Crooning Over Frank's

A close friend of mine had been talking up Wednesday night at Frank's Cocktail Lounge like it was a rite of passage for karaoke enthusiasts. 

He put Frank's Grown & Sexy Karaoke on a short list of essential Brooklyn experiences that also included waking up on the train in Coney Island at 4 a.m., witnessing an illegal boxing match, and sneaking into the clock at the Williamsburgh Savings Bank Tower.

Count me in.

Our chosen Wednesday evening was dedicated to the recent passing of Teena Marie, the 80s hit machine otherwise known as the "The Ivory Queen of Soul". We walked in the door during a flawless rendition of Lady T's masterpiece duet with Rick James, "Fire & Desire".

I had stumbled upon the karaoke equivalent of a Soviet gymnasium right on Fulton Street. Having already promised a performance, I gulped down some liquid courage and put my name on the list.

Frank Perkins opened his simple, classy bar at its current location in 1974. There are about ten tables, a small stage. Live shows and DJs rotate nightly. The walls are covered with signed photos of P Diddy, Mike Tyson, Malcolm Jamal-Warner and other celebrities slapping backs with Frank and his son, Tyrone. The bar is well stocked with all the popular favorites and sports one of the grooviest vintage ceiling motifs in Brooklyn.

"It's the same place it's always been. We've kept it in the family," said Tyrone, who took over as full-time manager about 10 years ago. "I don't plan on changing much of anything."  

As it should be.

Frank's has aged gracefully with the neighborhood. Young men sit next to their graying fathers and white folks are a welcomed minority.

Two aging locals named Wiley and "Other" Frank — both declining surnames — explained the bar poetically.

"This is a place in evolution. Its never designated itse--" began Frank, who was quickly cut off by the more assertive Wiley. "Yeah, its full of surprises, that's why I've been drinking here for 30 years." Frank jumped back in.  "Can I say one thing? I just wish they'd show the pay boxing on TV again." Wiley smacked Frank. "I told you they can't do that anymore!" Muffled bickering and name calling ensued. Someone may have not been paying for their Pay Per View.

As I watched the squabble attentively from the sidelines, a chill shot down my spine. My name rang out from the P.A. system and I felt my butt lurch from the seat. Trembling whiskey in hand, I approached the stage and took the microphone. Fear quickly melted away as I slid into the first slurry verse of "I Am…I Said" by that soul music icon, Neil Diamond. I could feel the whiskey adding a nice rasp to my tuneless baritone. Two of the regular divas told me Mr. Diamond would have been proud.

Frank serves as an elegant figurehead at his bar these days. He arrived late in the night sporting an immaculate pin-stripe suit and a broad smile. He took a table alone by the door and watched the festivities. "Tell the people it's a nice place to stop and have a drink," he said in-between handshakes with passing patrons. "Anything else you want to know, I suggest you talk to my son." Our brief interview concluded as the crowd roared and the next crooner took the stage.