Gospel Brunch At House of Blues Didn't Suck!

This past Sunday, a friend invited me to the House of Blues on the Sunset Strip for the weekly Gospel Brunch. I initially balked at the idea, when it was pitched to me weeks beforehand, because I figured it would be super expensive and probably forgettable, but I'm glad I went.

First off, some girl my friend knew met us outside and gave us four free tickets (worth $200!). Nice. What did my friend do to deserve such a favor? He's not sure. He met her playing beer pong at a bar one night and she offered to 'hook him up' because she works at the House of Blues. I'll have to ask Miss Manners (or is it Ms. now?) if my friend is now obligated to have sex with her. I'm pretty sure he is.

The girl then gave us a tour of our breakfast options, spread out across the rambling dark first floor--two omelette stations, a waffle bar, fresh fruit spread, lunch options, desserts, etc. Again, nice.

It was already after one o'clock in the afternoon and I was hungry--I had stayed in bed til noon, arduously fighting my body's hard-wired desire to get out of bed and do something, simply to make sure I wouldn't eat before the brunch. I was glad I waited.

I was also glad we had smoked a joint ten minutes previously. My mouth watered.

The girl--well, to be fair she was very much a woman, nay, an angel--poured three mimosas and a bloody mary straight off and kept 'em coming. My friends and I toasted our good fortune, downed our glasses, and hit the buffets. As much as I wanted to eat everything in sight, as soon as I got my expertly-crafted omelette I was so worried it would get cold--and so hungry that I couldn't stand its tortuous presence under my nose--that I quickly scooped up some apple cobbler, hustled back to our table, and cleaned my plate in record time. Sadly, I was never able to return to the food spread, although I would have loved a mini Belgian waffle with fresh fruit. Hell, I'd love one right now...

After we inhaled our food, our Angel invited us upstairs to partake in a bizarre House tradition. The first five times she tried to explain it to us, none of us understood what the hell she was saying. It seemed to involve "throwing napkins at people" and them "loving it." She gave up and told us to just follow her upstairs. We did.

Once upstairs, she tried a few more times to explain why we were up there. I sort of understood what she meant when she said "we have the only moving bar in Los Angeles" and "it follows this track," but it still wasn't super clear--especially with regard to the napkins. Our Angel handed us each a stack of napkins and proceeded to set more napkins down on a crack in the floor. We guzzled champagne with furrowed brows and waited.

"Here we go!"

Suddenly, the entire room lurched and began to split down the middle, like some special effect in an Indiana Jones movie. As the crack widened, our fellow diners down below became visible, and we all launched our handfuls of napkins at them.

Believe it or not, they loved it.

Why did they love it? I have no idea. But adults and children alike smiled Disneyland-commercial smiles and reached up toward us, clutching at napkins wafting down on the air currents. These poor souls experienced something not unlike sheer bliss. (How boring are their lives that this is exciting? Even the three-year olds should be ashamed!) The four of us, plus a few staff members, watched from above, mesmerized. The lowly subjects down below waved at us like we were royalty; we waved back in kind. Out of napkins after the first twenty seconds of bar-rotating, I was tempted to dump champagne on them, but thought it not only a waste, but also perhaps not as welcome a gesture. I'm guessing used napkins would also have elicited something more ugly than happiness, but I'll have to wait until next time to find out for sure. (I mean, let's be honest--for all these poor people knew, the napkins we dropped had been down my pants for the last hour.)

Back down at our ringside seats on the ground floor--now with much more headroom, courtesy of the ceiling/upstairs-bars rotating off to the sides--the show got underway.

A midget dude in a suit busted out and juiced up the crowd with some surprisingly powerful singing, as well as a preacher-like call-and-response, which would normally have annoyed me, since I vehemently dislike religion being thrust upon me, but, I mean, it was the Gospel Brunch, after all, so it was okay; I had technically asked for it.

Behind the midget dude were four middle-aged, gospel-singing churchladies straight out of 1950's Georgia--and/or the movie The Blues Brothers, which I was unable to avoid thinking of throughout the entire performance.

The last time I brought up The Blues Brothers to a musician I regretted it, so I kept my mouth shut on Sunday. Just so you don't make the same mistake I did many years back, let it be known that country musicians do not like to hear white boys from Chicago request the theme from Rawhide or Stand By Your Man. While at a country bar on the north side of Chicago on night, I walked over to the stage and stuck a five-dollar bill on the strip of duct tape extended from floor-to-ceiling, which was intended for tips/request.

Here is the exchange that followed:

"Can you do Rawhide?"
"Nope."
"Really?"
"Don't know the words."
"Really?"
"Sing it for me and I'll do it."

I was too drunk and too put-on-the-spot to think of any of the words, or even the melody, which is always hard when a band is blasting a different tune right in front of you. I tried again.

"I can't remember, either. That's weird. How about Stand By Your Man?"
"Nope."
"What? You don't know the words to that one either?"
"No, I do. But I ain't gonna put on a dress and sing it to ya."

They band laughed at me. I took my five-dollar bill of the duct tape and walked back toward my table. Before I got there, though, I had a thought--what about Johnny Cash? He's country enough, right? I walked back over to the band.

"How about Ring of Fire?"
"Alright."

I replaced the five-dollar bill on the duct tape and returned to my seat, relieved, frustrated at how hard it was to make what had seemed like a simple request. Shit, like it's my fault I don't know any other country songs? Country music sucks! What did they want me to say--"Oh! I know! I want to hear Proud to Be an American by Lee Greenwood!" I know they were just taking the piss, to borrow a British phrase, and I know I deserved it, but that doesn't make the experience any less frustrating and embarrassing. Save yourself from it and just request Ring of Fire right off--no, wait, Walk the Line ruined that. Request some Ray Charles country music--no, wait--Ray ruined that. Now anybody who requests any good country music will be mocked as somebody who only knows about those songs/artists because of a movie and because they bought the soundtrack at Starbucks, regardless of whether or not that is true. It's a tough world out there, kids. Especially at Carol's Pub, where the bouncer wields a Maglite the size of my leg. Don't act like you don't know what that's for...

[note: now that I am older and wiser, I can recommend that you request some Lee Hazlewood, but I bet many of the bands won't know it. Another good option is any track off of Tumbleweed Connection, Elton John's country album, which is, according to a friend of mine in Nashville, every country musician's favorite album, which I accidentally discovered because I love Elton John.]

Anyway, the four women singing on Sunday at the House of Blues were all decked out in solid-color satin skirt-suits--one purple, one sky blue, one green, one pink (?)--and they each wore a classic big ole churchgoing hat. They were priceless and they could also sing and our Angel kept popping around the corner and refilling my glass of champagne after every sip. What more could a man ask for?

I feel I should mention that one of the singers had fingernails at least 6-8 inches long. No joke. She would clap and wave her hands around and draw attention to them as much as possible. They were scary looking and sad. What causes a person to want to grow fingernails that long? What hole in their life is filled by frustratingly, disgustingly long fingernails? How do they use phones/computers/pens? Who do they think will be impressed with them, or find them attractive? Who knows. Maybe the Lord loves that shit. Or maybe she'll burn in hell for them. Who knows! But I bet she hopes for the former...

At some point, I realized the guy sitting in front of our table, who kept looking at us funny, had handcuffs on his belt. Lettering on his polo shirt identified him as a PROBATION OFFICER. He was sitting with a grip of about ten young girls in matching blue 'industrial employee' shirts and blue Dickies-type pants, but it never occurred to me that they were all together and that he was their escort from a Juvenile Detention Facility until my friend suggested it. I think he was guessing, since I never saw them speak to one another, but I think he was right. The girls enjoyed the show, as you might have imagined, and I'd hate to say they shouldn't have been there, but I do have to wonder what the deal is. Who forked over all the bread ($40 a head, without alcohol), or was it some sort of 'give back to the community' program within House of Blues, Inc? What other sweet-ass field trips do they get to go on? Should I be jealous? Who knows!

Several of the juvey girls went up to sing during a rousing number called Thank You--so did my friend, Pedro, and a handful of other audience members. Everybody introduced themselves and sung "thank you" as impressively as they could. Some of them were okay, some of them were not. Especially a little old crazy white librarian-type woman whom I had earlier dubbed '#1 Fan' after watching her blow kisses at the singers as if she had been following them around on tour for her the last four years and it was some sort of tradition they had going. All she said was 'thank you,' once, and without feeling, before passing the mike. Some #1 fan...

I should mention a mostly-unrelated but interesting fact--Pedro is Mariah Carey's #1 Fan. Seriously. And it's not because he thinks she's sexy (he's gay). Pedro is a devoted member of her official fan club and gets wristbands mailed to him so he can attend album signings and the like. He knows everything about her. He's met her on several occasions and she knows who he is because the first time he met her he knocked over dozens of 11 year-old children (and their parents) to run right up to Mariah and then proceeded to cry like a baby until he soaked his shirt with his own tears! I am not making this up--that's just what Pedro is like.

The performance ended, we drank some more champagne, watched as our Angel cleaned up after everybody and dismantled the tables and chairs, which was depressing, left her a fat tip, said goodbye, and headed off into the California sunshine, off to the next stop on the party train. It was Sunday, after all...

I highly recommend recreating this experience if you have the chance and the bread (or the connections). Enjoy.