“The music business is uglier than most things. It’s a cruel and shallow money trench, a long plastic hallway where thieves and pimps run free and good men die like dogs. But there’s also a negative side.” — Hunter S. Thompson
Another story from the down-and-dirty, little-known world of rock ’n’ roll bands.
Our popular band, Starchild, had finally crashed onto the rocks and sunk. A couple of survivors and I were rehearsing a new band to put on the road, but things were moving slowly in the studio, and there were bills to pay and bellies to feed.
Another West Palm Beach band, “The Company,” had contracts to fill at a nightclub in Indiantown, a considerable distance north of us, but their bass player was in the hospital recovering from surgery.
Being one of the instruments I was qualified to play, I jumped at the chance to fill in for him at several gigs at the club, the Whiskey Road Tavern. I had heard mostly good things about the venue, but there were rumors.
Indiantown was not known as a young people’s city. The population was heavily geared toward retired folks from up north. Average age probably in the late 60s or early 70s. Not a place where you would expect to find a pretty large-sized hard rock bar. But there it was, nestled between gated communities and huge manicured golf courses.
There was also a pretty good amount of modestly priced middle-class housing for young families of the plumbers, electricians and other tradespeople who serviced the affluent old retirees. I surmised that maybe the bar drew from that pool for an audience, although typically that group was more into country music.
The first night I played with The Company, the venue was packed with a very energetic crowd of probably 300-plus. They stayed all night, and the gig was quite successful.
As I looked out over the audience, I was thinking that they sure had some mighty young plumbers in that town. Many of the men looked like they hadn’t started shaving yet, and the young women were pretty dressed up for housewives with kids.
Out in the parking lot, most of the vehicles had plates from the next county over. They must have really liked the Whiskey Road Tavern a lot to drive that far.
The owner was a sketchy fellow named Todd. It seems like most of the Todds I have known in my life were a bit on the shaky side.
One night, while on a break, I overheard him complaining that someone was “wanting more money,” and he was not happy. At first, I thought he might be talking about the band, but then it became apparent that the person was somehow connected to the sheriff’s department. And he had decided to deny their request.
The band had become friendly with Paul, one of the bouncers, who seemed to have a handle on what was going on behind the scenes.
One night, as we were walking in to get ready for the night, Paul scurried over to intercept us.
“Come with me — quickly!” he said as he shuttled us out a back door in a big hurry, leading us to a Burger King across the street that had a full view of the tavern from the front. “Order something and sit by the window.”
We did as told, and no sooner had we sat down than police cars started pulling up all around the Whiskey Road, along with a couple of large passenger vans bearing sheriff’s decals.
Our buddy Todd had been paying someone off to look the other way while he filled the place with underage customers. Many were high school students, some as young as 14 or 15.
We watched as the police locked down the place and went table to table checking IDs. A hundred or so people were loaded into the paddy wagons, including Todd and every employee, plus our hapless drummer, who had gotten there after us.
We had to go bail out the drummer, and it took several days to get our equipment, which had been impounded inside the chained-door tavern.
All part of a night’s work.
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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