MIKE POWERS

"Before getting into the music business," says Monty Banks, "I never knew that the answer to the simple question 'Where do you live?' could have such a complicated answer."

He's not kidding. The story of lounge singer and pianist Monty Banks is fascinating, but has more twists and turns than a Hitchcock thriller. If you should manage to catch one of his gigs, you'd be well-advised to buy him a martini and ask him to unravel a few stories about playing Las Vegas ("I've had many gigs that START at 2 a.m."), about playing cruise liners two-thirds of the year ("Your room and board are provided ... you get rid of your rent, utilities and grocery expenses") and the vagaries of being, well, a man without a country ("I prefer to think of myself as "home-free," as opposed to "homeless").

Banks' story may be an epic, but the basics of his life are easy to get down. He's a lounge performer in the classic Vegas style; his repertoire draws on the same songs that Mel Torme, Nat King Cole and Louis Armstrong sang to dark, smoky jazz clubs and showrooms. If he could be said to have a home, the Northwest would be it. He was raised in Tacoma and knows "almost every musician, bartender, club owner, booker and socially active drunk" in Seattle — though these days, he spends equal time staying with friends in Las Vegas and New York, "in the tradition of Duke Ellington."

And there's no question about Banks' show: It's a heckuva lot of fun. Whether playing solo or with a big band, he embodies everything you imagine when you think of lounge style: the bawdy jokes, the smooth patter, the heartfelt renditions of songs written to be sung by Sinatra and his contemporaries. You'd never guess that he honed his craft in the long shadows cast by Hendrix and Mudhoney, but Banks wouldn't have had it any other way.

"Good music is appreciated here," he says of his sometime hometown. "And there are a great many veteran musicians to study and learn from, since music has always been an important part of Seattle since the beginning."

I became a club musician 13 years ago and a full-time professional (no day job) seven years ago. I began taking piano lessons when I was nine, but it was the discovery of rock 'n' roll that turned me into the musician I am today. My butt-rock band, Nova, played the junior-high talent show, and the girls screamed like we were the Beatles. Somewhere between "Takin' Care of Business" and "Smoke on the Water," a star was born.

As for the cruise ship gig, I opened for an all-girl punk rock band at Las Vegas' Cooler Lounge. I borrowed an old electronic organ with glowing multi-colored buttons, dubbed it the "CheeseMeister 5000" and went on to sing jazz standards for punk rockers.

The lead singer of the punk band hooked up with my drummer. Her dad was opening a supper club, and I ended up working there four nights a week. One night an alternative band called Sugar Cane Train played the supper club, and I met the singer (who soon) became the secretary for a big booking agent. The booker was going crazy because he couldn't find a piano player to go on a ship leaving immediately. He begged her to think of a piano player who could cut the gig, and I got the call.

Gigs come together in a ramshackle, Rube Goldberg-flow-chart kinda way. It really shows how important it is to "be out there every day." Equally strange connections have gotten me gigs at Cirque du Soleil, House of Blues' Foundation Room (in Las Vegas), Seattle Yacht Clubs, Whidbey Island Race Week, the Space Needle and the VIP Room at SIFF.

The process of playing several hours six nights a week takes a lot of energy. It works only because I believe in my songs; they're what make it all possible. It's like being at an opulent resort — but never being able to go home. The food is provided ... but you better like the choices, 'cause you can't make your own. Who doesn't like drinking and dancing with beautiful people having a great time? Well, it's the only thing to do, night after night. I love it, but 10 years solid would burn me out for sure.

My cruise liner crowd tends to break into two groups: young, trendy hipsters who love the Old Vegas Vibe, and more mature jazz fans that look fondly back on the days that jazz standards ruled the world. And they roll over once a week. By the end of a cruise, all your hard-earned regulars leave and you start over with 3,500 brand new passengers. I've gotten very good at remembering people's names.

The travel really makes it. It's something special, I must say, to wake up every morning (or afternoon) in a different country. And my joy is meeting and partying with coworkers from every country in the world.

Let's see, a story featuring a mysterious woman ... There's the mysterious southern coed who stowed me away in her girls' dorm at a religious college for a week (by day I was a "chemistry professor), a mysterious former Miss Oklahoma who had a yen for men, the VERY mysterious bachelorette party, the tall Jamaican waitress of Ochos Rios, a very gregarious South African showgirl and a South American bar server who got fired for dispensing a little too much "customer service." I'd try to pick one story, but they're all starting to blend together.

Lately I've been having trouble remembering what SEASON it is. I woke up last week in New York. Looking out the window, I couldn't decide if it was September or February; it was JUNE. That's pretty far gone!

The worst "where am I" experience I've had was on the last day of my first contract. It is a real grueling process, getting ready to "debark." I stayed up all night partying, and packing, and "closed my eyes to take a little nap." I awoke, and the ship was at sea, on the way to a shipyard for dry-dock — the port miles behind. That was a real eye-opener.

My favorite songs are big time swing standards: "I've Got the World on a String," "All of Me," "Cheek to Cheek," "Satin Doll." Hardball classics. Gershwin, Porter, Ellington, Berlin. The genius is already in the music. As long as I can bring them to life, you know, really swing 'em, I know I can win over the toughest crowd, instantly! Then to keep 'em guessing, I throw in a little Mancini and Bacharach ... Dean Martin's "Sway," Cole Porter's "Love for Sale"...

Then, the mark of the lounge singer: the torch song. There are three elements to a true torch song: unrequited love, self loathing and alcoholism. Put all three together and you've got a powerhouse hit — "Angel Eyes," "One for the Road" and the ultimate test of the saloon singer, "Lush Life."

It's not for me. I laugh my ass off at Richard Cheese's set, but I'm working to be a legitimate crooner with my own distinct professional style, not an impersonator or parodist.

In the early days, I experimented with the gag and it unleashed an unstoppable avalanche of bad requests — "the worse the better," right? Well, before you know it, you've done half-an-hour of Styx, Peter Frampton and "In-a-Gadda-da-Vida." Musically, you feel like you just ate a whole bag of Cheetos. There is more artistry — a chance to truly elevate the audience emotionally — in the straightforward presentation of swingin' jazz.

For entertainment: Howard Bulson at the Mirabeau Room and Vinyl Avengers at the Owl 'N Thistle. For Chinese food: Ga Ga Loc. They serve 'til 2:30 or 3 a.m. and are very tolerant of drunk people.

For late night food: Aladdin Gyro-Cery & Deli on University Way. This place is open quite late on weekends, and sometimes makes a nice alternative to the greasy spoon. I like the mixed cauliflower and eggplant sandwich and a soda. There are always lots of weird people sitting in the back.