It started as an “open-mic” night; you know, the smoke-filled bar full of wannabe singers and crappy drink specials where the owner really just wants to make a buck off of sucky local talent. But when a dozen musicians walked in to the Crouching Lion Inn only six months ago, something unpredictable happened–they were good, people stayed and they kept coming back.

The Crouching Lion Inn sits against the Koolau where the same 12 musicians gather every Wednesday night playing songs from Bob Dylan to David Allen Coe. Take this job and shove it/ I ain’t working here no more seems like an ironic selection considering that many of the musicians playing Coe’s famous song are unemployed–and not by choice.

“You know, when you lose your job, you don’t lose your bills,” says guitarist, Victor Nombris. Wednesday nights at the Inn help him forget everything.

“Even if it’s for a short time,” he says, “no one can take that feeling from me.”

Nombris is famous for being pulled so far into a song that he often forgets to come back up for air. Living on the North Shore for most of his life, Nombris says he travels to the Inn on Wednesday nights to find comfort in “the one thing that never left me–my guitar.”

The Wednesday night tradition is the brainchild of Carl and Toni Gordon. Carl usually starts the night out with his three-piece band, warming the stage for the following hours of rich entertainment. The first song of the night suits the mellow atmosphere and the people floating around the room drinking pitchers of beer.

“Something unique is happening here,” says Carl of the musicians playing on the stage. “It isn’t just a room full of guitar players, it’s a room full of people who want a break from the outside.”

Although they wouldn’t necessarily consider themselves cultural mavericks, the singers, writers, poets and players who gather at the Inn feel neglected by society and drained by its ruthless expectations, similar to artists from another desperate era. People like Nani Brown, a local girl who sings like Linda Ronstadt and looks like a cross between Jessica Alba and Mila Kunis, come to the Crouching Lion for one reason: “To keep myself sane,” she says. Wearing her signature faded blue jeans and a tank top with her belly button peeking in between, Brown steps up to the mic and sings a Bonnie Raitt tune. One might never guess that Nani works as an electrician by day, but when the construction industry took a dive, “so did my job,” she says. “When I was out of work, I finally found work through the rich and diverse social scene here at the Inn. Dave [one of the devoted weekly followers] introduced me to a whole new network of people and clients. I am very grateful for that, and I feel very honored to be included in this thing we have started.”

Her guitarist, Sam Dumadag (known as “Uncle Sam”) joined Nani in Hollywood where they played a prominent Melrose venue for two years. Now, they are back on the island frequenting bars like this one and giving locals a chance to hear homegrown, hair-standing-on-the-back-of-your-neck harmony. While Uncle Sam plays his own set, with his own band, the talent once again explodes all over the stage and the people sit motionless while he dances to the rhythm of Bob Marley’s “Turn Your Lights Down ow.” His modesty may be his defining characteristic–even when asked for an encore, he passes the microphone on the next unpredictable artist: Buster Walea.

Walea isn’t a stranger to the stage; he’s toured parts of Europe, Japan and North America, and the gossip over which celebrities he’s graced the stage with quickly spreads throughout the bar. Even after a lifetime of musical achievements, Walea says, “There’s nothing better than just playing with friends.”

While Walea and the others take their turns on the red cement stage, Phyllis Cutburth, a local painter and sculptor, dances in the open area next to the floral covered pool table. At first glance, one might wonder where this kind of dancing (twirling actually) originated–straight out of Woodstock, it turns out. Cutburth is an original hippie, living in San Francisco and Santa Cruz in the 1960s before moving to the North Shore.

“All my life I waited for someone to dance with. I simply got tired of waiting,” said Cutburth. “I dance here, because it matters.”

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