Last January, my spouse and I navigated an unknown road in Osage Beach, Missouri. The summer rush of tourism from visitors to the Lake of the Ozarks has died down by this time of year, and the empty four-lane roads made us wonder if we’d taken a wrong turn. We drove past a strip club and an elementary school before we arrived at the Fire Room at Picks Gallery. I expected an art gallery, but walking across the gravel parking lot, I saw that the concert venue was actually a fireplace and grill showroom.
Nobody greeted us when we entered the empty storefront, but blue flames of gas fires danced behind tinted glass in the subdued way of appreciative indie rockers. Hearing music coming from somewhere inside, we wandered past the service desk and down a hallway until we stood in the doorway of the performance space. It felt like we’d walked into someone’s living room.
Everyone’s focus was on the musicians: teenage indie-folk duo The Burney Sisters. They performed against the backdrop of two fireplaces: one with a stone surround that extended to the room’s high ceiling, the other faced with brick and topped with a carved wood mantle, diamond-patterned wallpaper extending above. Wall-to-wall carpet absorbed the sound, and everyone sat in stackable plastic office chairs. As I looked around, I realized the Fire Room wasn’t named as a metaphor for the hot acts that played there — it was a literal showroom for fireplaces. The room was definitely not hip, but the music was unreal.
The Burney Sisters filled the room with their ethereal harmonies, invoking a melancholy that drew sighs and wistful expressions from the crowd of about 30 people. Having grown up in the indie rock scene, I expected the audience to be comprised of Midwestern hipsters. Instead, the crowd was mostly retirees, a group I could see just as easily transposed into a small-town diner. Nobody was there to see or be seen, and even the musicians set aside any stage personas to let the music be the star of the show.
When intermission arrived, I lined up for the single-stall bathroom ahead of Bella, the youngest member of the band. We chatted about her earrings (roller skates enameled in bright colors), her favorite animal (a rat, and she wants one for her next birthday) and how the musical life was for her (it’s fun). When I returned to my seat, I struck up a conversation with the friendly woman sitting next to us. “Usually,” she said, “we come an hour early and have supper — everybody brings a little something — have drinks and catch up.” Leave it to Midwesterners to turn a rock show into a potluck.
A month later, we packed our Little Playmate cooler with Logboat beers and headed to the Fire Room an hour before to join the pre-show gathering. Long folding tables with disposable red table clothes had been set up in front of the service desk, and against the large picture window, a spread of deli sandwiches, chips, homemade dips and cookies awaited.
I struck up a conversation with the owner of Picks Gallery, Darin Brucker. Darin told me about how he opened the Fire Room as a venue for intimate concerts after he moved back to the Lake area after nearly a decade in Minnesota. He found that the culture of the Lake and the cultural offerings in the area had shifted away from a folksy, slightly-kitsch and family friendly vibe to a full-throttle party culture for people with a bit of money to throw around. He wanted a venue where people could appreciate great music in a more subdued setting.
For seven years now the Fire Room has played host to intimate concert experiences for rock, rockabilly, blues, Americana, folk, alt-country and country music. “We get people on national tours who want to add a small show on their way between St. Louis and Kansas City,” he said. “And now we have a waitlist of over 120 performers who have asked us if they can play here.” When I asked him how word got out, he said, “Artists talk to each other. They hear it’s a good place to play, and they want to come.”
On that night, Travis Linville drove up from Oklahoma to play the Fire Room. Before the show, he joined us at the tables, sipping a mug of tea. When it was time for the show to start, there was no big entrance. Instead, we all waded into the music together.
At intermission, we retired to the folding tables. A bottle of vodka was passed around the room, and a few people poured themselves shots or topped off their cups of soda. The conversation wandered to the greatest shows we’d all seen or the best venues. I was inclined to name this one but felt shy.
As we gathered for Linville’s second set, the audience was warm and ready. Through the music, we came to know ourselves and each other better. We let the musicians guide us, and when the show was over, we offered as much noisy applause as a couple dozen pairs of hands could make before leaving the room as a flock.
There seems to be an unwritten rule of Midwesternism: Do not speak too directly about the greatness of a thing. Especially not while it’s happening. I don’t know if it’s because we are afraid we’ll be proven wrong. After all, we’re constantly reminded that where we live can’t be nearly as rich in delights as larger metropolitan areas. But I also wonder whether we play our cards close to our vests because we want to keep it like a secret — a deep sense that we have everything we need right here.
To find out who’s playing the Fire Room next, check out The Fire Room at Picks Gallery on Facebook. And be sure to come an hour before the show to enjoy the full experience.
