Radegast: Swing and Absinthe

I’d heard good things about Radegast, a swing and blues venue in Brooklyn. My impressions were slightly dimmed right before I stepped in.

At the corner, a dude yelled to me, “Hey, Miss!”

“Hey, yeah?” I yelled back.

“You’re a fucking whore!” he screamed.

“Goddamn Brooklyn,” I thought and walked into the place.

Radegast was a beer garden, the German theme thicker than Bavarian crème. The space was huge, the ceilings high, with a huge bar at the center and tables off to the side. Everything was dark wood, flagons, and lager —above the mantle was a painting of a Hessian military man with impressive muttonchops. The busy bartenders resembled underwear models, with more tattoos. Das Calvin Kleinen.

As I took off my coat, the Blue Vipers of Brooklyn, an amazing swing band, started their first song. But something was missing: the dancers.






Das Calvin Kleinen Bartenders.





I was flummoxed. There were no dancers at the front by the band, which was terribly strange. Of the folks in the bar, only a few seemed like fans, actively listening and applauding. This does not happen. During the holiday venue, nearly every decent swing venue in New York is full. And the Blue Vipers are a great band.

Maybe the swingers were camouflaged. Maybe they were secret dancers, maybe they didn’t want to advertise their vintage interests in cooler-than-thou Williamsburg. I discretely strolled around the room, occasionally bending over to examine for “telling” shoes. There were a few shiny-dress-up shoes, and a few Converses, but no clear dancers. No Keds. Lots of Ugs, fancy cowboy boots, and ironic Velcro sneakers. Goddamn it.

The band kept playing, but seemed dispirited by the listlessness of the crowd.

I stood on the side, trying not to talk to random strangers, feeling more and more awkward. It was hard not to dance, even by myself. Maybe I should get a drink.

I watched a bearded man, only a bit older than I, take his daughter's hand and lead her in front of the band. She bopped around, munching on her own hair. The kid was tiny, maybe two, dressed in slightly different shades of orange. She kicked and punched to each beat, her navel-orange mittens flying out with each pulse of the bass.

I should get a drink.

A few dancers arrived, a lead with a cluster of follows. I recognized them from last year’s holiday: all middle-aged, all kind people. I watched the older lead take the floor holding a chipper follow in a bright red shirt. She was amazing to watch, dancing with clarity and energy. The other follows clustered around the stage, sipping expensive sodas. Gentle, nice people with good jobs, clean swivels, and orderly lives.

Goddamn it. I turned to the bar.

The Calvin Kleinen bartenders were standing by a group of five, pouring generous shots of some unknown liquor from a fancy bottle. The bartenders and their patrons toasted together and swallowed the shot. Except for one woman, the one in the center, the blonde. She raised her glass, then put it down, without wetting her lips.

She was beautiful.

She reminded me of Gabrielle from Xena – she seemed gentle, caring, and still a badass. Short blonde hair, big blue eyes, a generous smile. I locked eyes with her, and she smiled back at me.

“You want some?” she called. Her voice was low and soft.

“Don’t you?” I replied and walked towards her. She slid the glass to me, and tapped on the bar. Short nails, painted sky-blue.

“You have to shoot it,” one of her friends told me.

“You don’t have to,” Gabrielle protested.

“It’s not the same,” her friend argued.

“I can shoot it,” I grinned. I raised the half-ball, “To holidays!”

I gave the liquor one second to swirl around my mouth before I swallowed it. It tasted like nothing else I’ve ever had– sweet, but so strong. Licorice. I think of my mother’s anise cookies, and her salty black candies, so tangy and spectacular. I licked my lips, and Gabrielle and her clan applauded.

“How did you like absinthe?” she asked, and winks at me, a life-sized Tinkerbell.

Absinthe. I think of foolish Christian crouched over a typewriter drinking and jerking off over poor, doomed Nicole Kidman, with her red curls and cruel smile.

“I love it,” I announced, and thanked Tinkerbell-Gabrielle. “I must dance with you. That’s how I’ll repay you.”

“You don’t need to repay me-” Tinkerbell says.

“You don’t want to dance with me?”

Tinkerbell slides off her chair and gives me her hand. She’s learned ballroom, and when the Blue Vipers play a luxurious blues number, I lead all the wrong-but-right things. She laughs so sweetly when I dip her.

“Could I get you another drink?” she asks, her head in my hand.

“Could I ever say no to a beauty like you?”

We share a Manhattan, and a few more dancers show, changing into their Keds and fancy shoes. Soon enough, I’m imposing on quality (and totally sober) leads, following pretty irresponsibly, but enjoying myself incredibly.

I danced like the little girl with the orange mittens. I was a flurry of kicks, I wriggled and moved when the music told me to, I laughed all over the leads. I spun gracefully and foolishly.

Whenever the band took a break, I lied about the history of Manhattan, how Five Points was named, the creatures that used to live in the subways. I kissed Gabrielle’s cheek to accentuate the honor of the olden days. I recited Neruda poems, my Spanish sloppier than my swing-outs. “Pore so tea mo y no pore so, por tantas cosas y tan pocas.”

One of the leads took a liking to me, and we flirted messily. We did a few aerials—he forgot how tall I was, and I knocked my head against the floor. At the next break, I talk to the trumpet player of the band. I try not to fawn over him and allow my hopelessly romantic heart realize he’s a real-live-trumpeter-talking-to-me-omg. I only fawn a little. “Yo vivo viendote y amandote, naturalmente enamorado,” I trip out.

On the train, I sing along to their songs, reading my book. “Of everything I have seen, it’s you I want to go on seeing. Of everything I’ve touched, it’s your flesh I want to go on touching. I love your orange laughter. I am moved by the sight of you sleeping.” We speed past so many cities, so many lives.

“You please me more, each afternoon,” I read aloud to a little girl, asleep in the seat across from me.

Her mother smiles, “That’s exactly how I feel about her.”