The start of my Saturday night read like a grandmother's admonition: "Always wear nice underwear, so that if you're ever in an accident and they have to cut your clothes off, you won't be embarrassed."
What would be more appropriate is: "Always wear nice shoes and slacks because you never know when you'll suddenly be whisked away to go clubbing."
Yes, yes, I ought to put this in perspective. It was Saturday night and my date and I exited that evening's performance of "Hay Fever" fully expecting to have missed the 10 p.m. shuttle into downtown Boston.
We should have known better: when does that shuttle ever run on schedule? It was 10:30 and the shuttle was still there. So instead of running back to change, we boarded the bus. After all, we were just going to Tequila Rain, the self-proclaimed all-year spring break location. Just how fancy could this pool hall/dance club possibly be?
Spending all weekend in the sun must have roasted away a few brain cells, causing me to forget cardinal rule number one of Lansdowne Sreet (and most clubs elsewhere): no sneakers after eight p.m.
After being bounced from Tequila Rain, we turned to the next best option that would accept our scrubbiness: Jake Ivory's. Despite the sign outside boasting "America's hottest duelling piano show" within, it didn't hit me and several of my friends what exactly we had plunged into until we had all paid our eight dollar cover.
From the stage in the middle of the main hall, the two "duelling" pianists were just starting up a new song. Our group exchanged amused glances as the crowd began to shout-sing along to the pianists' rendition of Bon Jovi's "Living on a Prayer."
"I don't know how to dance to this!" a mock-panicked voice yelled from behind me.
Nevertheless, we did. We worked our way towards the front of the bar and onto an elevated area by the windows looking out onto Lansdowne Street. Peering down into the mass of people before us, one word came to mind: old(er). We must have been one of two college-aged groups in the bar (they must have been rejected next door too.) The rest of those in the crowd were in their 30s, 40s or 50s and, judging from their Red Sox apparel, many of them had wandered in after the game.
As the crowd fought over whether they wanted to hear Michael Jackson or Billy Joel next, an overwhelming desire for a shot overcame me. After all, there must be a reason why Billy drinks so much, right? Unfortunately for me, the bartender informed me that Jake Ivory's has a no-shot policy following Fenway games, in order to "prevent rowdiness." Behind me, Billy Joel supporters roared in triumph as they got their song. "Prevent rowdiness" indeed. With a chuckle and a shrug, the bartender proceeded to make me a Long Island ice tea. And what a good one it was.
Back on our platform, we bobbed our heads, twisted and sung along to quite a few more songs until one of the pianists jumped atop his piano and began singing "Y.M.C.A." It was time for some hip-hop. After a brief bathroom stop (Jake Ivory's ladies' bathroom, despite a slight griminess and wet floors, has a surprisingly quick turnover), we all made our way into the hip-hop room.
Gone was the group of weird kids that had been attempting to rap onstage when we peeked in earlier in the night; standard hip-hop blared from the speakers. There wasn't any impressive mixing here, either. The fanciest thing the DJ did was ensure that songs played seamlessly one after another.
After piling all our stuff together in a corner at the side of the stage, I decided to make another attempt to garner myself some shots. Although I had already been denied shots by the first bartender outside, I refused to resign myself to being shot-free all night. Not every bartender could possibly be so straight-shooting, I reasoned. I was correct.
Jake Ivory's was not quite the type of place where I had thought I'd be spending my Saturday night on Lansdowne Street. If I wanted a live band, I would rather head over to Central or Harvard Square. But then again, it was fun, in a silly way, to be singing along with the band at the top of my lungs with a group of friends. And despite the age difference, the crowd was friendly and easy to get along with - even the bald man who tried to convince me to run off and elope with him.
