I had been waiting to use the line all day. Every time the standard office-issue black phone on my desk shrieked at me in its shrill, stuttering tone, I hoped whoever was on the other end would get around to asking what my plans were for the evening.Instead, people called extending opportunities to interview whichever band they represented that was coming to town, usually too late to actually get a feature in the pertinent date's issue. People called asking if I received the press release they sent regarding their corporation/association/ charity's impending retreat/seminar/ fundraiser. Many, many people called requesting information on the "free ad" for their live music events — information that's appeared at the top of every Soundboard ever published in this paper.
And finally, an old friend named Kate wanted to know what was going on.
"So what are you guys doing tonight?" she crackled, wireless.
"Hmm? Oh," I replied, "we're going to see a transvestite Dolly Parton impersonator perform at a redneck bar."
The beat of silence was everything I hoped it'd be.
And then:
"You're what?"
I generally don't use the term "redneck" unless in jest, mostly because several of the traits ascribed to the stereotype — fondness for cold beer, appreciation of country music, inability to make utilities payments on time — apply to me as well. But Red Barn proprietors Shirley and Tom Zimmerman proudly referred to their establishment as "the biggest redneck bar in Pinellas Park" during an interview with Planet Events Editor Cooper Cruz, so there you go.
It's not a redneck bar, though. At least, it matches neither the archetypal image, nor the memories of certain dives whose doorways I've darkened, called to mind by those words. Located at the corner of 54th Avenue N. and what is surely greater St. Pete's most interesting thoroughfare, Haines Road, The Red Barn is, well, a small red barn. Inside, I find a homey little beer-and-wine C&W tavern where a crew of colorful locals gathers and where, at least tonight, the potential for territorial pissing seems pretty low. Of course, there's NASCAR on TV, but these days, that could mean I'm at the dentist. With its walls covered by knickknacks and most of its wood floor taken up by tables running in parallel lines, the vibe is more low-key barbecue joint than roadhouse — except the curtains of smoke hanging here are cigarette rather than cedar.
The 'tender is welcoming, the Bud Lights are insanely cheap, and the Sapphire jukebox on the long northeast wall provides a steady stream of shitkicking classics. Everyone here, from the friendly-scary biker chick and backward-capped local toughs to the excited lesbian couple parked right up by the karaoke DJ, seems to know everyone else. There's lots of handshaking, back-slapping and inquiring after mutual friends going on. There's also lots of talk about tonight's entertainment, amiable cross-dresser/Dolly doppelganger Taylor Parton — an overwhelming majority of the small crowd has seen the show before. I take a seat next to a nice, curious thirtysomething couple who seem as green as I am, and wait for the main attraction.
After a bit of karaoke fun, the DJ (who sounds like he idolized Wolfman Jack growing up, and who gets the name of the bar wrong, eliciting a shower of catcalls) cues up "Nine to Five." We all breathlessly await Dolly's entrance.
The vocals come in. No Dolly.
The DJ starts the intro over.
The vocals come in. No Dolly.
The third time's the charm, however, and Parton struts from the Red Barn's bowels, lip-synching the workingman's classic. He isn't a look-alike, exactly. Rather, he is Dolly's most imagistic elements driven to hyperbolic extremes — a riot of improbable boobs, heavenward white-ice hair, sequin-overloaded pastels and trowel-slathered makeup. He is a vision of cartoonish camp, and he seems no more out of place here than Hedwig and his band did at the Bilgewater Inn seafood restaurants.
A few of the bar's more confused male patrons disappear immediately, lest they be raped of their masculinity by sheer proximity to a guy in a costume.
The rest of the crowd goes crazy, in a half-encouraging, half-condescending way. Cameras flash. Folks get out of their seats and dance.
In between working the crowd and karaoke-ing the Dolly hits, Parton sits on a stool and treats us to engagingly clean tit jokes and plugs for DollyWood and an upcoming Dolly-centric attraction at a certain Central Florida theme park. During "Coat of Many Colors," the CD catches several times; Parton handles it like a pro, even seeming to mouth the stuttering as he moves. All the while, his own Charlie Hodge — a small, exceedingly pleasant woman named Kathy — works the crowd for raffle-ticket sales. (Half of the money goes to ALS research, the other half to Parton; the prize is a Home Depot gift certificate.)
I cannot believe that this place isn't packed to the rafters with hipsters sick of the usual club fare, and looking for the next best unintentionally ironic spectacle.
The first set ends, and Parton retires to The Red Barn's unfathomable rear catacombs for intermission and a wardrobe change. I wasn't treated to "Jolene" or "I Will Always Love You"; obviously, he's saving them for a big finish. My girlfriend arrives, still dressed in work clothes — when a transvestite Dolly Parton impersonator's playing at a redneck bar, you don't exactly take the time to go home and change — and marvels at the comfortably juxtaposed vibes.
"This is crazy," she whispers. "I've never been to a lesbian country bar before."
I start to contradict her, then take a look around. Most of the guy/girl couples and men must've gotten their fill from the first set, leaving a primarily female and paired-up throng anticipating Round Two.
And Round Two ensues, with Parton in a new yet no less eye-assaulting ensemble, lip-synching other yet no less entertaining Dolly standards. The familiarity sets in about halfway through, however, and the cigarette smoke (The Red Barn is starting to make The Emerald look like an operating room) eventually drives us into the parking lot, and home.
Where we haven't yet stopped singing Dolly tunes at every given opportunity.
Scott Harrell can be reached at 813-248-8888, ext. 109, or by e-mail at scott.harrell@weeklyplanet.com.
This article appears in Oct 9-15, 2003.