"WHITE BOYZ IN THE HOOD"
Action! Adventure! Romance! Booze!
-a Johnny D, Esq. joint
Llamafest 1999 was only 2 days away, but William Shatner's pitch was intriguing. On one hand, I could name my own price. On the other hand, I had no idea what airline I'd be flying on or what time I would leave. Being a gambling man, I entered $200. I fully expected to be denied and prepared to tell Davey J that I would not be able to attend Llamafest yet again, pussing out like the bitch I am. To my total surprise, the bid was accepted - fly from Orange County to Newark arriving Friday night just before midnight.
After giving Davey J a whole 12-hour advance notice that I'd be crashing (read, masturbating) on his couch, I fired up the Millennium Falcon (also known as my 1974 Olds Delta 88 convertible) and headed to John Wayne Airport to catch my flight aboard bankrupt TWA to Newark, connecting in St. Louis. My first flight was smooth as I sat next to this hotty. We made small talkabout where we were going - I had mentioned I was visiting some friends from USC who lived in New York. The only reason I mention this tidbit to you, dear reader, is that as soon as I said USC, the slut I was sitting next to said she went to high school with Carson Palmer and that he was a dickhead. Well, beyotch, that's Heisman-winner dickhead to you.
Anyhoo, when we got to St. Louis, it was pouring and my flight was delayed. As a result, I didn't get to Newark until about 1:30 a.m. I made the last bus out and got to Lucy's at around 2:15 am, with my carry-on bag in tow. After greeting my inbred buddies who were revving up for the big Llamafest party the next night, I began to imbibe a steady diet of Jack and Cokes. At some point in the night, I began talking to this dark, chocolately dude named Sabu as well as some spicy Columbian bird named Xio. Before I knew it, it was already 4 a.m. and Lucy was kicking us out of the joint. Maybe she knew that if we stayed any longer, her bar might get broken...oh wait, that was this year.
As people were filtering out, Sabu said he knew of an after-hours party and asked if I wanted to go. Being that I was still on West Coast Time and just getting warmed up, I said sure. Xio said she'd go too. I went up to Paulie, handed him my carry-on luggage, took his keys to Davey J's shoebox apartment and said "Later." Paul just stared blankly at me. I bailed before he could object.
Sabu pulled out a crumpled flyer for the after-hours party and gave it to the taxi-driver. We arrived at a pretty cool loft-style flat that was occupied by a bunch of musicians. They had a full stage set up with drums, guitars, keyboards, microphones, etc. It was clear, however, that the after-hours party was not going to happen. Basically, me, Sabu and Xio were the only ones to show, aside from a couple of random people that would pop in and then leave. Being a bass player myself, I sat down with the musician guys, had a few beers and we jammed a little. During our brief sojourn, I was introduced to this 50-year old black dude blues guitarist named Pick....as in guitar pick. I'm not making this up.
Pick assessed the situation and realized quickly we needed to get out of Dodge.
"I know another place to go," Pick said in a really deep, Johnny Lee Hooker kind of drawl.
Most of the other musicians just wanted to stay behind, distraught over the fact that their after-hours party sucked balls. This one other dude named Fred, however, who looked a lot like Puff Daddy, agreed to join Sabu, Xio, Pick and me on our quest to par-tay.
Pick said he'd drive. He brought his guitar with him which I didn't really give much thought to as I figured he'd drop it off at home or something. We went out to the street to go to his car. Of course, it was a brown late 70's Cadillac El-Dorado. We piled in the vehicle and set off.
Dawn was breaking and was lighting the sky just enough for me to see that the street numbers were getting higher and higher. 70th Street...100th Street...130th Street (Harlem)...until finally we parked somewhere on 162nd Street (Washington Heights, I'm told). I'm no expert on Manhattan, but I know that wherever we were was not a place for some cracker with his USC hat and his pasty white legs sticking out of his Old Navy shorts to be. By now, it was about 5:30 a.m. Pick opened his trunk, pulled out his guitar, and pointed us towards a white building.
We approached it cautiously. On a thick steel door painted white, the word "Bumpkins" appeared in scriptive writing. Next to the door was an intercom. Pick pushed past us and pressed the buzzer.
(Crackling whiny voice ala Rudy from Fat Albert) "WHO IS IT?!"
"IT'S PICK!" Pick bellowed
"YOU WID ANYONE?" the voice from inside retorted over the intercom.
"YEAH" Pick replied
"THEY COOL?" the voice asked
Pick paused, looked at me suspiciously, and growled, "YEAH, THEY COOL."
"AIGHT" the voice said accompanied by the buzzing sound of the door being opened.
When we walked in, I don't want to say the music stopped playing, but it might as well have as this honkey was clearly out of place. After soaking in all the stunned and angry faces looking my way, I looked to my right and saw some slot machines and a white-powdery substance on a nearby table. To my left was a full bar. Ahead of me was a small stage with a drum kit, a bass, a guitar amp and some keyboards.
We filed in quietly towards the back of the joint and sat at the lone remaining table. A waitress came up and asked if we wanted anything. Wanting to make friends fast, I ordered drinks for everyone nearby and gave her a big fat tip. Xio and I had been flirting a bit and I ended up talking with this gal named Crystal who had, as our buddy Superfan Sheetz would say, "Summerteeth" - summer there and summer missing! Shortly in to our conversation, Pick, after walking around the place a bit, came up to me and, with tension in his voice, barked, "JD, I hear you play bass."
"Yeah, Pick, I play some bass" I stammered.
"Well get yo ass up there" Pick demanded, gesturing towards the stage.
I nervously went towards the musical equipment. Pick plugged his guitar in and started tuning up. I grabbed the bass they had there and flicked on the power switches to a very old, but smooth sounding amplifier. Fred, the Puff-Daddy look-alike sat down behind the drums and some Hispanic looking guy sat behind the keys.
Pick did a couple of "check, checks" into the mike and then leaned over to me and asked, "Can you play one-four-five blues?" referring to a common music lingo.
"Sure" I said meekly
"Then start us up, son."
All eyes of the room were suddenly on me. My God, what the hell to play. Then, remembering one of my first music lessons, I remembered that the Beatles "Tax Man" had the same basic structure, so I started off accordingly.
The next 2 hours are sort of a wonderful blur, as basically Pick just belted out blues riffs and sang with a ton of heart. The crowd was loving it and finally I had to take 5.
I returned to our table a hero, with Crystal screaming in a Flo from the Jefferson's kind of way, "Jaaaaaaaaaaay Deeeeeeeeeeeeee!" I grabbed her hand, kissing the back of it and said, "Ah Crystal baby, enchanté." Then I grabbed Xio and swabbed her tonsils with my tongue.
It was now about 8 a.m. and Xio and I figured we'd take off. Miraculously, we found a car willing to pick us up. I remember the driver saying, "What the fuck are you doing here?" and I said, "I have no idea." He told me I was luck he was on his way to work or otherwise I'd be murdered in about an hour or so.
We dropped Xio off first and then I finally got back to Davey J's at around 9 a.m. I fumbled for the keys, opened the door and saw a ton of my birdy friends passed out. Jeff Becker was the only one who woke up when I came in. He said sleepily, "Where the hell have you been?"
"You wouldn't believe me if I told you." I replied as I collapsed on the floor and fell asleep.
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