There is plenty of traffic at Michigan and 14th Street on any given Saturday night. Yellow taxis and taxis with hand-lettered names on their white and red frames jam the intersection as passengers leap to the curb, headed on the west side toward the Cotton Club or on the east toward Strictly Business or the Culture Club.
There’s a bouncy, grinning valet at the Cotton Club, a line that sputters out the door at Strictly Business. The folks are dressed in evening black, in suits, in heels, in corporate drag, some are fine in denim and leather, some wear touches of Africa on a pin, a scarf, a multicolored headpiece. There’s a warmth and camaraderie right on the street, almost like a block party.
But not last Saturday night at the Culture Club, where the front area is adorned with three silent video games. Step through to the main room and here’s the scene: Empty, the tables with their chairs neatly tucked under, the dance floor still shining, its clean surface untouched by a pointy heel or rubbery sole.
In the back, a generously proportioned woman sits at a table, one arm across her chest, the other bent, her hand holding her head. Behind the bar, another woman — this one boxier, with beautiful shiny black hair — looks up casually at the solitary visitor, surveys the individual from head to toe and turns away. There, just off the dance floor, at yet another table, is still another woman, leaning away from the table, her legs crossed, one bouncing on top of the other, her body wrapped in a coat draped around her shoulder. She’s watching a far-off TV, the colors a little faded.
“Can I help you?” she demands of her sole patron, who’s now standing in the barren bar, searching for life in hidden corners. The woman’s eyes are hooded, almost contemptuous.
Certainly, there are happenings at the Culture Club, nights when bodies fill it up to grind and sway to a lilting Caribbean rhythm or a soulful lament by Babyface. Most Wednesdays find a raucous, women-only night, with exotic — make it, erotic — entertainment that packs them in. This coming Saturday, wordsmyth Malik Yusef celebrates his birthday with reggae and hip-hop that will surely jam the house.
But not this night. When the only possible client in the place says, no, not yet, the woman in the chair lowers her lids with practiced disdain and flicks her fingers. “Well, I’m just asking,” she says, her eyes once again fixed on the television across the room. The other two women seem to sigh.
In the back, there’s a phone to call in quickly for messages, to check on the friends who may or may not be coming. Around it are walls adorned with large, colorful paintings of women who look nothing like the ones holding down the fort tonight. The painted women are fantasy figures, with long necks and noses. One has her legs wide open, suggesting something more akin to an adult bookstore than a singles bar.
Back in the bar, the woman who was behind the bar is now sitting at the counter. The potential client slides up to the counter, rests an elbow, but no one moves. If it were not for the music that drones on above everything, the Culture Club would echo tonight.
– – –
“VCR!” yells the woman, who looks disoriented as she steps into the Red Rooster, a hole-in-the-wall hangout on Argyle Street.
“Hey, you’re banned from here,” declares the barkeep, a wiry woman with a weary face. She starts out from behind the counter toward the other woman, who just stands there.
“VCR!” she screams again.
“Hey,” the barkeep exclaims.
Then she calls for a tightly muscled guy sitting at the back end of the bar. He gets up from his stool, pats a friend to whom he’s been talking, passes the guy in a white shirt and black suit who’s been sitting like a statue, staring off into the mirror in front of him, a glass of what looks like cheap whiskey in his hand, and goes to confront the woman. But she’s gone, escorted gently out by someone else before the slow-motion muscle guy had made it halfway there.
“They rolled a customer a week ago,” says the barkeep, explaining. “They said they were gonna sell him a VCR outta the trunk of his car and they rolled him.”
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The guy in the suit looks up, briefly. Then sips, finally.
The facts
Every night, Culture Club, 1351 S. Michigan Ave. Call for a schedule of events at 312-922-6414.
Every night, Red Rooster, 1124 W. Argyle St.