By Jeremy Essig
By Jason Robinson
By Hans Morgenstern
By Joseph Hess
By Peter Gilstrap
By Julia Burch
By Jeremy Essig
By Nathan Smith
Though early speculation attributes the eleventh-hour cancellation to a Billy Joel booze relapse, 27-year-old Mike Sonderegger, also known as "the Rock Star," quickly corrects the gossipmongers. "It was Elton this time," he assures the railside throng, many of whom held tickets to the ivory-tickling tandem's much-hyped show.
Instead, frustrated Joel and John fans have to settle for the next best thing at the Bang, one of a handful of "dueling piano" bars that dot the country. Onstage, McCluer North High School graduate Mike Clements, a sideburn-sportin' veteran of such St. Louis bands as Tripstar and Vitamen A, bangs his way through an obscure Phish ditty for the early-evening crowd, followed by co-owner Sam Leatherwood's rendition of Jimmy Buffett's "Cheeseburger in Paradise."
Leatherwood's choice is a relief to Sonderegger, who now probably won't have to perform "Cheeseburger" -- one of his two least-favorite songs (the other being John's "Crocodile Rock") -- during his home-stretch set, which is about to start. Blond-haired, blue-eyed and Napoleonic in stature, Sonderegger looks like a cross between Steve Winwood and Jon Bon Jovi, blow-dried coif and all.
The resemblance is no accident. Sonderegger is about as obsessive a Jon Bon fan as they come -- in fact, he's just back from a road trip to Madison, Wisconsin, where he caught the Jersey rocker's live show. "It was fucking awesome," says Sonderegger, who claims he's mastered some 30 Bon Jovi songs for his five-times-a-week gig at the Bang. "I stole a whole lot of things from their show."
It's 9 p.m. now, and Sonderegger and his Friday-night playing partner -- Jeff Smith, who doubles as the venue's entertainment director -- relieve Clements and Leatherwood on the piano benches onstage after a quick round of Wild Turkey shots. Greeted with a quick smooch at the bar by his leggy blond love interest, Amanda Carter, the mutton-chopped Clements is resplendent in a vintage "Dolomite, the Hip Shakin' Papa" T-shirt.
"I love how genuine he is about his love of Bon Jovi," says Clements of Sonderegger, who begins his and Smith's set with a full-bore rendition of Journey's "Don't Stop Believin'," backed by colleagues Eddie Thompson and Leatherwood on drums and bass. "And he will play Bon Jovi."
The timeless '80s anthem works the crowd -- surprisingly big for a Friday, at a time when most Landing-goers are on campus, either primping or sucking down 32-ounce Greek-monogrammed cups of rum-and-Coke -- into a rockin' lather. Perfect timing for Rock Star Mikey to get his Jovi on.
"Shot through the heart, and you're to blame!" Elton, shmelton -- the Bang's where the party's at this Friday, and Sonderegger's a bona fide rock star as far as these well-groomed, wild-eyed boozehounds are concerned.
Melting the wall of cheese that separates St. Louis' highfalutin hipster set from townie Landing meatheads into a tasty musical fondue, the almost-two-year-old Big Bang is not your grandfather's piano bar. Rest assured, if Grampy wants to spend a night in Tin Pan Alley, he can shuffle his old ass down to the Hide Away Lounge on Arsenal or to one of the traditional piano bars in various area hotels -- but the pickings are decidedly slim.
It wasn't always that way in St. Louis. Back in the '40s, '50s and '60's, jazzy chanteuses such as Ceil Clayton played to packed houses in the then-vibrant Gaslight Square district. The local legend's career lasted into the '80s, by which point Clayton was selling pianos and sheet music to supplement her income. One day, a twenty-year-old customer named Steve Schneider caught Clayton playing an in-store demo and asked to accompany her on "New York, New York." The pair hit it off instantly, and Clayton frequently asked Schneider to join her for various gigs around town. "I was a baby going to see her," Schneider, now 41, recalls. "She let me get my feet wet and get a taste of it. She could play anything."
A self-described "Jew boy from Creve Coeur" with a perpetually sunny disposition and cartoonish chin, Schneider resembles Sly Stallone's scrawnier, gayer brother, if Sly had a scrawnier, gayer brother (come to think of it, we're still not sure about Frank). Although he butters his bread with a stream of private-party gigs, Schneider plays one night a week at the Drake Bar, near the intersection of Chouteau and Grand in an industrial-backwater section of the city.
"Typical gay-bar location," muses Schneider over an iced tea and club sandwich at Tom's in the Central West End.
"Tucked behind a Captain D's with a healthy serving of urban blight," chimes in Ron Bryant, a husky, hilariously clever bloke who handles key-commander duties on four of the other five nights during the week that the Drake is open (it's closed Sundays). With the exception of a recent brief hiatus by Schneider, the pair has alternated at the Drake Bar's piano bench since the quaint little club -- affectionately referred to by Schneider as "the double-wide" -- opened in 1982.