NO,
WE DON'T HAVE SUSHI
Good
friends and death metal
BY
NICK DEMARINO
"No … no … no …"
George Poerg III paces behind the black counter of
the Samurai Duck as he talks on the phone. A string of red and white
lanterns with Japanese characters hangs above him; a small TV projects
static from behind a photo of Dimebag Darrell. Behind Poerg is a shelf
of liquor — two rows of five bottles apiece — a handful
of beer taps and a refrigerator plastered with vinyl stickers proclaiming
"Goathead" and "Fucktheworld," among many others.
 |
| Detail
of mural at Samurai Duck |
"No, we don't have sushi."
Poerg hangs up the phone. "We're not a fucking sushi
restaurant!" he yells to no one in particular. "Fawwk."
The Samurai Duck is nearly empty. The Samurai Duck
is nearly empty a lot of the time.
Wes Beanblossom, who finished bar-tending 30 minutes
ago, looks up from his game of pool, grinning widely. He stands the
cue on its end, black leather jacket squelching as he bends his arm.
"I know, man, I know. Fuckin' people." He finishes a beer, his second,
and orders another one before returning to the game.
The relentless staccato riffs of Unmerciful twinge
out of the stereo. In the corner, the big screen TV that, were this
a different kind of bar, would be broadcasting Monday Night Football
is blank, reflecting the few scattered lights about the room. When
the TV is on, it projects horror movies from the '80s, cartoon monsters
accosting schoolgirls with phallic tentacles and occasionally video
games.
Amid the requisite neon beer logos hang more lanterns,
a golden cat and an illustrated panel depicting a scene from The
Tale of Genji. Above the barren stage, ukiyo-e visages
direct their eyes in impossible directions among flowers and a sinuous
dragon. They look like tattoo art, which is appropriate considering
they were painted by Skullfly Tattoo owner Mike Fulton.
The song "Mass Execution" skips for about 10 seconds
before anyone bothers to complain. "Hey, man, that CD is skippin',"
offers Beanblossom. Technical death metal is very, very syncopated.
As the night waxes, small groups of people filter
into the club. A lot of them order cheap beer and bar food. A couple
of people order the surprisingly tasty yaki-soba, pointing to an inconspicuous
menu on the side wall.
There are still Halloween decorations up, but no one
mentions them. There aren't many college kids here either.
Around 9 pm, bar activity peaks. Almost every night
the Samurai Duck hosts bands well-known within the underground scene
as well as local punk, crust and doom bands. When bands play, it's
nearly impossible to hold a conversation. Luckily, the bartenders
apparently read lips. There are earplugs for sale, but people only
ask for them at noise shows.
Despite well-intentioned sound checks, guitar tones
swell and mix into a cacophony of echoes from whence nary a lead escapes.
The acoustics are perfect for colossal, sustained chords. Most bands
thank Stephanie Osburn by name, even the ones from out of town. She's
the booking agent and one of the sound mixers.
This used to be a tiki bar, the sole extant relics
of which are the bamboo shoots covering a window on the right hand
side of the stage.
Amidst the boisterous greetings mingled with curses,
the owner, Masako Poole, weaves skillfully around patrons, gathering
glasses and exchanging brief hellos with regulars. Her hair is about
a third of the length of that of most of the men here.
If she's in a good mood, a band will drink a round
of shots of habu sake, an expensive treat from her hometown, Okinawa,
Japan. It's poured from a jar containing a coiled viper, suspended
in rice wine, jaws open wide, fangs bared. Not many people order habu
sake — it's usually served as a sign of respect to musicians
and close friends.
The Samurai Duck is kind of like a metal Cheers.
The beer is cheap, the patrons jovial and everyone seems to know each
other's names.
The Samurai Duck is located at 980 Oak St. 345-6577.
