Take A Dive: Dive bar troubadour

An old soul finds his muse at an east-Tulsa watering hole

“Sorry there aren’t more people here,” Reggie the bartender tells us.

The eastside hideout, tucked away in the Mall 31 shopping center, is nearly deserted. Sure, it’s 11 p.m. on a Tuesday, but the well-being of a working-class neighborhood pub like Gringo’s isn’t usually held hostage by the drinking cycles of weekend warriors. It’s 5 p.m. on Friday (or close enough) somewhere in the world.

Four old-timers and a goateed 30-something dude in sports-fan attire sit at the bar and chat. They’re neither threatened by nor curious about us interlopers, me and my friend.

“We have live music tonight, too,” Reggie continues. “Austin will go on in a few minutes.” She nods at the young, goateed gentleman. “Usually the place is way busier than this.”

Reggie is a bright, youthful woman with straight, jet-black hair whose age is impossible to discern. After ordering two Jack & Cokes, I produce a debit card and ask her to start a tab. She recoils at the sight of my plastic.

“That depends,” she answers. “Can you pay cash?” I pause for a moment to process her question. She smiles sympathetically at my confusion. “This is an old-man bar and our owner doesn’t like dealing with plastic. I got an ATM machine over there, you can withdraw cash at the end of the night.”

I offer my card as collateral anyway, but she declines. “I trust ya, honey.”

Austin takes the stage. Flanked by an enormous American flag and bathed in bright yellow light  – the only lit spot in an otherwise unusually dark bar – he strums his guitar and begins to sing. He’s not dressed like an image-obsessed musician; his dress is more that of an aging OSU fratboy. He isn’t fashionable, pretentious, or preoccupied with fitting into a niche. But he’s a killer guitar player, and his voice is soulful. The music occupies an elusive territory between contemporary country and classic folk.

Initially, we assume the songs are covers and pay little attention – just another anonymous cover artist serenading an empty bar for free beer and a measly guarantee. But there’s something special happening. My friend and I both feel it, and finally have to talk about it. We decide he sounds like Townes Van Zandt.

One particular song is especially heartbreaking. He sings it with weathered resignation, exuding authenticity, an undiscovered musician effortlessly doing battle with himself and the world for an audience of six, like Tulsa’s own Llewyn Davis. I conjure the Shazam music-recognition app on my phone and hold the mic to the stage, hoping to find the original song for later listening. “Song not recognized,” Shazam tells me.

“I tried Googling the lyrics and came up with nothing,” my partner says. For good measure, I listen closely and type the lyrics into my own Google search bar, just in case. No results. It’s an original tune.

Reggie can tell we’re enthralled. She beams with pride and tells us the current song is about her. We can’t tell if she’s joking, but a few minutes later she exits the bar and joins him on stage. She sits on an amp and starts beating it softly like a conga drum, adding a subtle, rhythmic texture that works surprisingly well. Her eyes closed, she moves her head back and forth with passionate abandon. It would look goofy if not for her sincerity. A few songs later, she sings back-up vocals. The chemistry between our bartender and the guy with the guitar is clear.

He finishes his set and returns to the bar, a few seats away from me. I want to strike up a conversation. I start to open my mouth, but he looks at me and I see something in his eyes that stops me. I decide to forgo speaking to him, at the expense of knowing almost nothing about him. Maybe it’s because I fear he’s not actually the sad troubadour at war with himself, but a working-class dude with a wife and kids who does this as a hobby. Maybe it’s because if I spoke to him, if I asked his last name, got his life story, I’d be far less inclined to return to see him again.

At the end of the night, the old-timer near us tabs out and tips Reggie with loose change. My friend, a restaurant server sensitive to customer impropriety, expresses her sympathy at the tacky tip.

“I’ve got nothing against change,” Reggie, still all smiles, responds. “I once bought a car with quarters.” She collects the change. Money is money, she reasons. As long as it’s not plastic.

Take a Dive is a running column in which Joshua Kline explores the fringes of drinking culture in Tulsa County by visiting the dives, holes, beer bars and neighborhood pubs that keep Green Country drunk and happy.