Let Us Fucking Pray

I am not a religious person, but I am also not immune to the instinct to worship. I found my religious sect in a basement bar, my congregants in burnt-out service industry weirdos, our hymns by Lou Reed, The Rolling Stones, Prince, Lucinda Williams, and occasionally — when we’re very lucky — Beyoncé. Services are on Friday nights, and they’re called Scream Along with Billy (not to be confused with Church, the late Sunday night dance party that occurs in the same subterranean temple).

Have you ever been given license by a performer to let yourself completely intellectually and emotionally unravel along with them? (“Thank you all for coming/to Scream Along with Billy/we hope you get drunk and act terribly silly,” the theme song begins.)

Have you ever seen someone emotionally disembowel themselves on stage? This is like that, but with a bass player. Her name’s Sue Goldberg, and she’s the reason we’re all still alive. (“If it wasn’t for Sue I’d fuckin’ die!” Billy screams during the theme song.) 

Have you ever watched someone unhinge their jaw to hit the perfect note? Scream Along is like that, except the notes aren’t necessarily sonically perfect (they are screamed, you understand from the title), they’re emotionally perfect. Billy Hough, our screamer, does not give a shit if you think his voice sounds gravelly. Billy spares not one fuck for the folks who don’t get it. Billy has only ever advertised this party in two places (MAP, the impossibly cool boutique he used to work in, and Pop+Dutch — an honor that, quite frankly, I’m not over), because if someone doesn’t think you’re cool enough to invite you to Scream Along, then Billy and Sue probably don’t want you there.

Have you ever watched someone become the most titanic version of themselves on stage? Billy puts on a wig for every show. It’s usually blond, spiky, insane. He runs around the bar in circles for an hour before every show — pushing the piano into place, stringing up lights, making sure Sue has a drink, running through songs with special guests, saying hi to the regulars, popping outside to smoke. He’s one of the leanest people I’ve ever seen. I don’t mean skinny or lanky or willowy (he’s fucking not willowy) — I mean lean. He’s friendly, he’s busy, he moves fast. And then he sits down at the piano, the sinews in his forearms tensed, “HEY KIDS,” he snarls as the room shuts the fuck up, and then he’s not Billy Hough your friend, he’s Billy. He’s Mick and Dolly and Patti and PJ and Courtney and Lou and Nina and Bowie and occasionally — when we’re very lucky — Beyoncé. He tells stories about life, and drugs, and loss, and love (especially since his Chris has been around), and New York, and Bob Dylan, and Petula Clark, and the books he’s reading, and the time a rat fell in the deep fryer at his job. He asks, usually after the first few songs, “Hey, can someone get me a Budweiser?” And then the entire room moves to do it. He commands your attention, he obliterates your heart strings, he makes you dance with strangers, and sing words you didn’t think you knew, and want to sleep with your friends, and drink their tears, and set the whole thing on fire. 

Sue’s stage presence is different. Sue doesn’t become a rock and roll tornado before your eyes. Sue (“Solid Goldberg,” as I refer to her in my head) is indefatigably cool. Sue on-stage is as sarcastic, nonplussed, and steady as she is in real life. Those who know know this: Sue is the fucking backbone of the night. Sue keeps time, Sue makes sure everyone on stage has a copy of the music, Sue murders the bass, Sue snickers at the jokes, Sue rolls her eyes so hard you can feel it in the back of your own fucking head, Sue saves our fucking lives. “Can I have a cognac?” Sue occasionally asks. And then the entire room moves to do it.

And then there are the special guests. Scream Along inspires us all to harness our inner <insert your musical icon>, and then has the balls to invite you onstage to do it. There’s Darlene, our former Town Clerk by day, who is an actual rock and soul goddess by night. Darlene sounds like honey and smiles while she does it. There’s Mony, attorney by day, guitar destroyer by night. There are the Garage Dogs — Billy’s actual brothers, who come visit and make shit so fucking loud the liquor bottles rattle. A few times there was me, trying to look less nervous than I was, and totally vibrating off the idea that these people wanted me to sing Prince with them!  There’s spooky and beautiful Suzanne, and Marc who’s even more boisterous with a mic in his hand, and Chris who can basically fix anything and also happens to open his mouth to let butterflies fly out on stage. There’s Sue’s partner Debbie who you had no idea could sing like that, and Billy’s best friend Nina who knows every word to every goddamned song (not to mention designs all the fliers), and maybe someday, if you’re lucky and you get it, there will be you. And you’ll look out into the sea of friends and neighbors and lovers and strangers that squeeze themselves into the Grotta Bar every Friday night and you’ll think, “My people. Let us fucking pray.”

Over the last cursed year, Scream Along with Billy has become Stream Along with Billy. These magical weirdos have worked so hard to keep the lights on at our house of worship, and have kept the party going almost every week on Facebook Live (facefuck live, fartblast live, fruitboot lies — of course we can hardly bring ourselves to say something so gauche and embarrassing). It’s a piss-poor substitute for the all-out Feelings Orgy that happens in the basement, but it’s fucking better than nothing and it’s helping to pay their bills. The one small benefit is that it means that those of you who can’t be in Provincetown this summer, stuck in whatever hell of your own design you’re mired in, can get a dose of the gospel every week right along with us. And that no one has to see you get drunk and act terribly silly. 

Pop+Dutch Spinach Artichoke Dip

I took Billy’s favorite sandwich off the menu after season one of Pop+Dutch because it was too complicated to make at the scale people wanted to eat it. Billy was cool about it, because Billy is cool (especially when we make him Frito Pie instead), but I know he misses it. The sandwich was called The French Connection — medium-rare roast beef, dijon mustard, French’s fried onions (accept no substitute), Bibb lettuce and our house-made spinach artichoke dip. Here’s that dip, in case you want to make a sandwich or dip a chip into it or eat it with a fork while you Stream Along next.

1 pkg. frozen spinach, cooked like the package says and SQUEEZED of all excess water1 12 oz. jar marinated artichokes2 shallots, sliced1 Tbsp. butter3 Tbsp. mayo3 Tbsp. sour cream1/2 tsp. smoked paprikasalt and pepper to taste

Cook shallots in the butter. Blitz shallots and artichokes in food processor until finely chopped, remove to mixing bowl. Blitz spinach in food processor until finely chopped (around the same consistency as the artichokes and shallots), and add to artichoke mixture. Add remaining ingredients and mix well. Taste for seasoning.

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