THROUGH THE HAZE #52

Manager Mike works the Whiskey GO GO for James Cotton Band; Tom Waits and 2:30 A.M. burgers. Just another day in LA...

If you missed #51 you might want to start here, THROUGH THE HAZE #51 - by M D Navalinski - M’s Substack otherwise, carry on. Enjoy…

January 26/27, 1979, 6 P.M.

Two beeps on the horn from the gray van at 6 sharp and I was out the door.

The sliding door slid opened and four sets of eyes silently looked me up and down.

“This him?” Damn, he looks familiar…. Bellingham?”

Drummer Ray spoke up. “This the dude I told ya ‘bout—Kept bringing cold pizza and cheap beer back to the table from the bar until I was up shittin’ all night. Good lord…”

Maxwell sat smiling, then motioned for me to come aboard. I hopped in, giddy yet insecure, as I pondered just what in the heck was to be my role once the van arrived at the Whiskey.

We pulled out onto Santa Monica Blvd and headed eight blocks up the hill to our destination, then pulled into the club’s back parking lot where Noel, Cotton’s bass player, gave me the rundown.

“Tonight, you are Gordon. Just act like you’re in charge and no one’s gonna question you, bro.” He took a long drag off a freshly lit reefer, then continued.

“First and foremost, James is THE boss. Stay out of his space and speak with him only if the situation calls for such action. Your role, as we see it, is taking care of the band. Be there when we need spare gear from the dressing room like guitar cords, amp-that kind of shit. Make sure cold beer is close by al all times and deliver any personal messages to James. He averages at least three or four tonight from lusty ladies trying to worm their way into the dressing room. Give him the messages, smile, then pretend like you have other chores. If you need to converse, make sure you’re standing by his good ear—the left, I’m pretty sure. He can’t hear nothin’ in the right.”

Drummer Ray interceded. “Don’t you go getting this boy in trouble, Killer. You damn well know it’s that left ear that’s stone deaf. He turned to me. “Now grab a couple guitar cases, beeline through that back door, and act like you’re the damn boss. Whiskey’s security dude’s built like a damn Forty Niner linebacker. Once he knows you’re in charge he will be cool as a menthol cigarette.”

We made our way up the staircase where I jumped into my role. I extended my hand to Killer’s buff doorman, looked him in the eyes and matched his authoritative grip. “Evening—I’m Mike and I’ll be handling the band’s business tonight. Any messages for James or problems I should be close by.” He nodded towards the dressing room. “Right on time. James is already here. Can I get you a drink?” And with that, a smooth enjoyable evening commenced.

***** ***** ***** ***** *****

The James Cotton Blues Band originated in 1967 when the talented harmonica player left Muddy Waters Band. After gigging with Janis Joplin for a short but impactful time, James formed the JCBB which played continually over forty years until the release of his final album in 2013.

Over the decades the band rotated through many configurations; at times featuring a horn section as well as twin lead guitarists. No matter the sidemen, Cotton’s energetic and popular live shows always revolved around his talented, blues-based vocals and renown harp capabilities.

The current backing band on this ’79 tour featured drummer Ray “Killer Allison; Noel Neal, bass; Mike Williams lead guitar; and Maxwell, who played with Cotton from ’77-’79

Opening act both nights was jazz/blues vocalist, Jimmy Witherspoon who returned to the stage both evenings to sit in for the encore. Both shows featured contemporary classics culled from Cotton’s first eight albums, yet the bulk of these two performances showcased ‘76’s Live & On the Move.

The bulk of my role for the evening was exactly as described by Killer—doing several laps upstairs to fetch patch chords, drumsticks, and extra bottles of beer as well as Jame’s forgotten harmonica case which contained a wealth of harps of every key.

Once the band took the stage at nine P.M. on the dot, I set up camp on the balcony rail, watching as the band made their way through two tight, well—received sets.

From its opening in ’64, that rail was considered the best spot in the house. Night after night packed houses were entertained by the likes of legends Johnny Rivers, the Doors, Love, Frank Zappa and Buffalo Springfield. That is an extremely small list for the hundreds of stars who honed their chops on this modestly sized rustic wooden stage.

At the first set break the barkeep handed me three notes, all from female admirers, which I took backstage and handed over to James. He studied each one for about a minute each, then crumpled up two and handed me back his choice.

“Angelique… After the encore, make sure she’s standing by your side.” Then he thought twice, and added, “If circumstance has it she’s anything less than beautiful, switch gears and bring Shirley out to my limo about fifteen minutes after we leave the stage.”

So off I went, asked my bartender buddy for a gin and tonic, please, and, by the way, do you remember which of these was Angelique? He pointed to a bee-hived, heavily botoxed brunette, hunched over the bar with three empty Martini glasses in front of her. Noticing her posture suggested nap time was looming just around the corner I made an executive decision.

When the show ended Angelique was out, Shirley was by my side, and James was happy. Shortly thereafter it was back in the van to hightail it to the Trop where post-show chicanery took place in yours truly’s room until just around two in the morning.

***** ***** ***** ***** *****

2:30 A.M.

I couldn’t get to sleep. On top of that, the seductive aroma of comfort food had made its way into my room via the gaping crack at the bottom of my door. First class hunger pangs immediately reminded me well over seventeen hours had passed since my last meal. I had to check this out… Quickly I staggered into my jeans, slipped into a wrinkled t shirt and followed that smell, off into the night

There’s an adage that says LA never sleeps and the bumper-to-bumper traffic flowed down Santa Monicas Blvd as if it was still early evening.

My olfactory receptors led me down to the boulevard. There, on my left, at the end of the Trop was Duke’s Coffee Shop, still open for business. This had been my very lucky day indeed…

Duke’s surrealistic late night wonderland

I stepped inside, to a room whose tables were fully occupied by a sea of wasted late night denizens, all here with the same goal: comfort food, grease or no grease, to put a bow on their evening’s festivities. The lone extremely tired-looking waitress signaled for me to follow. Counter room only…

I ordered double burger and fries, then glanced to my right, to suss out the individual responsible for the pungent odor of fortified wines wafting my way.

Occupying the stool next to me sat Tom Waits, busy at work on a plate full of bacon and scrambled eggs, deep in conversation with himself. Although unfamiliar Waits popular body of work outside of his exceptional Closing Time, I chose to let him eat and converse in peace, although I did casually ask if he was performing here in town. He snorted, took two more bites then answered, sending little bits of masticated eggs flying in my direction. “Hell buddy, I LIVE here. This is my paradise!”

After ingesting well over two thousand calories and having not a stitch of remorse my body finally agreed it was time to shut er down… Helluva fine day, more than a bit surrealistic at times, yet one that forty-six years later still brings a smile to my face.

I slept soundly until around 12:30 when a pounding commenced upon my door. “Hey, you still alive in there or do I have to call the feds?” It was my friend and tour guide, JP, returning back to the nest from his own form of chicanery in the hills of Bel Air.

Time to head back around the corner to Duke’s for coffee and eggs and to exchange stories all about our respective adventures. I needed to rejuvenate any and all disheveled molecules and replenish lost stamina, as I had one more night of music, cord chasing and note passing ahead at the Whiskey… mdnav