Call it senior nostalgia setting in. Call it having grown up in a tropical climate where "changing seasons" was a foreign concept and leaves were always on the trees (not to mention eternally green). Call it a recently rekindled, poisonous hatred of the Yankees. Whatever the reason, lately Boston has seemed like an absolute ideal place to live. It's just this quaint gingerbread land of major metropolises - vibrant golds, reds, and oranges stand out against the ancient buildings, people talk a little funny, and everybody knows your name.
This semester I've been almost ridiculously appreciative of the city, singing praises of its small-yet-big-town aura and feeling surges of quasi-Bostonian pride. But nothing, nothing, truly ingratiated me into the Boston mindset like this past Saturday night at Landsdowne Street's Jake Ivory's - being one of a roomful of people, young and old, singing Aerosmith's "Dream On" at the top of its collective lungs.
It's a common understanding that music that brings everyone together. It's also understood that everyone likes to sing, very loudly, preferably while having their voice drowned out by other (bad) voices. This club is the place to do it, down-home Boston-style.
Jake Ivory's stands out on nightclub-infested Landsdowne as one of the few places where pretension, tight black pants, and noxious amounts of cologne aren't requisite. While pulsating techno beats emanate from its swankier neighbors, Jake Ivory's fills the surrounding air with frat boy rock, '80s classics, Piano Man ballads, and the vocal accompaniment of hundreds of drunken fools.
For those of you not lucky enough to obtain Billy Joel tickets (and, sorry, those lucky enough to tote a 21+ ID), this might be the next best thing. Kind of. The club is a "dueling piano bar" that features live music every Thursday, Friday, and Saturday nights. It's essentially a human jukebox. Two pianos sit on the low stage, and two men sit behind them, ready and willing (and able) to play and sing anything your little heart desires.
Well, anything so long as your wallet desires it, too - these guys only seem to take their requests seriously when attached to something green with a number greater than "5" printed on it. Don't worry - once the alcohol starts flowing and 400 people are singing "Crocodile Rock" in your ear, you'll be willing to scrounge up a bit of cash for some peace of mind.
Case in point: There was a five-dollar request to play some Neil Diamond, to which some of the packed house met with both gasps of delight, others with shrieks of horror.
Just as he arrived at the crescendo leading up to the chorus of "Sweet Caroline" ("Hands....[everyone has their hands up, everyone is swaying]...touching hands...touching me....touching yoooooooou"), he stops.
"I got a six dollar request not to play this! Seven dollars starts it up again!" He breaks into Bon Jovi's "Dead or Alive" and everyone becomes a rock superstar. "I'm a cowboyyy. On a steeeeel horse I...."
He stops again. "Wait, wait! Seven dollars!! Here we go....'Sweeeeet Caroline. Doo doo doo.'" And so on, for about five straight hours. You name it, these guys will play it.
The best part is that all of this starts at about 9 p.m. It's the pre-party that everyone likes better than the party itself. Everyone was there as the Diamondbacks were scoring their 15th run against the Yankees, and a rousing cheer arose from the back bar as roomful of people crushed up against one another imitated Steve Tyler's falsetto.
The place is simply packed - and packed with all sorts of people, too: college kids, heavily-made up older women laughing it up to "Paradise by the Dashboard Light," fortysomething guys belting out "Glory Days" in a fit of tough-guy grandeur one minute and sashaying to "I Touch Myself" the next. You name it, this place has got it.
Jake Ivory's takes the best parts of Lansdowne and combines them - it puts the Fenway Park mentality into the club scene, and adds flirtatious bar dancing to the All-American fun of singing James Taylor while being very, very intoxicated. There's something about the place that's just quintessentially Boston - a certain down-to-earthness of the patrons, a huggy/kissy Cheers-esque rapport between tables. I left feeling all warm and fuzzy, surrounded by crisp New England air, a man wondering where the hell his "f***ing cah" was, and "Blister in the Sun" in my head.
Boston is a wonderful town, indeed.
