. In a city, it’s easy to be incognito. I’m not young anymore—not by any stretch of the imagination in a college town where every third female is a twenty-something sporting an OSU sweatshirt and shorty-shorts (regardless of whether it might be only 40 degrees). Nor am I the hot chick. That distinction for this particular night would go to the young lady in the front—the one in the little black dress rockin’ apple green thigh high tights and black ankle boots. I wish I’d thought of that.

Eventually, Tony Monaco shows up, distracting me from further ruminations about Kenny and his Rooster. He slides in behind his Hammond and begins to play. Technically, they are still sound checking, but it’s the kind of sound check where the band is just jammin’ on something (funky as hell, in this case) while the soundman checks the levels. Derek DiCenzo is still getting set up, but Tony and the drummer, Reggie Jackson, are going full force. It’s immediately obvious that they’re good together. They click. Not only that, but they’re both smiling and nodding their heads. Reggie has this beatific smile on his face that suggests he’s diggin’ the music, diggin’ the vibe, and the feeling is catching. How can I not respond to that smile?

As the daughter of a pianist and composer, I learned early that the connection between drums and keys, or drums and bass, is critical. Not to say that the connection between ALL of the members of the band aren’t important, but if the rhythm section doesn’t have it together, you might as well be blowing the whistle on a train with no engine to go anywhere. I’m also aware of the opposite: music where the cable binding the players together is fashioned of pure hate. The band is beyond apathetic—actually, they’d rather not have to look at each other (on stage or off). They’d rather beat each other over the head with crash cymbals or jam microphones up into certain sensitive and private places (thinking all the while, If I have to hear him play that stupid fill one more time . . . If he doesn’t quit turning up the volume on his fucking amp, and so on.) But the music, strangely, ends up being good. They’ve let go of all their concerns about how they’re playing. Right or wrong, it doesn’t matter. What emerges is un-self-conscious. Unmarked by ego—or the desire to appear competent to their fellow band mates, or to the audience even, for that matter. The I-don’t-give-a-shitness of it can be pure gold. More often though, it’s just pure shit, plain and simple. Someone is showboating. Someone is so drunk they can’t stand up, and the singer’s forgotten the words again because he’s high. Someone is pounding away like they’re in their own little world, and the click that can bring everyone together just isn’t going to happen. Ever.

I’ve heard this so many times that it’s easy to forget what music can sound like when the band is a single, driving force. Everyone is propelled in the same direction. They are connected to each other, breathing in the same breath and exhaling sound. Don’t know what I’m talking about? Just watch Prince, live. (I don’t care if you tell me he’s short and drinks yak milk with his pancakes and Dunk-a-roos; that tiny dancing man can PLAY.)

This isn’t Prince, but Dereck comes in now, and there it is: Three people, melded, and I’m transported somewhere…beyond the ordinary. I would have said magical, but it’s not like I’m suddenly climbing a beanstalk. It’s just…there’s something spiritual about good music. People are joining together to create; they are presenting it to you, in the moment, and no matter how many times they’ve played the material before (or how many times you may have heard it), there’s something new there. The energy of the moment transforms it into something original, something fresh. And that ability is either there or it’s not. You can’t rehearse newness—some might even argue that the point of rehearsing in the first place is to learn the music enough to be able to let go and actually feel it when you play live, to be so connected that you can let yourself be transported and yet always know where home is. (Others argue that this is precisely why you shouldn’t bother to rehearse. I’m inclined toward the former method and not the latter if your band can’t quite remember how the song actually goes once you’re playing.) You can’t fake soulfulness.

I do not mean soulful in the sense of a musical styling but in the sense that musicians can come together and create a body of work that transcends their individual abilities, much in the way single notes join together to form chords, harmonies, symphonies. Such musicians inspire each other. They also propel each other. This ability to come together, to inspire, to create something that not only transports the artist but also the listener? That is what I mean by soulful, and isn’t that why we join together in the first place? Because together, we can create what we could not create alone? We can reach farther. Grow larger. We marvel at the possibilities. We are amplifying each other; creating something dynamic. That is partnership. That is life. That is music.

Now what would Kenny Rogers and his Rooster think of that?

Original Show Date (most likely) 09.06.11. I’m a little late posting. This is The Urban Hermit Blog, A.D.