Juke Joint (Part One: White Like Me)
Back in the early 90's, my sister Susan was a student at Fresno State University and found out that the on campus radio station was looking to fill two slots in the schedule. She knew that I had always wanted to be on the radio so she called me because the program director had told her that I could do a show as a non-student if she was at least in the studio during the broadcast. Better that than dead air, he thought.
One of two available 3 hour long slots was your typical "college radio/alternative/punk/cutting edge/your parents hate it/absolute crap" shift on what I seem to remember was a Thursday at midnight thing. The other was a blues shift on Tuesdays at 3am, which was the end of the 9 hour run of the Monday Night Blues format. I knew a little about the blues, I knew playing the blues was better than the above described genre and I started work at 6am anyway, so I took the blues shift. I figured I could get up a few hours earlier for the "art". Susan remarkably agreed to get up at that ungodly hour to accompany me in the booth. To this day, I don't know how to repay her for that sacrifice of sleep. My boss scheduled me off on Tuesdays when he could, but if I had to work he would let me come in a little late. (I always felt a little funny playing Lightnin' Hopkins records--yes,LPs--while wearing a Coca-Cola uniform).
So I started my stint as a DJ; unpaid, on a terrible shift and with no previous experience. Susan would be there as required, but usually either slept or studied, whatever she needed to do most. If you've ever felt as if no one is listening to what you have to say, try the 3-6am shift on a low-watt radio station on Tuesday mornings. I could have read Mein Kampf with Mr. Rogers singing "It's A Wonderful Day In the Neighborhood" playing behind me and probably get two calls; one wrong number and one person asking who the kickass blues legend singing the "Could You Be Mine" song is. But I will tell you this: I got to play anything I wanted and that freedom, even on college radio, is rare these days. No playlist, no heavy rotation requirements and nobody looking over my shoulder. And friends, I played the shit. Stevie Ray Vaughan bootleg tracks from Japan from my own collection? No problem. Any (and all) tracks from Willie Dixon's "I Am The Blues"? You got it, brother. You want to hear KFSR's scratchy-ass original LP take of Muddy Waters' "Mannish Boy"? I got it and you're gonna hear it upon request right now. So went that show.
It wasn't long before the moron that had the primo 9pm-midnight shift got canned and I was asked to take the coveted slot. Oh, yeah! Now I've got an audience. I was excited and Susan was happier too, because she could go back to the non-vampire lifestyle she was used to. But now she also had to participate more in the show. She became Producer (pulled records and CDs from the library for me), Call Screener (weeding out the drunks and weirdos) and she even provided the voice of the intro to Blues All Night with Laughing Boy Tony Holt. (Tapes available upon request).
With the new time slot, I decided to take it upon myself to promote the blues in the Fresno area. I would talk about upcoming shows and play tracks from the artists visiting town. After a while, I made contact with local club owners and promoters and struck a deal to mention concert dates. KFSR, being a non-profit entity, could not accept advertising dollars but could have local venues "sponsor" shows by giving away tickets to concerts. Along with the giveaway tickets, my sister and I would also be put on the "list at the door" at venues around town. Even at a small club, it is a huge blast to the ego to say, "Yeah, I'm on the Guest List" and walk on by the security guys without paying the cover.
Yes, faithful readers, I'm getting to the CONCERT content.
In early August of 1994, I got a call (screened by Susan) from a promoter that was bringing blues legend Little Milton to town. I agreed to spread the word about the show in exchange for giveaway tickets and that I get put on the "list at the door". I plugged the hell out of that show for the next three Monday nights and gave tickets away over the air like they were escort flyers on the strip in Vegas.
A slight dilema surfaced when tried and true "sponsor" Fred Martinez of Club Fred fame had also given the Laughing Boy Show a bounty of six pair of tickets (plus a pair to me) to see Chris Hiatt and Cold Shot, a tribute to Stevie Ray Vaughan, on the same night at Club Fred. I wasn't worried about the listeners. They'd have to make up their own minds on what show to attend. I was more concerned about having free tickets to two shows and having to decide on which to sponge off of. Then I realized that Little Milton was playing two shows that night, one at 8pm and one at 11pm. I could make the Chris Hiatt show and get over to the Tomiko Lounge to catch Little Milton at 11pm. At the risk of getting too greasy, I could make both shows.
For a reason I cannot remember now (damn you to Hell, Adoph Coors!), my wife Mary could not make it to either show. My sister, being my Producer, etc., decided to see what this live blues stuff was all about. We went to Club Fred to see Chris Hiatt and Cold Shot. Susan and I got there a little late and ended up standing in the back of the room by the jukebox. I got a beer and Susan had a Zima (hey, it was the hot girly drink back then) and we took in the scene of the packed house until Chris Hiatt took the stage. I have to say, as a Stevie devotee, I got chills watching this guy pay homage to the late SRV. He had the moves, the chops, the tone and he even had the hat. I saw Stevie Ray live four times and this guy made me think it was five.
People were dancing and whooping it up and the energy level was off of the scale. Susan and I were enjoying the show immensly, but also looking at our watches because we had to get downtown to see the Little Milton late show. I got another beer and took my place leaning against the wall by the jukebox as a wobbling drunk came up to Susan and asked her to dance. My sister ain't no slouch in the looks department, so this came as no surprise to me. I watched as she politely declined his offer. He steadied himself and gave her the ol' "C'mon....issa party.....les dance you an' me..." line and she still gave him a polite "no thank you".
I was taking this all in while digging the show as it occured to me that I was standing right next to Susan the whole time that this idiot was hitting on her. For all he knew, I was her beau (we look nothing alike, so don't go thinking this is a West Virginia thing), yet he was so looped that he either didn't notice or didn't care. Upon his second refusal, he looked toward the stage for a moment and I leaned over to Susan and asked, "Do you want me to tell this guy I'm your boyfriend and get rid of him?" She shook her head, giving me the impression that she was used to this kind of troll. But still, I was a little bothered that I didn't cut an imposing enough of a figure to make someone not approach a woman standing right next to me.
At about 10:20 or so, we figured we'd better head downtown. We hated to leave Club Fred because Chris Hiatt was just killing everybody there. But I really thought that Little Milton justified the early exit. So we headed out and made our way to the Tamiko Lounge, based solely on directions given over the phone earlier that week by the promoter. For as many shows as I'd seen in downtown Fresno, I'd never heard of the Tamiko Lounge. I assumed it was a nightclub or maybe a ballroom that I'd passed by on my way to Wilson Theater or maybe the Caddilac Club. After navigating the downtown streets by the chicken-scratch notes I had, we arrived at The Tamiko Lounge. It was a nondescript building under an overpass with a parking lot enclosed by chain link fence with razor wire on top. The sign out front, in letters larger than those that named the place, read: SOUL FOOD.
We parked the car and started walking up to the venue. It wasn't long before we saw four very large black men at the entrance working as security. No big deal at all. Except for the fact that they were looking at us like we were on fire.
"Good evening", said one of them.
"Hi", I replied, sounding so white that even Edgar Winter would think he had a tan.
"Uh, can we do something for you?", he asked.
"Well, yeah. We're here for the show", I told him. I then gave him the kicker: "I'm on the list".
I gave him my name and he looked it up. He raised his eybrows when he saw it there on the paper. Susan and I walked in and it was almost like those cliche' moments in B-movies when the needle scratches across the record when someone walks into a party.
The lighting was dim and we had a little moment of re-adjustment as we looked around the place. A few steps inside and we realized that maybe we'd underdressed just a bit. The darkness could not swallow the shimmer of sequins and the glint of recently shined shoes. Nor could it hide the fact that we were the only white folks in the entire joint.
Next up: Juke Joint (Part Two): The Big Misunderstanding
One of two available 3 hour long slots was your typical "college radio/alternative/punk/cutting edge/your parents hate it/absolute crap" shift on what I seem to remember was a Thursday at midnight thing. The other was a blues shift on Tuesdays at 3am, which was the end of the 9 hour run of the Monday Night Blues format. I knew a little about the blues, I knew playing the blues was better than the above described genre and I started work at 6am anyway, so I took the blues shift. I figured I could get up a few hours earlier for the "art". Susan remarkably agreed to get up at that ungodly hour to accompany me in the booth. To this day, I don't know how to repay her for that sacrifice of sleep. My boss scheduled me off on Tuesdays when he could, but if I had to work he would let me come in a little late. (I always felt a little funny playing Lightnin' Hopkins records--yes,LPs--while wearing a Coca-Cola uniform).
So I started my stint as a DJ; unpaid, on a terrible shift and with no previous experience. Susan would be there as required, but usually either slept or studied, whatever she needed to do most. If you've ever felt as if no one is listening to what you have to say, try the 3-6am shift on a low-watt radio station on Tuesday mornings. I could have read Mein Kampf with Mr. Rogers singing "It's A Wonderful Day In the Neighborhood" playing behind me and probably get two calls; one wrong number and one person asking who the kickass blues legend singing the "Could You Be Mine" song is. But I will tell you this: I got to play anything I wanted and that freedom, even on college radio, is rare these days. No playlist, no heavy rotation requirements and nobody looking over my shoulder. And friends, I played the shit. Stevie Ray Vaughan bootleg tracks from Japan from my own collection? No problem. Any (and all) tracks from Willie Dixon's "I Am The Blues"? You got it, brother. You want to hear KFSR's scratchy-ass original LP take of Muddy Waters' "Mannish Boy"? I got it and you're gonna hear it upon request right now. So went that show.
It wasn't long before the moron that had the primo 9pm-midnight shift got canned and I was asked to take the coveted slot. Oh, yeah! Now I've got an audience. I was excited and Susan was happier too, because she could go back to the non-vampire lifestyle she was used to. But now she also had to participate more in the show. She became Producer (pulled records and CDs from the library for me), Call Screener (weeding out the drunks and weirdos) and she even provided the voice of the intro to Blues All Night with Laughing Boy Tony Holt. (Tapes available upon request).
With the new time slot, I decided to take it upon myself to promote the blues in the Fresno area. I would talk about upcoming shows and play tracks from the artists visiting town. After a while, I made contact with local club owners and promoters and struck a deal to mention concert dates. KFSR, being a non-profit entity, could not accept advertising dollars but could have local venues "sponsor" shows by giving away tickets to concerts. Along with the giveaway tickets, my sister and I would also be put on the "list at the door" at venues around town. Even at a small club, it is a huge blast to the ego to say, "Yeah, I'm on the Guest List" and walk on by the security guys without paying the cover.
Yes, faithful readers, I'm getting to the CONCERT content.
In early August of 1994, I got a call (screened by Susan) from a promoter that was bringing blues legend Little Milton to town. I agreed to spread the word about the show in exchange for giveaway tickets and that I get put on the "list at the door". I plugged the hell out of that show for the next three Monday nights and gave tickets away over the air like they were escort flyers on the strip in Vegas.
A slight dilema surfaced when tried and true "sponsor" Fred Martinez of Club Fred fame had also given the Laughing Boy Show a bounty of six pair of tickets (plus a pair to me) to see Chris Hiatt and Cold Shot, a tribute to Stevie Ray Vaughan, on the same night at Club Fred. I wasn't worried about the listeners. They'd have to make up their own minds on what show to attend. I was more concerned about having free tickets to two shows and having to decide on which to sponge off of. Then I realized that Little Milton was playing two shows that night, one at 8pm and one at 11pm. I could make the Chris Hiatt show and get over to the Tomiko Lounge to catch Little Milton at 11pm. At the risk of getting too greasy, I could make both shows.
For a reason I cannot remember now (damn you to Hell, Adoph Coors!), my wife Mary could not make it to either show. My sister, being my Producer, etc., decided to see what this live blues stuff was all about. We went to Club Fred to see Chris Hiatt and Cold Shot. Susan and I got there a little late and ended up standing in the back of the room by the jukebox. I got a beer and Susan had a Zima (hey, it was the hot girly drink back then) and we took in the scene of the packed house until Chris Hiatt took the stage. I have to say, as a Stevie devotee, I got chills watching this guy pay homage to the late SRV. He had the moves, the chops, the tone and he even had the hat. I saw Stevie Ray live four times and this guy made me think it was five.
People were dancing and whooping it up and the energy level was off of the scale. Susan and I were enjoying the show immensly, but also looking at our watches because we had to get downtown to see the Little Milton late show. I got another beer and took my place leaning against the wall by the jukebox as a wobbling drunk came up to Susan and asked her to dance. My sister ain't no slouch in the looks department, so this came as no surprise to me. I watched as she politely declined his offer. He steadied himself and gave her the ol' "C'mon....issa party.....les dance you an' me..." line and she still gave him a polite "no thank you".
I was taking this all in while digging the show as it occured to me that I was standing right next to Susan the whole time that this idiot was hitting on her. For all he knew, I was her beau (we look nothing alike, so don't go thinking this is a West Virginia thing), yet he was so looped that he either didn't notice or didn't care. Upon his second refusal, he looked toward the stage for a moment and I leaned over to Susan and asked, "Do you want me to tell this guy I'm your boyfriend and get rid of him?" She shook her head, giving me the impression that she was used to this kind of troll. But still, I was a little bothered that I didn't cut an imposing enough of a figure to make someone not approach a woman standing right next to me.
At about 10:20 or so, we figured we'd better head downtown. We hated to leave Club Fred because Chris Hiatt was just killing everybody there. But I really thought that Little Milton justified the early exit. So we headed out and made our way to the Tamiko Lounge, based solely on directions given over the phone earlier that week by the promoter. For as many shows as I'd seen in downtown Fresno, I'd never heard of the Tamiko Lounge. I assumed it was a nightclub or maybe a ballroom that I'd passed by on my way to Wilson Theater or maybe the Caddilac Club. After navigating the downtown streets by the chicken-scratch notes I had, we arrived at The Tamiko Lounge. It was a nondescript building under an overpass with a parking lot enclosed by chain link fence with razor wire on top. The sign out front, in letters larger than those that named the place, read: SOUL FOOD.
We parked the car and started walking up to the venue. It wasn't long before we saw four very large black men at the entrance working as security. No big deal at all. Except for the fact that they were looking at us like we were on fire.
"Good evening", said one of them.
"Hi", I replied, sounding so white that even Edgar Winter would think he had a tan.
"Uh, can we do something for you?", he asked.
"Well, yeah. We're here for the show", I told him. I then gave him the kicker: "I'm on the list".
I gave him my name and he looked it up. He raised his eybrows when he saw it there on the paper. Susan and I walked in and it was almost like those cliche' moments in B-movies when the needle scratches across the record when someone walks into a party.
The lighting was dim and we had a little moment of re-adjustment as we looked around the place. A few steps inside and we realized that maybe we'd underdressed just a bit. The darkness could not swallow the shimmer of sequins and the glint of recently shined shoes. Nor could it hide the fact that we were the only white folks in the entire joint.
Next up: Juke Joint (Part Two): The Big Misunderstanding
posted by Tony at 7:10 PM
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