MANSFIELD — A few weeks ago I told ‘Karaoke King’ Sam Romagnoli that one of the (many) reasons I enjoy living in Mansfield is that it seems a bit under-the- radar.
Every now and then I get a liberating feeling that no one outside is paying particularly close attention and that, somehow, you can get away with whatever it is you’re doing.
This is especially true of the Fourth Street Bar, a lozenge-shaped drinking shack east of the railroad tracks, isolated among the remains of the Westinghouse site and a little outside the regular path of the downtown bar-hoppers.
Although it’s a private business like any other, it feels almost like a community co-op, run by the same easy-going, relaxed crowd that drinks there. This good feeling is thanks in part to the tireless bar manager, Sarah Diskin.
Since she started work here in January (or thereabouts – she can’t remember exactly) she’s more than made her mark, especially with the variety of live music that’s now available.
“This used to be a metal bar,” she told me, “and metal bands are still welcome. But I wanted to open it up to all musicians.”
I was speaking with Sarah last weekend, before the ‘Cult of Cats’ show, a three-act mix of local and traveling musicians ready to pay homage to all things feline.
“I’m a drummer in my own band,” she explained. “In fact I played here before I worked here. Then one day I saw a really obscure ad on craigslist for a part-time bartender, and it turned out to be this place.”
From the outside, I’d assumed the bar was a relatively new setup, but it goes back a long way under various names. Previously the Red Barn, it’s also been an Irish bar called O’Malley’s, and way back it was the Ohio Cafe.
Sarah showed me some of the Ohio Cafe memorabilia on the wall, ashtrays and the like, which by their design looked to be pre-war, just like the original long wooden bar. It was at this point that it started to rain. Indoors.
“Here we go,” said Sarah, and fetched a couple of buckets. “You can’t say I’m not prepared. See, part of the roof caved in with the storm last Tuesday. It’s been fixed. Somewhat. But not all the way. Last week it was raining over the bar.”
With the leaks contained, Sarah went on to explain some of the other recent changes, like the kitchen now operating nightly with a menu of pizza, sandwiches, loaded tater tots and other bar specials. I tried the pizza and I can personally vouch for its quality.
“Also, did you see that odd space on the other side of the wall there, behind the Lotto machine?”
I took a look. It was a weird, curtained cubby hole, a small little cranny with two chairs, a single table and … a candle? Perhaps I imagined the candle. But it was the sort of spot a hipster couple might squeeze themselves into to enjoy a candlelit anniversary dinner, over an ironic bucket of Church’s Chicken or a satirical plate of White Castle hamburgers.
“Well anyway, I don’t think it serves much of a purpose,” said Sarah. “I’d like to turn it into a proper sound booth. The bands would love it.”
The bands on this occasion were led by local outfit The Village Druids, who I’ve seen and enjoyed previously. I knew to expect not only another thumping set of tuneful ‘pagan synth pop,’ but also some intriguing outfits and a fine sense of theatricality (both on and off stage).
I was not disappointed.
On the bill was the cat-loving Curse of Cassandra, a powerhouse duo formerly of Dayton, now of no fixed abode. Lead singer Nicole Richter’s strong vocals were backed by husband Jacob on keyboards, percussion and saxophone, and their exciting set had the crowd up and dancing.
“Are there any cat lovers in the audience?” asked Nicole. “Any cat people? We have two hairless sphynx cats in our RV right now.”
I didn’t pick up any distinct responses at the time. When the show was over I sat nursing a final beer at the bar, musing on this business of the two hairless sphynx cats.
When the singer walked past I called out to her, “Hey – do you really have two hairless sphynx cats in your RV? I think I should see them.” “Sure!” she replied cheerfully, and led me out to the parking lot.
I clambered on board, a bottle of tequila was retrieved from the sink and I was introduced to Asia and Armand, two very hairless cats. And it is here that I have to apologize. I did not take any cat pictures.
This, I realized later on the trudging walk home, was a terrible mistake. A schoolboy error. A few weeks ago my piece on the Malabar Farm Hostel mentioned the presence of kittens, and as no kitten photos accompanied the text I received immediate and fierce criticism from cat enthusiasts.
This time I had not just run-of- the mill kittens, but a HAIRLESS SPHYNX CAT cradled in my arms – yet still missed the photo opportunity. All I can do is promise that such an oversight will never happen again.
As for the human occupants, Nicole and Jacob, they explained that in May they sold all their belongings and sought out a new life on the road, and have since been traveling from venue to venue across multiple states in their rock ‘n’ roll RV.
It’s seems like a pretty cool existence. Perhaps they’ll pick up others along the way, the way the circus used to. I wished them well at their next stop in Cleveland and went off into the night.
I felt good. The ‘Cult of Cats’ had given me a pretty sweet night of raucous entertainment. A lesser columnist might tell you it had been a ‘purr-fect’ evening. I myself would never stoop to such a level.
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