The life of a bar band rock musician back in the Hedonism Era of the 70s had its major ups and downs.
When the band Starchild was being formed, I was brought in about the same time as their wealthy manager Angie took over the business end.
This was the tail end of the “hippy” rock and roll period and the early days of “glam rock and roll.” Most musicians of the day still sported the torn up jeans and T-shirt uniform. And still had to constantly scramble around to keep booked.
Angie, whatever her faults, was one of those birds who flew in higher circles.
She definitely had her fingers on the pulse of that culture.
She called for a meeting. Sitting us down, she said “You look atrocious. All of you.” Looking us up and down she commanded, “We are going to the Mall.”
The fairly new Palm Beach Mall had in those days a lot of high end boutique clothing stores, with some pretty wild men’s(?) clothing. Angie took us to almost all of them wearing out her Amex Gold Card.
Reminded me of a bizarre mother dragging her large bizarre brood from store to store shopping for back to school clothing. Except the big boy pants came with rhinestones and glitter. And the shoes had thick 4 inch heels. With glitter.
My outlook was not too positive.
“I’m not wearing this XXXX! I’d look like a XXXXXX! Hell no!”
But I was out voted. I grumbled under my breath and went home. We all would wilt after a tongue lashing from Angie, Evil Queen of the Mountain.
We already had done our first few gigs at some nondescript bars around West Palm Beach while still dressed like lawn maintenance workers. Crowds were so-so, but we were received pretty well. Just another “hippy” band.
Angie after our makeover had booked some new jobs at a few larger clubs using her fast talking New York BS and short dresses.
We were nervous about showing up dressed like circus clowns from the Andromeda Galaxy. At this time, there were a few daring bands down in Ft. Lauderdale like us, but not up in West Palm Beach. Most hadn’t caught up with the latest cultural swing. Kiss was just a gleam in their manager’s eye at that point.
The first night of the two night appearance, we put everything into it. We channeled our best Led Zeppelin and Rolling Stones to a pretty good sized audience and it was a pretty good night by any standard.
Night two, word having gotten out, the nightclub was totally packed and we had to do three encores. It was Caesar entering Rome. Dressed like Cher.
Hated to admit it, but Angie had been right. Looks like they actually wanted the circus clowns from Andromeda. Our streak went on and on. We had to turn down gigs. We were featured in newspaper stories. Life was good.
Then, Angie tells us that we have a two nighter at a place called “The Gipper.”
A nightclub right on the shore in Delray Beach. I should have known it was a high class place from their matchbook cover. “The Gipper…Not the Gypper.” (I still have that cover.)
The first night we show up in all our glittery glory ready to ride the massive wave of popularity. But as we walked in we were met with stares and sullen “side of the eye” looks. Lots of beards (not the fashion of the time). Large guys decked out in black leather, hobnailed boots and tattoos, also not in the day’s fashion.
Had Angie booked us at a Hell’s Angels convention? These folks were maybe expecting David Allen Coe… not David Bowie. Our tall glittery shoes seemed a bit silly at that moment. It would be a queasy night.
Gathering our courage, we played our best with what strength we could muster.
The audience would only concede a few hand claps every now and then. Sounded like two people echoing through the Grand Canyon. I was just glad that I didn’t see someone in the back fashioning a rope noose.
Finally the long night came to an end, and we left quietly in shame. Briskly.
Determined not to have this happen again, the next night we dressed in the oldest moth eaten jeans and tee shirts we could find. Played the same four sets with desperate intensity. Luckily, it was Saturday night and there was a good crowd to give us another shot. I worried that lynch mobs also tended to be large.
As comedians say…we “killed it.” (As opposed to being killed!) Those rough folk had a great time and showed it with applause, dancing… yelling. They bought us drinks. When we left, it was almost like they had adopted us as family.
Dress for success. I guess.
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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