Trying Out: Capp’s Club (Week Thirty-Seven)

Once upon a time there was an Italian restaurant not too far from me.  Now, it has been transformed into a bar.  Well, “slightly adjusted” might be a better description.  They painted the building black and gray.  What was once a well-like area has been transformed into a black metal cage containing a black metal bird.

 

None of this sounded particularly inviting to me.  Some folks like to drink; I do not.  Some folks like dark rooms with very little windows; I do not (unless we are in a theatre).  Some folks are interested in live music; mine is minimal.

However, the place is right there.  I pass it every day.  It is probably better to know what I am talking about than to entirely dismiss it.  As other entries will attest to, I have been wrong before.

Honestly, the biggest chore for me was settling on a dress code.  My ego did not want to dress up for anyone.  “I’m fine just the way I am.  Let them adjust to me!”  At the same time, I like to blend into the background.  I settled on jeans and a button-up shirt that was just this short of flannel.

When I say the building is dark, I mean it.  The brickwork was is black.  Once you step inside, the walls are black.  The ceiling is black.  The entire main room is black.

Except of course, the bar.  As a person walks in, it is the first thing they see.  Bright white fixtures.  Bottles and containers lit up in all the colors imaginable.  Two women bartenders, clad in short pants and trendy tops, were getting their station ready for the night.  Their workspace is clearly the focal point of the entire business.

There was a podium right by the door.  It seemed like it was a station to collect door fees or show people in.  However, it was unstaffed.  I had no desire to stay a spell.  So I let myself in and no one appeared to care.

I walked around and saw nothing but black where one would normally put windows.  I found the restrooms.  In that area was a rare dash of color; a giant poster advertising all the shows they had coming up.

Venturing to the other side of the place, I sauntered into the music room.  There, on the left wall, was a stage and a band that was either gearing up or breaking down.  (I shall return to that bit.)  Here, there was a dash of color.  Opaque red glass replaced what had once been clear windows.  If there were any less views of the outside, I would have thought I was in a strip club.  Or a prison.

Now, outside, right by the door, there is a sign that declares that there are no minors allowed.  Anyone under the age of twenty-one is forbidden.

 

So it struck me as a bit odd that the group of people leaving the stage, taking their gear with them?  Kids.  Apparently they have some sort of School of Rock class or gathering in their bar.  Which, to me, makes absolutely no sense.  “Hey, come hang out here and have fun.  Except, y’know, for every other time.”  Maybe it makes the kids feel cool.  Maybe they want to share their love of music with the world.  To me, it struck an odd chord.  Kids meeting up… in a bar.  Huh?

 

(Oddly enough, the bar shares a parking lot with a private school for munchkins.  Go figure.)

I stayed for about five minutes.  Just long enough to see all they had to offer.  I suppose I can see the appeal.  Go into wide-open rooms, mingle about, get a drink, and perhaps listen to some music.

I can handle a pub, they at least have booths and some hope for a quiet conversation.  This establishment seemed all about the drinks and the music.  Which is fine, but not how I like to spend my Saturday nights.

Beforehand I was skeptical about the place.  It did not seem like “me”.  And it was not (especially not with all the black paint).  That is fine.  There is a violin shop not too far away.  I do not play instruments.  So that place is not “me” either.

If I want to have a quiet date somewhere, just the two of us, I know where to not go.  If a friend wants a trendy place to rock out in a rather sleepy suburban town; I can probably point them in the right direction.

I know where the caged bird (-sculpture) sings.