Sadly, I’d never been to Zoo Bar before, but, last month my neighbor exclaimed, “it’s one of those places: relaxed, fun, and this band can sort of play, and the woman plays slide.” I’m easily convinced, and couldn’t wait to try a DC institution that I’d overlooked.
Within the first five minutes, a woman dancing with the wall asked me if I wanted to dance – it’s that kind of bar. “I am not quite ready to dance, would you like a spin?” I asked. She said in a very disgruntled tone, “Honey, I don’t need to be spun,” and went right back to her steady partner, the wall. Zoo Bar has Guinness and Bass on draft – not bad; a pitcher serves five pints, and I take the deal. The waitress, erroneously called “Sweet Pea” by a drunken patron (her response: ”I’ve been called worse”) lied when she said you can only pull three. The hoary bartender smiled and poured the beer wearing a shirt with “Lucky Whisky” emblazoned on the back. He spun around to pass the pints, cracking jokes with some eagerly perched beverage enthusiasts. I would recommend the bar area, as the rear loses the sound.
The music was mostly covers (okay all covers), but the atmosphere was warm and fun. Hot Rods and Old Gas played Alan Jackson’s “Crazy ‘Bout a Mercury,” some Johnny Cash standards, Chuck Berry’s “Johnny B Goode.” You know… the stuff dad turns up in the car on road trips after The Eagles and CCR trail off…
The band had Lisa Lim wailing on guitar singing Peggy Lee’s “Fever” like she’d rather be playing guitar and solos like there’s nowhere else she’d rather be. Tom Maxwell, lead vocalist, had classic blond, All-American looks, and a voice like Ray Charles plus Victor Mecyssne. Tom digs deep to pull out his raspy version (think frequent glass inhalation plus cigarette consumption) of traditional honky-tonk and blues. Bart Balderson, drummer, half walrus, half mystery, pounds away at his drum set and his own skull, and grins at the audience like a guilty child who’s proud of a wrongdoing and expectant of forgiveness. “Wolf” Crescenze, their long ponytailed charming bassist, made a show of sound check, walking around the tables, making friends, and acknowledging the names of a few steadies.
DC transients and natives have been going to Zoo Bar for over twenty years, and I had the pleasure of meeting a few regulars. As you can probably gather, aside from the male lead singer looking as if he was throwing his voice, the people-watching completely outweighed the bluesy rock cover band’s performance. Two booths over, a fifty-year old platinum blonde straddled a completely grey-haired man, making out like teenagers at a Bon Jovi concert. In the booth beside ours, five “volume eleven” preppy Virginians stood, mouthing the wrong words to every song and calling the waitress pet names while slamming their fists on the table, shaking their pitchers of Blue Moon, and splashing their oranges. Hot Rods & Old Gas’ sound was pleasant, causing each beer to go down a little more smoothly, I could get used to “First Friday,” making it a personal ritual, especially when that front patio opens up and I can catch the walrus and the waitress during a perfectly timed smoke break.
