St. Nicks Pub

Nick’s Pub is in Harlem on 149th and St. Nicolas Ave. I’ve passed this place on the way to and from the subway for the 7 years I’ve lived uptown. On any night a few locals are seated at the bar listening to blues and jazz, while they throw back a few. I’m not much of a drinker. I grew up in a household free of alcohol. When my dad wanted a drink, he went to a bar. My mom was raised a Baptist and pretty much that whole ideology of abstaining alcohol, fornication, and bad language ruled. Really. Not that a curse word wouldn’t slip out every now and then. As teenagers we fornicated much later than most teens. I’m just getting to the drinking part.

On Saturday night a drink was called for. We had been listening to a friend’s frustration and anger over the break up of her marriage. After two hours we all needed to go do something. Now usually on a Saturday night we’d go downtown. Perhaps see some folk or rock bands on Ludlow street, watch groups of young white kids walk a drunken-shuffle, or go dancing in clubs so small, we’d search for a space to dance and find ourselves pushed right out the door. Literally.

We decided to check out St. Nick’s Pub. There was a trio up on the stage composed of a stand up bassist, an electric keyboard player and a drummer. A seasoned vocalist was at the mike. A few old timers were at a table right in front of the stage. Some European tourist arrived just after we took our seats at the bar. A mature black couple sat at a table, the man massaging her back. Other musicians sat stage left. I was betting some jam session was probably the regular Saturday action. The bartender wore a black knitted head wrap, smoky eye-make up and a tiny stud in her nose. She wore a black t-shirt with the face of a little black kid with short locks. The caption underneath read, “Black Rasta Baby.”

After getting our drinks my husband made a toast. We worked on those while the drummer began to do some Ray Charles. By the end of the first drink I was feeling pretty buzzed and then the drummer led the group in “What I’d Say.” I loved being a Raelet. I don’t know of anyone who doesn’t love the Raelet part. You know the “Huuuuh” call and response between Ray and his back up singers.

My husband makes a toast and we three click our glasses. He begins a conversation, truth or dare style about the number of sex partners we’ve all had. We each start recalling them from the first date to the last partner including spouses. As we’re reviewing the best and worst of them, I spot an acquaintance that I haven’t spoken to in a year. She has seen me first because she’s looking at me like she wanted to be sure it was I before she spoke. I turn to my husband and point her out.

She comes over. We hug and kiss and introduce the people we’re with to each other. She asks me what I’m up to. I tell her I’ve left my job to write. She gets this look on her face like she’s got a secret she can’t wait to tell. My friend tells me if I want to freelance then I need to talk to her friend. “She’s the real deal.” The real deal happens to be Susan Crain Bakos. Susan tells us she quit her job, left her husband started freelancing as a writer 30 years ago and has never looked back. I ask what she writes about. She says I’ve probably seen her stuff in women’s magazines. She tosses a title at me, “Make Over Your Sex Life Tonight.” It is not familiar. I jot this down in a notebook I keep handy for interesting tidbits to look up later.

We all get a table together. The old timers in the front have left. The first band ends their set and a new group assembles. We order a new round of drinks. Some other European tourists sit at the table with us. They share some canned peanuts they have bought in with them. I start wishing for thing to munch on.

At the table Susan tells us more about the stuff she writes. It’s all sex. The acquaintance friend tells me Susan has a new book coming out soon. I don’t know what a writer who focuses on sex looks like or if they have a particular look. I wouldn’t have guessed what Susan wrote about. She wore a button down white blouse, the collar open wide. Her hair was coiffed in one of those feathered spike/curl looks. This lady appeared no different from the literacy teachers I worked with on reading strategies conferences. She reminds me of the society types you see on Fifth Avenue going out to lunch. Although, the white blouse she wore, was open down to the top of her black bra. She could have been someone who just wanted to look sexy.

She tells me about a columnist she knew. The magazine had created this persona of this columnists who was giving advice about sex. She was this mysterious 120-pound woman living on some island and was never available for public appearances. Susan tells us in actuality this woman was a 300 something pound lesbian. “We must have lunch sometime. I could give you lots of advice.”

The new group on stage introduces themselves. Composed of an electric pianist, a bass guitarist, electric guitar player, a drummer seated at a set and a drummer playing a Djembe drum. They are The West African Men featuring, Koumba Sibibe. Koumba tells the audience, “ Every Saturday night is Africa Night, and tonight we are all African’s. Some of the group’s members hail from Senegal, Guinea, Mali and Niger. Everyone at the table agrees. My friend jokes, “Africa by way of Hungary.” I’m glad not to be with people who continue to dispute Africa as the birthplace of the world and all peoples.

Koumba is on the electric piano. He ask for a moment of silence in honor of the hurricane Katrina victims and the death a relative. The bar has filled up with other musicians, Saturday regulars, young whites and African women in bolas or sarongs in peach, green and head wraps. The musicians warmed up with a infusion of jazz, funk, west African guitar and the electric pianist adding European classical. The drummer on the djembe pumping his palms in clusters of four-time with a resounding “bah” at the end of each. Susan remarks, ”Don’t you just want to lick his arms!”

It wasn’t long before one of the women got up to accompany the drummer. Anyone who knows something about African dance and drumming, one is not done without the other. I loved it when this one dancer matched each beat of the drum with her hips and arms. She never broke a sweat. Another woman soon joined her. They soon simulated each other’s moments, holding the wrapped skirts wider to allow their legs to open and close to the rhythm of the drummer. The djembe drummer picked the drum waving the base of it in praise of the dancers. A member of the audience joined them. One of the African women encourages her already knowing body to try other steps. A third woman came in and began placing pans of long aluminum pans on the table. My prayers were answered as an announcement came between songs, that food would be served.

The band had another hot round of a song called “Soweto, Soweto.” By now some horn players had arrived, sax and trumpets and another guitar player. Koumba called the third woman, who had bought in the food to the stage. “You cooked the food and now you must sing.” He said. Her voice was strong and deep. The singer commanded the musicians, when to take solos. Each time she gave the invitation they responded with flair and passion. By the end of the song the singer was waving her hand over the crowd. I felt like I’d been to an old time tent revival.

If you are tired of the same old Saturday night come up to St. Nick’s Pub. Don’t wait until your marriage is on the rocks. Get a babysitter and get spiritually lifted. A head wrap and matching lappa isn’t necessary, (although essential to sisters keeping that Scared Woman beauty alive). Do bring your dancing feet and stomach. Because every Saturday is Africa Night!