the monkey pub

I love karaoke and whiskey sours and dive bars

Morrissey poster <3

Up on 53rd and Roosevelt Way, past the city library and movie store, there is a bar called The Monkey Pub. If you were walking along the street in broad daylight, it’d be almost unnoticeable: the neon signs in the window turned off, green awning faded, the wooden bar inside vacant. But if you should find yourself walking by around 9pm, signs of life will appear. The door would be propped open, people loitering outside, the smoke from cigarettes and joints twirling high into the air. You might hear an old 80’s pop ballad emanating from inside, people at the bar and round tables looking up toward a… stage? A microphone? A TV? You can’t quite see what they’re looking at but you can tell people are singing along, swaying with each other, smiling up at something. You turn to your friend, “I didn’t know they had live music here.” But no, it’s not a live band. Nor an aspiring singer songwriter from North Seattle. It’s Sophia, the barista, and her friends from out of town, crooning Madonna’s Like A Prayer into two handheld microphones. The crowd winces when one of the friends accidentally leans too far towards one of the microphones and her voice screeches I'm down on my knees, I wanna take you there at a nearly inhuman decibel. It’s karaoke.

I first started going to The Monkey Pub— now shortened to Monkey as in so we were at Monkey the other night, you know how that goes— last winter after trivia nights at the pizza place a few blocks over. We would leave trivia having finished dead last, our team name entered as Brad Pitt in Fight Club as it was every week for reasons unremembered, looking for something to brighten our spirits. Eventually, whenever we couldn’t bear to lose to the groups of 40 year old men who played like their lives depended on it or, due to my big mouth, our group was too large to find a table, we would abandon trivia altogether and go to Monkey. It was the setting for many of what I call Crossover Episodes— nights where you bring together friends who know of each other but have never met. I would sit back and watch gleefully as my friends from University met my roommates or my hometown friends met my boyfriend.

We started going so often that Anthony, the bartender, knew us by name and would just nod at us when we entered, forgoing the ID-check. A whiskey sour for me, rum and coke for Olivia, vodka cranberry for Rachel, ciders for Ian and Myra, a gin and tonic for Michael. Then we’d open The Book. The Book, dear reader, is the holy grail of Monkey Pub. A binder with every single song they have available on their karaoke machine, printed and slipped into plastic sleeves. There are hundreds of pages. It’s customary to spend over an hour looking at each song, leaning over shoulders and asking “hey, check if they have Bon Jovi.” They do, of course. At some point in the night, you’ll see one of your friends still looking through the pages and it’ll be so outrageously funny to you that your stomach will hurt. This is also the point at which you’ll realize you have volunteered to sing 6 or 7 songs and your voice is starting to go.

The man who runs karaoke will open with a new song every night with whatever he’s in the mood for. One time it was Gravity by Sara Bareilles and it was so beautifully sung that I still bring it up every time we go. He stands up at the front, unassuming, wearing a matching set with a garish print, and stuns the crowd with his voice. My memories of karaoke at Monkey are a kaleidescope of bright, shining moments. Olivia and I screaming along to Total Eclipse Of The Heart, our hands grasped as we sing into each other’s faces. Jumping up and down in a group as a trio sings Everytime We Touch. The servers at the restaurant next door bringing over leftovers for everyone to share. Pushing someone to the front of the room when their name is called, promising them it’ll be fun. No, of course we won’t laugh. Stumbling outside for some air.

The group of girls next to us follow their friend when she is called up to the makeshift stage. The second she starts singing we nearly trip ourselves to join the small crowd at the front because “I haven’t heard this song in forever.” Soon enough, I am slow dancing with a girl I’ve never met as we sing Lana Del Rey’s lyrics with the rest of the bar.

One for the money
Two for the show
I love you, honey
I'm ready, I'm ready to go

The night is often interrupted with “Oh my God, I love this song” and a brief departure from the conversation at hand to croon along with the brave soul standing in front of the crowd. Pool games are dreadful affairs. I’ll get handed the pool cue, a friend saying “we’re solids” over their shoulder as they head for Anthony, I’ll take a shot and watch the white cue ball fall uninterrupted into the left pocket. The games last for hours until finally someone accidentally sinks the 8 ball and puts us out of our misery. Along the walls of the bar are old posters of Morrissey, flyers from 2014, donated artwork from patrons. Old kegs dangle from the ceiling and red twinkly lights envelop us in a warm, cozy embrace.

Karaoke at Monkey is the only place where the 5’6 middle aged man with a smoker’s voice can be a king. He sings Amy Winehouse and The Mamas and The Papas and we are all in love. At midnight, he comes over to our table after his 3rd song, pulls up a chair and out comes a deck of cards. “Can I show you pretty ladies some magic?” We nod. Up front a guy with hair down to his back is swaying awkwardly to the intro of some U2 song and we know we need something to entertain us. Soon, we’re shouting over each other to get him to do another trick, tell us how he did that one, “you had to have looked at it.” He is the most interesting character in the room and he knows it.

Inevitably, at some point in the night, someone will sing Creep by Radiohead. This is arguably my favorite moment. People will collectively perk up as the music starts, get out of their chairs and crowd to the front. I am singing at the top of my lungs— my voice is nearly gone at this point— and holding Rachel’s hand tightly. Even writing about it now I can feel myself there. Feel the energy radiating out from a shared love for an old song. It’s a private concert except we choose the set list. We laugh ourselves hoarse as our friends sing out of tune. We dance and screech to songs we danced and screeched to at 14. We go out for fresh air or a smoke and run back inside when we hear a particular guitar riff. We are the life and soul of the place, even for just a night.

A poster on the walls that has always made me smile

Dead last in trivia per usual