More tales from the rock ’n’ roll archives.

If you take Palm Beach out of the list, South Florida is the home of one of the most expensive places to live. Or buy a beer, too.

Many years ago, I was playing in a band called “The Bang It Up Boys” at a nightclub in Boca named The Purity. It was a fairly large venue, and we had played there a couple of times before. Usually, it was a good venue. I had appeared there with other bands as well and had always been well received.

Normally, they had a respectable sized audience, but on this particular Saturday night, the crowd was kind of thin. There may have been some major event going on in the area that sucked the traffic away from nightclubs and bars. It happens that way sometimes in South Florida. You have to take it in stride.

As per No. 14 of my Musician’s Rules, we were determined to “not punish those who came.” We would do the show as if it were in a hall full of people and give them our best.

The “free drinks for the band” — customary in those days — helped a lot with our mood. We used to believe that if you were unhappy, the next best thing was to be “chemically happy.” Until years later, when we found that our livers disagreed with “Better Living Through Chemistry.”

But for the moment … it got us where we needed to be.

So, musically, things went well, and the crowd … such as it was … seemed to be enjoying itself. We settled into our happy place, and little by little, more folks wandered in, and we worked at keeping them there.

By the last part of the second set, the place was at least half full. We were starting to get some hope that life might get better.

Right about that time, I noticed the front door opening and two well-dressed Black men walking in. One of them was a big, big fellow.

You have to realize, this was a different period of time in America. This was an unusual thing. A very unusual thing. White people went to white nightclubs, and Black people went to Black nightclubs.

And Boca Raton was the whitest place in the entire country. Rich, very rich white people. They only tolerated us long-haired musicians — obviously, we weren’t rich — because we were there to entertain them. They knew at the end of the night we would pack our stuff into our non-Mercedes vehicles and go far away, wherever.

At first, there were quite a few discreet corner-of-the-eye stares, and some not-so-discreet ones. Until someone — a blues fan? — recognized them and the word spread.

TWO Buddys.

Buddy Guy, an iconic blues player. Eric Clapton and many others had publicly stated they would sell their souls to play and sing like Buddy Guy. They meant that.

Buddy Miles … the big man. He had been the last drummer to play in a band with Jimi Hendrix, and his single “Them Changes” was high on the charts at the time.

They quietly took a seat at a table and ordered a couple of drinks. Somehow, within about half an hour, word had spread to the outside world.

More people were trickling into the club at a faster and faster rate. Pretty soon, as we were in the middle of the third set, there was a large crowd.

When we were on our last break, the audience was loudly cajoling them to get up and play something. Both Buddys were smiling and gently shaking their heads, but we walked over to meet them, and we finally convinced them.

When it came time to start the last set, the audience was getting loud. I assigned the bass player and keyboard guy to go on stage to back them, but our guitar player was too intimidated. Yeah, who in their right mind would get up there and trade solos with Buddy Guy? Even Eric Clapton was nervous doing that.

I had seen a video of the two of them on stage, and after Guy’s solo, Eric was so intimidated to follow that he fumbled briefly in the wrong key.

The two legends took the stage and started blasting out “Sweet Home Chicago.” With each song, the crowd lost its mind. It was loud in there.

I was standing to the side near Buddy Miles, and when the song ended, he held out the drumsticks to me as if saying, “Sorry for taking up your stage.” I shook my head almost violently and pointed at him and Guy. Nooo! It’s your stage now.

They ended up doing the whole set for us, having a great time while we sat having a beer, just enjoying it with the rest of the audience. The crowd was in a frenzy.

For the last song, Miles motioned for me to come up and sing “Changes” with him. I sheepishly bowed out.

I wasn’t about to have my little white boy wail competing with that deep, powerful sound that came out of that man.

It would have almost been insulting.

Thom Caraccio ([email protected]) is a retired musician and retired motion picture scenic artist living in West Palm Beach, Florida who hails from Columbus. He graduated from S.D. Lee High in 1968 and still considers Columbus his real hometown.

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