Anna Huckabay is nervous. It’s her first time on this stage and she smiles shyly, wondering if any words at all will come out of her mouth. Perhaps it wasn’t the best idea to do improv on her first night. The sometime-fashion model hears the acoustic guitar begin to play a soft melody and glances back at her boyfriend. His long hair is tied into a ponytail; his green striped shirt is a baggy version of the one Huckabay wears underneath a bright green dress that falls to the top of her designer jeans. Sing, Huckabay thinks. The music gets louder. Say something. She closes her eyes and parts her lips.

“This song is for the moment, make it up as you go. / I’m so afraid of letting go. / You can live your life like a structured song, know every note of the melody, / but I want something more.”

First-time performer Kyle Porter at the Trabant.

Photo: Jason Siegel

Her voice is soft and creamy, rich and spicy, much like the hazelnut-cream chai tea that I am sipping tonight at Trabant Chai Lounge. Mondays are open-mike nights here, and a young crowd admires Huckabay as she gains confidence and her voice gets stronger. She’s among nearly 20 performers who have come tonight to bare their souls, share their music or just crack a joke on stage. They’ll do almost anything to gain applause from the loose collection of college students who loiter around black diner tables and stretch out on overstuffed sofas, filling Trabant’s every nook and cranny.

In Seattle, a city that has turned out several professional musicians and world-famous bands, amateur artists like the ones who perform at Trabant have been trying out new material and performing old gems since long before the movie Coyote Ugly gave open mikes a trendy spot on the map. Most open mikes are held in bars, and many Seattle bars host open mikes at least once a week. But the only drinks flowing at Trabant are the caffeinated variety and performers of all ages come to sing their original music or read poetry they’ve written.

Galin Disston, 22, brings his pop rock songs from Santa Cruz to Seattle.

Photo: Jason Siegel

“You came on a good night,” says Chang Choi, who hosts open mike night here on Mondays. He is busy introducing artists and adjusting knobs on a small sound system so that each performer’s vocals and music pour through the speakers at just the right volume. “There’s a lot of talent here tonight. It’s been more eclectic, and more musical than spoken word.”

The Trabant is located next door to the Neptune Theater on 45th Street near Brooklyn Avenue in Seattle’s University District. Its exterior walls are painted bright blue and orange. The bittersweet aroma of espresso penetrates to the sidewalk and the promise of free wireless Internet is posted on a front window. The window also appears to be dripping with ... blood?

The blood is red paint, a part of Trabant’s Halloween decorations. Inside, shiny white webs crawl across corners and spread over entire walls, while black plastic spiders peak out from behind curtains and dangle dangerously from long strings in the entryway. An unlucky teddy bear is wrapped hopelessly in one massive web that takes up the entire space between two tall bookshelves.

“Is this the guitars-only couch?” asks a girl with curly purple-tinted hair and a mug in her hands. Two guitar-wielding performers smile up at her before sliding down the blue velvet couch to make room.

Folk singer and songwriter Steve Turner plays a mix of guitar-picking rock and blues.

Photo: Jason Siegel

Pauly Kostora comes in from outside, where he had been nervously puffing on a cigarette to prepare for his 10 minutes in the spotlight. He seems to know everybody here tonight. He stops by the expresso bar to chat with Huckabay, then crosses the room to talk shop with another singer, then playfully slaps the back of a buddy who is waiting in line for more caffeine.

On stage, which is little more than a cleared space near the windows at the front of the room, Kostora crouches onto a stool behind two microphones, one for his guitar and one for his voice. He sings confidently in a high-pitched voice:

“I’ll search the stars for you. / Are you out there looking for me, too?”

A group of singers near the back seem to know Kostora’s music. Between songs he jokes easily with the audience, and they holler back their support.

His ten minutes are up, and Kostora once again steps out into the rain to smoke. He holds up an unsteady hand for my inspection.

“I still shake every now and then,” he says, although his smile comes easier now.

Choi calls newcomer Greta Weisman’s name. Weisman slides off her stool and begins to unpack her guitar. She has a cheering squad near the front of the room; three girlfriends who have arrived just in time to hear her sing in a soft voice of a Roman lover in one song, of the beauty of Ireland in another. Weisman drops her pick and her cheeks flush for just a moment. Her friends seem mesmerized by the sight of her on stage, and when she’s finished they rush to be the first to tell her how much they loved her songs. Arm in arm, the girls leave Trabant laughing and still congratulating Weisman, their own local star.

“Great performances tonight!” says Choi encouragingly to the crowd, now mostly made up of tonight’s singers and poets. “Come early, come often, Monday nights eight to eleven,” he says, signaling that the time has come to close the doors on Trabant for tonight.

In groups, the audience members begin to shuffle towards the door, laughing and discussing plans for the rest of the evening. Kostora and his small crowd will be going to the next open mike down the street to perform again. From others I hear talk of next week, same time, same place. They’ll come back again with a new song or some new words, to listen and laugh and spend 10 glorious minutes in front of the microphone.