Photogravure | Feltman's Follies

What a night. What a crowd. What a show.

Kimberly Gordon Trio

SLUG: FILED_LIVE_FROM_THE_TAP_ROOM
DATE: 13_OCTOBER_2007
REPORTER: WILLIAM 'BILLY' SUNDAE

The taproom was packed. Glasses clinked, heels clicked, and the Hammond B3 let out a gospel growl that turned heads. Kimberly Gordon’s voice cut through the din with velvet and brass, wrapped in bourbon warmth. The trio behind her pulsed with vintage heat, each note soaked in swing and soul.

This wasn’t background music. It was testimony. The B3 sang, moaned, and shimmered. It drove each set like a midnight sermon. The sound was big enough to fill a ballroom but intimate enough for a corner bar.

These recordings were captured live in one of my restaurants, where the food was hot, the bands were hotter, and the nights ran long.

King Robinson and The Housewreckers

SLUG: FILED_LIVE_FROM_THE_TAP_ROOM
DATE: 18_OCTOBER_2007
REPORTER: 'BIG ED'_DONNELLY

King Robison and The Housewreckers played like they had nothing to prove. Harp slung low. Bass lines dragging the floor. Chords stretched until they snapped. Every six to eight weeks they showed up, lit the fuse, and let the crowd do the rest.

King stood still. Always did. He had the look of a puppet brought to life by blues and bad coffee. Picture Floyd from Dr. Teeth’s crew with Leon Redbone’s voice and a mouth harp where the guitar should be. He didn’t chase applause. He earned it. One note at a time.

Dropmore Scarlet

SLUG: FILED_LIVE_FROM_THE_TAP_ROOM
DATE: 18_AUGUST_2007
REPORTER: JIMMY_'SKITCH'_MORAN

Dropmore Scarlet plays like they mean it. A Milwaukee quartet with sharp instincts and no fear of the curve. Jazz nuance, angular pop, global rhythm - they weave it all into something that shifts, surprises, and never loses its grip.

Kari Bloom sings with spark and subtlety. Laura Proeber lays down groove with classical bones. Kristen Kakatsch and Ginny Wiskowski drive the pulse, stretch the form, and write the map as they go. Each brings a distinct voice. Together, they make music that moves.

They don’t chase trends. They build a world. Harmonies layer. Turns come unexpected. Every show feels lived in. Every set writes a new chapter.

Funk du Jour

SLUG: FILED_LIVE_FROM_THE_TAP_ROOM
DATE: 5_MARCH_2007
REPORTER: 'DAPPER'_DAN_WESTCOAT

When Funk du Jour hits the stage, the lights don’t just dim—they surrender. What follows isn’t a concert. It’s a reckoning.

Three voices lead the charge. Two women with velvet fire in their lungs, and one frontman who doesn’t ask for attention, he takes it. Behind them, a rhythm section ticks like a well-oiled getaway car. The horns don’t play. They strike. Brass lightning, clean and merciless.

The room was sold out before the first note. By the second, it was ablaze. No one sat still. Not the couples. Not the loners. Not the old-school funk disciples or the new-blood groovers. They moved because they had to. Because Funk du Jour doesn’t suggest. It compels.

This wasn’t glitz. It wasn’t polish. It was funk with a switchblade smile. Played tight. Played loud. Played like it meant something.

They’re not a cover band. They’re a reminder of what live music used to be before algorithms took the soul out of it.

Karen Phillips

SLUG: FILED_LIVE_FROM_THE_TAP_ROOM
DATE: 19_NOVEMBER_2007
REPORTER: BRETT_'DA'_MAN' SOUNDZA

The lights were low. The crowd leaned in. And Karen Phillips, a Bluebird regular, now a Taproom ghost, slipped behind her Gretsch Nashville and let the 1929 standard bleed.

No piano this time. Just steel strings and memory. Mike Deveran’s Martin in Whiskey Sunset hummed like a backroom confession. His son, Matthew’s Guild 12-string laid down rhythm like warm bourbon and blistered leads like a busted heart.

Karen didn’t sing Mean to Me... she filed it. Each lyric caressed, each note a reckoning. The chemistry? Road-worn. Respectful. Dangerous in its ease

Flatlander’s called her home. On this night, she answered. No filter. No pretense. Just soul, strung and served.