Mister
Growl doesn’t yelp, let’s get that straight. Yelping is a sound too
sissified to come from my masculine vocal cords. I have been known to
yawp, however. My personal “Yelp” ban left me with only one possible
course of action after recently visiting Pumps in Brooklyn: Write about
the city’s only rock’n’roll strip joint on my metal blog. It’s not like
my friends and fellow headbangers would mind, I mean strip clubs have
been an important element of rock excess for 30 years. Where would
Mötley Crüe be without strip clubs? And where would we all be without
Mötley Crüe, besides maybe just a smidge happier and a lot more sober?
As a non-ironic fan of clubs, especially ones with character and rock
attitude, I will even excuse Crüe’s entire discography if it means one
more place like Pumps in the world.
Pumps
is tucked away on a dreary stretch of road that Bushwick seemingly
doesn’t want to claim, so people started calling it East Williamsburg.
There’s broken glass on the sidewalks and foreboding factories leering
down at pedestrians until the glow of a neighboring gas station lures
patrons closer, like that famous dock light from The Great Gatsby
that Baz Luhrmann will recreate using atrocious CGI. The locale is not
hip, it’s not fabulous, but it’s the exact quiet walk you need before
and after a trip to a strip club to think of The Greater Truths. The ten
minute walk (if you have short legs) from the nearest subway is perfect
for an internal monologue about how the stigma of these establishments
is just a hypocritical view of “evil” capitalism. Truth be told: Strip
clubs offer a service. If the service does not interest you, move on. No
need to demonize the patrons, the owner, and especially the workers.
Everyone’s gotta make a living. I’m lucky enough to make a few bucks
writing about metal albums, and those are the cleanest dollars I make.
My day job is no better than someone shedding a little clothing to a
song off ...And Justice For All.
Which
they do at Pumps. I walked in with Metallica’s “One” playing loudly and
three topless dancers performing in front of a long mirror, creating
the illusion that the venue is twice the size. After the initial M.C
Escher mirror mind-trick I was able to take in the layout: A long bar
with 2 female tenders sliding drinks to eager customers and one long
aisle to walk behind the stool-perched patrons lining the counter with a
narrow lap dance lounge separated from the main room by a curtain of
beads. Two beautiful motorcycles hang from the ceiling with assorted
rock/sports related posters and knick-knacks decorating the walls. The
dancers take turns twisting around two poles, leaving one to freestyle
against the mirror or on the floor of the platform. There’s a
refreshingly blunt streaming neon sign over the bar reading “If you
don’t have money take your broke ass home!”
Which
takes me back to this being a service. Remember, most services cost
money. I don’t know what your job is, dear reader, but I assume you
would not do your job for free, unless you’re a lowly intern, which
means that you have all my sympathy. Unless you wander into Pumps
without the ability or desire to spend some money, then my sympathy
dries up like a mummified vagina. There’s no cover, which is awesome and
increasingly rare, unless you get some glossy postcard for a Times
Square strip club and enter a place before 7PM, which I’m not against
but will definitely limit your ability to accurately enjoy the full
splendor of any establishment. Beers are $7, stronger drinks are $10 or
so. The bartenders live off of tips, as do the dancers. After each song
the dancers on stage will stroll around the bar, say hello, and ask for a
sign of your appreciation, which is a dollar amount of your choosing,
as long as it’s one or above. Some will gripe about this practice, as
there’s usually more distance between seats and the stage, affording
customers less anonymity and privacy. I personally love it, and it makes
the experience more personal and closes that gap between performer and
patron. This is a small place to begin with, so it’s not like you’re
gonna find a dark corner and camouflage yourself to ogle without
detection. Cough up some cash and treat everyone right, which includes
polite tipping and staying respectful. Lap dances are available for the
standard $20, but the dancers are not topless, which I admit is a
bummer. Still, if you want some conversation and friction this is a
promising opportunity. You’re also welcome to buy a dancer a drink if
you’d prefer more conversation and less friction, and they will usually
opt for a $20 glass of champagne. These prices are pretty standard for
this industry, so if you’re rolling your eyes at them you have my
permission to stay at home and peruse the internet for nudity, which
should take an exhausting .6 second Google search.
The
staff of dancers is eclectic but leans toward Suicide Girl territory,
with body mods abound and Manic Panic hair moving brightly in the black
light. Still, if you’re searching for a certain body type or ethnicity
they are very likely represented on a weekend night. All of the dancers
were very friendly, offering chit chat if it was sought, or vaster
discussions about art if you pay for their time. I won’t mention any
names (since aliases mutate regularly in this business anyway), but the
staff in general were fun and laid-back, cracking jokes about their
Catholic roots while Rage Against the Machine blasted in the background.
One
extremely talented performer, a dark-haired beauty named Mia, invited me to a Pumps-hosted event later
in the week featuring an art exhibit and a burlesque show. I used to
frequent Dr. Sketchy’s Anti-Art School over at the Slipper Room, my
favorite burlesque joint in the city, so the union of art and burlesque
is totally my jam. I will cover Aubrey Roemer’s dynamic work soon as a
featured artist on this blog, so stay tuned for that, because it
features the Pumps Pin-Ups.
Anyway,
I’m one of those annoying guys who is fifteen minutes early for
everything, including the art exhibit. The Pumps owner (or manager,
unsure which) was kind enough to not only open the doors to me, but give
me a drink on the house for being the early bird eating the fuck out of
the worm. He then said, “If you were wearing a Pumps shirt I’d have
given you two beers.” I was wearing the Down “smoking Jesus” shirt.
Frowny face. Still, little gestures like that are what make a business
part of the community, and it did not go ignored. The burlesque show was
sassy fun, showing off the singing/dancing/teasing talents of the Pumps
Pin-Ups with smiles abound. Burlesque is one of my favorite forms of
entertainment and they nailed the mischievous, playful tone that makes
it so appealing.
I
definitely recommend Pumps to anyone seeking a gentleman’s club
experience more in line with my own blue collar working attitude. Scores
may get all the Yankee players, and they can keep ‘em. Pumps get the
rockers and metalheads who stop by Duff’s and Saint Vitus, though the
clientele is diverse as well. I see Pumps as a positive life experience,
one that discards the bells and whistles of polished, upscale clubs and
succeeds with quality talent, personality, and a playlist that rocks
harder than any other club in the city. It may not be glamorous and it
may not be the Vegas strip, but I know Crüe would approve, and they’re
pretty much the Roger Ebert of strip club opinions and insight.
Get
more information on Pumps over on their site, including the address and
happy hour times (with $4 beers, which is totally solid): http://pumpsbar.com/
