Monday, May 02, 2005
Boogie and Chill
I was jamming at my usual Saturday night haunt along Prinsep Street, a small little pub called Roomful of Blues. It was a much welcome respite from Wala Wala, which I didn’t feel entirely comfortable in, truth be told. Music aside, Wala was jam-packed with dressed-up yuppie types to the point that there’s hardly room to stand without having to tiptoe every once in a while for people to pass through. The cold, dry smokey air stings my eyes like pepper. A subtle poseur aura hangs heavy around the place, reinforced somewhat by the overpriced drinks. There are some nightspots that I warm up to real quick, but this wasn’t one of them. Your mileage may vary.
I’ve been going to Roomful of Blues for almost 5 years now (gee I’m getting old), when I was taking my first few tentative steps out of playing (blues) in my bedroom. It was there that I got my first taste of playing on stage in a pub, where I honed my chops and learnt a few tricks of the trade from fellow jammers. The proprietor of the place, Steven, was an old hand on the blues scene from a long time ago. A killer guitarist then, he can still let it rip, but plays the drums out of necessity to keep the jam going. Never short of advice for a bewildered young wannabe, he was one of the first few people who really taught me stuff. On drums, he ranges from abysmal to brilliant, sometimes consecutively. Never fails to keep me on my toes, in both good and bad ways.
The venue itself is rather curious. Situated in a restored shophouse, it’s narrow but really long. When you first step in, you’ll see a small, wiry Malay fellow grinning at you under his moustache from behind the bar counter. That’s Sunny, the only bartender I’ve ever known to work there. The bar counter takes up half the width, the other half being filled up with high tables and chairs. As you walk further down to the end of the bar counter, you’ll reach the bigger tables where the regulars usually are. It used to be a makeshift dance floor, but that was a long time ago. In front of that is the stage, a raised wooden platform jam-packed with amps, drums and possibly the only Hammond B3 organ in Singapore, complete with rotating Leslie speakers. It hasn’t been played in a while, and in the meantime it’s my favourite spot for putting my beer while I play.
Behind the stage is the pool table, a must for any self-respecting pub worth it’s salt. Beyond that is the mini-kitchen and toilets. Doesn’t sound all that hygienic, but it works.
The whole place is dimly lit like a B-grade horror movie, while posters of blues greats line the wall. The fake plastic vines hanging from the lights are totally out of place, though after a while it’s not a big deal. The smell of last night’s cigarettes is faint, but is soon replenished. It may be the only pub in Singapore with the word “blues” in its’ name, but it really thrives a lot more on the regular staple of Top 40s from Gilbert, a Filipino guitar guy. Real nice and friendly fellow, and the regulars love him. Does very tasteful renditions of their favourite songs too. The only time you’ll hear live blues is on Saturday night, where Steven hosts a jam with the usual suspects, yours truly included. By eleven, Gilbert takes over and gets the crowd going. It’s usually not very packed, but even when it is, it’s not squeezy and suffocating
The crowd consists of some faces I’ve seen since the first time I went there, and everyone’s friendly with each other. Newcomers wouldn’t really look out of place, but you’ll definitely know who the regulars are from the loud greetings and laughter. They’re there week in, week out, occupying their usual tables and gulping their respective poisons, relaxing in a place that they’ve come to like for what it is; an unpretentious joint where you know they’re gonna play your song. Not all of them are huge blues fans, but they don’t really mind us making a racket.
Once in a while, they’ll take the stage when Gilbert’s playing and give the world a rendition of their favourite song, sometimes less than sober. One of them in particular, Patrick, is a barrel-chested middle-aged guy, ex-oil rigger with a balding top and pony tail, always resplendent in tight polo T, jeans and suspenders. Yeap, suspenders. His rusty baritone has all the subtlety of a freight train, and he has unabashedly made one of Louis Armstrong's songs his own. It’s called “What a Bloody Wonderful World”. Naturally, he’s one of the crowd favourites, and brings on cheers and hoots whenever he hits the stage, having endeared himself to anyone who’s heard him sing before.
Of course, there’s no way to complete a description of any nightspot without any mention of the chicks scene. Well, most of them aren’t too bad looking, but are usually a little out of my demographic age group. Once in a while there’ll be a whole lot of eligible females clustered around one table, but me being the decent guy I am, I concentrate on the music and my beer (Alright you can stop laughing now). I did get lucky once, but you’ll have to pry it out of me. Most probably with a crowbar.
It’s not a place to strike you as being cool, trendy or comfy at first sight (it never did for me), but it grows on you, just as you grow into a part of it. Most people I know probably wouldn’t last two minutes in there, but I’m sure those that can will agree with me that it’s a place where you can chill out without any pretense and not feel like a stranger. It’s as close as it gets to a real juke joint in Singapore.
If you’re game, you know who to call. Oh yes, if you want to jam it can be arranged. Play anything you want, as long as it’s twelve-bar blues. Unless you’d like to adopt one of Louis Armstrong’s songs for you own too.
I’ve been going to Roomful of Blues for almost 5 years now (gee I’m getting old), when I was taking my first few tentative steps out of playing (blues) in my bedroom. It was there that I got my first taste of playing on stage in a pub, where I honed my chops and learnt a few tricks of the trade from fellow jammers. The proprietor of the place, Steven, was an old hand on the blues scene from a long time ago. A killer guitarist then, he can still let it rip, but plays the drums out of necessity to keep the jam going. Never short of advice for a bewildered young wannabe, he was one of the first few people who really taught me stuff. On drums, he ranges from abysmal to brilliant, sometimes consecutively. Never fails to keep me on my toes, in both good and bad ways.
The venue itself is rather curious. Situated in a restored shophouse, it’s narrow but really long. When you first step in, you’ll see a small, wiry Malay fellow grinning at you under his moustache from behind the bar counter. That’s Sunny, the only bartender I’ve ever known to work there. The bar counter takes up half the width, the other half being filled up with high tables and chairs. As you walk further down to the end of the bar counter, you’ll reach the bigger tables where the regulars usually are. It used to be a makeshift dance floor, but that was a long time ago. In front of that is the stage, a raised wooden platform jam-packed with amps, drums and possibly the only Hammond B3 organ in Singapore, complete with rotating Leslie speakers. It hasn’t been played in a while, and in the meantime it’s my favourite spot for putting my beer while I play.
Behind the stage is the pool table, a must for any self-respecting pub worth it’s salt. Beyond that is the mini-kitchen and toilets. Doesn’t sound all that hygienic, but it works.
The whole place is dimly lit like a B-grade horror movie, while posters of blues greats line the wall. The fake plastic vines hanging from the lights are totally out of place, though after a while it’s not a big deal. The smell of last night’s cigarettes is faint, but is soon replenished. It may be the only pub in Singapore with the word “blues” in its’ name, but it really thrives a lot more on the regular staple of Top 40s from Gilbert, a Filipino guitar guy. Real nice and friendly fellow, and the regulars love him. Does very tasteful renditions of their favourite songs too. The only time you’ll hear live blues is on Saturday night, where Steven hosts a jam with the usual suspects, yours truly included. By eleven, Gilbert takes over and gets the crowd going. It’s usually not very packed, but even when it is, it’s not squeezy and suffocating
The crowd consists of some faces I’ve seen since the first time I went there, and everyone’s friendly with each other. Newcomers wouldn’t really look out of place, but you’ll definitely know who the regulars are from the loud greetings and laughter. They’re there week in, week out, occupying their usual tables and gulping their respective poisons, relaxing in a place that they’ve come to like for what it is; an unpretentious joint where you know they’re gonna play your song. Not all of them are huge blues fans, but they don’t really mind us making a racket.
Once in a while, they’ll take the stage when Gilbert’s playing and give the world a rendition of their favourite song, sometimes less than sober. One of them in particular, Patrick, is a barrel-chested middle-aged guy, ex-oil rigger with a balding top and pony tail, always resplendent in tight polo T, jeans and suspenders. Yeap, suspenders. His rusty baritone has all the subtlety of a freight train, and he has unabashedly made one of Louis Armstrong's songs his own. It’s called “What a Bloody Wonderful World”. Naturally, he’s one of the crowd favourites, and brings on cheers and hoots whenever he hits the stage, having endeared himself to anyone who’s heard him sing before.
Of course, there’s no way to complete a description of any nightspot without any mention of the chicks scene. Well, most of them aren’t too bad looking, but are usually a little out of my demographic age group. Once in a while there’ll be a whole lot of eligible females clustered around one table, but me being the decent guy I am, I concentrate on the music and my beer (Alright you can stop laughing now). I did get lucky once, but you’ll have to pry it out of me. Most probably with a crowbar.
It’s not a place to strike you as being cool, trendy or comfy at first sight (it never did for me), but it grows on you, just as you grow into a part of it. Most people I know probably wouldn’t last two minutes in there, but I’m sure those that can will agree with me that it’s a place where you can chill out without any pretense and not feel like a stranger. It’s as close as it gets to a real juke joint in Singapore.
If you’re game, you know who to call. Oh yes, if you want to jam it can be arranged. Play anything you want, as long as it’s twelve-bar blues. Unless you’d like to adopt one of Louis Armstrong’s songs for you own too.
# posted by BloozeGit @ 12:42 pm 
