Bringin' It

"Throw your middle fingers in the air!" shouts the DJ as he drops the needle on the Youngbloodz's anti-social anthem "Damn!"

Dancers rush to the floor after hearing the initial tremors of the song's deep, rib-cracking bass, spacing themselves for maximum maneuverability. The room resonates during the chorus: If you don't give a damn/ We don't give a fuck ... Don't start no shit/It won't be no shit.

But there are few responses to the DJ's request for upright fingers. These dancers are anything but rebellious.

Meanwhile, in one corner of the room, a movie-theater-sized screen displays flashy hip-hop and R&B videos. The clips, like this party, are populated exclusively by African-Americans, but the scenes -- which spotlight bling-bling jewelry, garish throwback jerseys and graphic grind dancing -- are strikingly dissimilar. The guests at this party appear nothing like these black-entertainment stereotypes.

Here, the men wear sharp blazers or color-coordinated sweater-shoes-and-hat ensembles. The women are clad in formal gowns or classy yet provocative cocktail dresses; nearly all of them are in high heels. The majority of those in attendance are in their twenties, but the range extends to include revelers in their thirties and forties. In keeping with the night's blackout theme, a nod to Black History Month at this February 26 event, at least half of the 600 or so guests are wearing entirely ebony-hued outfits.

There is a dress code in place, but unlike the discriminatory no-cornrows policies instituted by clubs such as Roadhouse Ruby's, these rules are set and enforced by African-Americans. Collared shirts are required; athletic wear, casual hats, work boots, flannel shirts and jumpsuits are all outlawed. The doorman turns away a handful of patrons. None of them protest, and several return within an hour in upscale attire. These are the most extreme cases; most offenders warrant only a trip back to the car. "If you come in with that, I'm going to have people arguing," the gatekeeper says to a man sporting a wicker cap. The patron, still smiling, heads to the parking lot.

There's none of the strutting attitude, none of the clenched fists, savage scowls and what-are-you-looking-at posturing that dominate the videos and, for that matter, local venues such as Stanford's. Patrons greet each other with high-fives instead of steely stares, and the female guests enjoy a largely harassment-free environment. The room's vibe is relaxed, and when the DJ spins gunshot samples into the mix, none of the patrons seek cover. People place their expensive leather jackets and suit jackets on hangers in the corner, unconcerned that the informal coat-check area is unattended. Outside, a couple in matching turtleneck sweaters hold hands and walk unmocked past a caravan of bass-blasting SUVs.

VIP tables on the east side of the room offer a soul-food buffet. Some of the patrons in this section stand near their seats and sway to hip-hop hits, still holding their wineglasses. Others sit around the round table, drinking and chatting like guests at some exclusive adult prom.

In the lobby, framed pictures of Mahalia Jackson, Charlie Parker and Langston Hughes line the walls. Guests sip martinis on cushy couches and chairs; a few even take brief naps. Even the conversations don't sound like typical club fare. "I'm somewhat of a historian by nature," one man tells his date.

This event takes place in a ballroom at the Adam's Mark Hotel near the sports stadiums, but the establishment itself isn't responsible for the entertainment or the ambience. The DJ, soul food, framed portraits -- all of these come from Ken Lumpkins' Higher Ground Entertainment, a tiny upstart company that's changing the essence of local black night life.

For Kansas City's African-American residents, disillusionment with local entertainment options begins at an early age. City-sponsored programs such as Hot Summer Nights (weekend dances for teenagers at Penn Valley Community College and Bishop Hogan High School from 1994 to 1999) once offered an appealing alternative to Westport. Now, though, the Jackson County Parks and Recreation Department's solutions, such as bowling nights, lure few minors away from the city's entertainment district. In the summer, thousands of black teens swarm the sidewalks, congregating outside establishments they're too young to enter while a prominent police presence eyes the activity.

A few entrepreneurs attempted to fill this void, with limited success. Bill "Dusty" Rhodes drew hundreds to Da Joint at Sni-A-Bar and Blue Ridge Cutoff, but the club was unable to renew its dance-hall license at the end of September 2001, largely because of a fatal shooting at a convenience store near the venue earlier that month. Marc Coyazo and Robert McDaniel drew modest crowds at Cozmo's Bar and Grill in Lee's Summit for several months before closing because of losses. The Main Street Multiplex barely opened its doors before being extinguished by the same neighborhood group that thwarted the Madrid Theatre's chances at regular live music. And independent promoters who rent banquet halls, long a staple of the underage social scene, have been laying low, heeding the cautionary tale of John Haynes, who became legally liable when teen Kristi Carroll was shot to death at an event that took place at his Troostwood Banquet Hall ("The Last Dance," by Joe Miller, April 1).