On and on it goes. . .

. . . and when it may return nobody knows.

Our gig at this blue-collar hotspot was quite a gravy job. We played four hours, with three twenty-minute breaks, every Friday and Saturday night, beer was free and we were paid $120 ($30 per man). That may sound laughable now (it does to me), but being a twenty-something still in college in 1977, this was one hell of a deal. And to make matters even better, the owner installed a Hammond B3 organ (with Leslie tone cabinet) in the club, or maybe it belonged to the Thursday musician but it was never clarified and was available for our (read: MY) use. Any keyboardist knows well the value of this perk, particularly in pre-digital-sample-lightweight-inexpensive-keyboard times. And yet in spite of all these wonderful things available to us during this period, we (can you believe it?) received an offer of a higher-paying gig (I believe it was $40 per man) at a club with a more convenient location to us all, and in a neighborhood where the probability of chairs being broken over patrons' heads was only slightly less. The owner of this bar actually hired us to 'discourage' the patronage of an 'undesirable' younger element that had begun frequenting the establishment and the owner thought he had found in our band/music, just the thing to accomplish this. Years after these events, other members of the group enjoy fondly recalling the job for which we were hired to 'drive customers away.' Poetic justice indeed!

We did take the job. Ten more dollars and much less mileage were certainly well worth it. Needless to say, it was back to playing my cheesy, or should I say sub-par instrument of economic necessity. If memory serves however, this arrangement did not last very long and we ended up with a long-running, relatively prestigious gig at the local American Legion hall for comparable pay and the only stringent requirement being to play God Bless America sometime during the last set of the evening. Being truly devoted veterans and family members thereof, everyone always stood respectfully as we played it in these pre-nine-eleven days. But the place seemed like home. It was cleaner than just about ANY other place we played, the staff was friendly and the clientele attentive and appreciative.




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Finally it happened. . .

. . . the trials and tribulations of Ful Treatment. . .

A match. A 'club' that required exactly the musical product we were offering. It was a relatively roomy, oblong configuration with a large rectangular bar that encircled the tending staff, located at one end with a dance floor to the side and a stage at the far end of that. It was located in an industrial area to the south of the city, in close proximity to the docks, business of which brought many merchant marine and an assortment of blue-collar clientele for some weekend reverie. In fact, we frequently, unfairly generalizing, joked about the patrons' general lack of teeth and violent tendencies. Let's face it though, large amounts of quickly consumed alcohol frequently does result in less-than-gentlemanly behavior in humans, irrespective of type of employment or socioeconomic level.
Our bigotry was not based entirely in fiction though. One particularly well-lubricated Friday night crowd included two, physically imposing females, complete with the teased, bouffant hairdo, each with a personalized version of a blond-streak adornment. Someone in the crowd was heard to refer to these ladies as 'skunk-heads', referring to the aforementioned blond coloring. As the evening progressed, it became obvious to us and our wives/girl-friends/significant others that accompanied us to the gig that night that the 'skunk-heads' had become enamored with several male members of the crowd. It became more obvious still later, that there was some discontent among the party of ladies and their newly-found, romantic interests. Eventually a real, true-to-life bar brawl erupted as a result of the developing sexual tension (or was it friction?) When the fists began flying, the entire band and our visitors were, for lack of a better description, was flabbergasted. At that point, we all know precisely what happened, but each would relate a different version now if asked, one of the involved merchant marines picked up a chair from a table adjoining the dance floor, and broke it over the head of his antagonist, sending a wooden chair leg hurling meteor-like onto the bandstand. It seemed as thought the frame froze at that point, all sound ceased, and we all stared toward the crowd, mouths agape in astonishment for what seemed to be a short eternity, but ended with Greg (our saxman/vocalist) picking up the disconnected furniture appendage, waving it in the direction of the audience saying something to the effect that he dared anyone to try anything NOW!




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Groucho Marx said. . .

. . . (among many other hilarious things) . . . "I don't care to belong to a club that accepts people like me as members."

MEMBER OF THE CLUB

Who doesn't want to belong to something; a need that's bigger than us. You feel it deep in your heart, desire for attention; a little trust; a little trust. Now I'm a member of the club and I'm not really sure how far it will get me. And I'm not really sure how far I will go.

I felt it so many times, that yearning to be a part of it all. I couldn't understand why I didn't fit into your kind of style; your kind of style. Now I'm a member of the club and I'm not really sure how far it will get me. And I'm not really sure how far I will go.

I'm an outsider from so long ago; a solo performer on my own road, on my own road.

Why so much serious doubt consumes me I can't begin to describe. Just when I thought that I found a greater confidence I want to hide, I want to hide. Now I'm a member of the club and I'm not really sure how far it will get me. And I'm not really sure how far I will go.


MEMBER OF THE CLUB
©2011 Raymond M. Jozwiak



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