“Straight from the shoulder I think like a soldier
I know what’s right
and what’s wrong.
He knows what’s right
and what’s wrong!
I’m the original
discriminating buffalo man
And I’ll do what’s
wrong for as long as I can.
He’ll do what’s wrong
for as long as he can!”
The Minotaur’s Song
by Incredible String Band
Having never worked
in a restaurant before, I had the choice of starting out as a busser or a host.
Cleaning up tables seemed like too much work, whereas greeting people at the
door and escorting them to their seats (punctuated by periodic bursts of song)
sounded like just the kind of breezy job duties I could handle. As we rehearsed
for the opening, like minded musicians found each other and duos and trios began
forming. This was especially helpful to someone like me, who could marginally
provide my own piano accompaniment, but who would be much better off singing
while one of the other far better pianists (or guitarists) played. And I was
hoping I could convince some other people, musicians and singers, to join me on
a couple of “group” numbers. I was very lucky early on as there were many brave
souls willing to help me in what would turn out to be somewhat whacked out,
peculiar performances.
Opening night
arrived; the joint was PACKED. Here’s an encapsulation of the Great Northern
experience, which repeated itself in one form or another for the 18 months I was
there: The “C’s” (a not exactly affectionate term for “customers” coined by
Bongo) would come in the front door to be greeted by one of the four hosts: two
attractive young women (think “American Idol”), one who mainly sang
“show-tunish” numbers and another who was more pop influenced; a tall, handsome,
blond haired country singer (think TV network CMT); or a long-haired, bearded,
wild-eyed “outsider” type (uh, that being me). To the right was a full bar with
a copy-playing rock band. To their left was the restaurant. One of us hosts
would escort the party to their table. The chances were high that there would
be someone performing. The chances were also high that the signature dish, The
Plank, would be making its way to one or another corner of the room. Food,
liquor and music were served up non-stop throughout the
night.
The Plank was an
attraction unto itself. It was a maybe six by three foot long piece of wood
piled high with barbeque-sauce slathered ribs, various other meats and cheeses,
and a selection of fruits and vegetables. It actually came in several sizes
depending on how many people were in the party that ordered it. It brought a
sort of medieval, bacchanalian edge to the whole proceedings. Two people had to
carry it out of the kitchen, and it was usually greeted with as much (if not
more) enthusiasm as a well-played musical number. (The waiters tried to be
careful regarding just when they brought it out – its appearance could
absolutely destroy some of the quieter musical
numbers.)
In between a mouthful
of ribs, a shot of whiskey, and raucous table conversation, here’s what an
unwary C might experience those first few months: Bo Richards blasting through
the Stones’ Heartbreaker with a voice that filled the always noisy space (there
was no amplification); the breathtaking vocal magic of Sears, Seely and Nitz on
Home to You; the folksy roots music of Marty C; the show-stopping beauty of
Antoinette, Nancy and Alice’s Soft Spoken Man/Desperado medley; the Nicky
Hopkins/Elton John-like brilliance of Ichabod’s piano playing; the calming
beauty of Gray and Cathy’s Bluebird; the rhythm and blues piano playing Lanny
supporting the raunchy decadence of Lindaroo as she stopped the show with Don’t
You Feel My Leg. The list could go on, and will, but for now, suffice it to say
there was a mighty, mighty, array of amazingly talented performers who made
strong impressions and immediate repeat customers out of the folks who came to
visit.
TO BE CONTINUED NEXT
WEEK
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