Wednesday, May 18, 2005
Cause it's in him, and it gotta come out...
The blues that is. I was itching for some live blues and a good jam, so I made my way down to Babe's and Ricky’s Inn, as recommended by the fellow blues lovers in America on The Big Road Blues Forum.
The drive was pretty ok. In fact, I’ve pretty much gotten the hang of getting around this place. The streets run mostly perpendicular to each other within each city, and the freeways are like veins connecting them up. As long as you know which freeway goes where, you won’t get too terribly lost. In any case, Google maps has been invaluable in planning my journeys. Never leave home without checking it up.
As I turned into the neighbourhood, the dullness of the place struck me as a marked difference from Anaheim. The buildings were slightly more run down and there were none of those garish advertisements or signs, leaving grey and dirty brown as the predominant colours. Weeds grew out of the pavement and rusty fences lined the roads. A policeman stood outside an empty fast food restaurant with 2 police cars outside, the blinkers on to proclaim their presence. One can only guess what they were doing there, but it probably doesn’t need too much imagination.
I reached the place earlier than I’d expected, so I decided to walk around to get a feel of the neighbourhood. The streets were mostly deserted, with only the sound of traffic and occasional shouts. A cold chill blew across the traffic intersections, sweeping up the litter as it flitted along the pavement. One homeless man slept on a bench, wrapped up in several ragged blankets. A shopping cart beside him held all his worldly possessions. 2 others smoked on another bench, holding a can of beer each in open defiance of the “No Alcoholic Beverages” sign.
A distant high-pitched voice distracted me from my quiet observation routine. Walking towards me from the opposite direction was lady dragging a suitcase, clattering on the pavement as the plastic wheels bounced on concrete. I saw her mouth moving and she was looking straight at me but I couldn’t hear what she was saying. As she drew nearer, I caught the gist of what she was saying, something about filing a sexual harassment suit and having everything that your ancestors gave you taken away.
I shrugged my shoulders at her and she walked on, ranting all the way.
One round around the block was quite enough, so I stepped into the pub. I was the first customer for the night, and was warmly greeted by Laura, the genial matriarch and owner of the club. She presided over the proceedings from her executive chair, collecting the cover and shouting out instructions from her place beside the entrance. Her 2 daughters, Belinda and Glenda, kept the beer and food flowing. The place itself was large enough to hold a good crowd, yet maintained a cosy atmosphere. The Christmas lights that lined the corners of the ceiling gave it an oddly quaint but comfortable ambience. The walls were plastered with pictures, posters and other memorabilia, and cushioned booth seats lined the far wall. I took my seat at the bar counter nearer the entrance and got myself a beer. Everything was worn-in and bore the marks of age, but held up well. An apt reflection of how the blues has survived over the generations.
Laura instructed Belinda to punch in some music on the jukebox, reciting the numbers from memory. She duly obliged and the place filled up with the sounds of blues, jazz and soul, ranging from Elmore James to Jimmy Smith and Little Milton, as I sipped my beer. Now that’s what I’m talking about.
The crowd filtered in slowly but surely. A mixed crowd, which roughly reflected the national racial demographic, filled up the place as the band started to set up. Beer bottles were opened, wine was poured and the crowd din rose above the jukebox. The night was shaping up.
The band started off nice and easy, keeping the volume manageable. They did a couple of songs before calling up the first round of jammers. More about that later.
After that, the headliner Ms Mickey Champion opened up the 2nd set, singing among the patrons and working the crowd for tips. She was a small, elderly lady but her booming voice filled the whole room, sometimes forgoing the microphone. When she did use it, she pushed the PA to its limits and had it begging for mercy. Her powerful renditions drew loud applause and hoots of approval, her connection with the audience growing ever stronger.
She ended rather abruptly after about 4 songs or so, and the 2nd round of jammers went up, myself included. The whole jam was distinctly underwhelming, though not totally unexpected. Jams are generally a mixed bag, especially on a crowded night.
Laura was not too impressed either. As the set wrapped up and people started leaving, she was candid about her opinion of the jam that night. Ah well, there are good nights and there are bad nights.
As I left, however, she made me promise to come back, throwing in an offer I couldn’t resist.
“I’ll bring down my old guitar and you can use that, since you don’t have yours.”
“It’s a Gibson.”
Ka-ching.
The drive was pretty ok. In fact, I’ve pretty much gotten the hang of getting around this place. The streets run mostly perpendicular to each other within each city, and the freeways are like veins connecting them up. As long as you know which freeway goes where, you won’t get too terribly lost. In any case, Google maps has been invaluable in planning my journeys. Never leave home without checking it up.
As I turned into the neighbourhood, the dullness of the place struck me as a marked difference from Anaheim. The buildings were slightly more run down and there were none of those garish advertisements or signs, leaving grey and dirty brown as the predominant colours. Weeds grew out of the pavement and rusty fences lined the roads. A policeman stood outside an empty fast food restaurant with 2 police cars outside, the blinkers on to proclaim their presence. One can only guess what they were doing there, but it probably doesn’t need too much imagination.
I reached the place earlier than I’d expected, so I decided to walk around to get a feel of the neighbourhood. The streets were mostly deserted, with only the sound of traffic and occasional shouts. A cold chill blew across the traffic intersections, sweeping up the litter as it flitted along the pavement. One homeless man slept on a bench, wrapped up in several ragged blankets. A shopping cart beside him held all his worldly possessions. 2 others smoked on another bench, holding a can of beer each in open defiance of the “No Alcoholic Beverages” sign.
A distant high-pitched voice distracted me from my quiet observation routine. Walking towards me from the opposite direction was lady dragging a suitcase, clattering on the pavement as the plastic wheels bounced on concrete. I saw her mouth moving and she was looking straight at me but I couldn’t hear what she was saying. As she drew nearer, I caught the gist of what she was saying, something about filing a sexual harassment suit and having everything that your ancestors gave you taken away.
I shrugged my shoulders at her and she walked on, ranting all the way.
One round around the block was quite enough, so I stepped into the pub. I was the first customer for the night, and was warmly greeted by Laura, the genial matriarch and owner of the club. She presided over the proceedings from her executive chair, collecting the cover and shouting out instructions from her place beside the entrance. Her 2 daughters, Belinda and Glenda, kept the beer and food flowing. The place itself was large enough to hold a good crowd, yet maintained a cosy atmosphere. The Christmas lights that lined the corners of the ceiling gave it an oddly quaint but comfortable ambience. The walls were plastered with pictures, posters and other memorabilia, and cushioned booth seats lined the far wall. I took my seat at the bar counter nearer the entrance and got myself a beer. Everything was worn-in and bore the marks of age, but held up well. An apt reflection of how the blues has survived over the generations.
Laura instructed Belinda to punch in some music on the jukebox, reciting the numbers from memory. She duly obliged and the place filled up with the sounds of blues, jazz and soul, ranging from Elmore James to Jimmy Smith and Little Milton, as I sipped my beer. Now that’s what I’m talking about.
The crowd filtered in slowly but surely. A mixed crowd, which roughly reflected the national racial demographic, filled up the place as the band started to set up. Beer bottles were opened, wine was poured and the crowd din rose above the jukebox. The night was shaping up.
The band started off nice and easy, keeping the volume manageable. They did a couple of songs before calling up the first round of jammers. More about that later.
After that, the headliner Ms Mickey Champion opened up the 2nd set, singing among the patrons and working the crowd for tips. She was a small, elderly lady but her booming voice filled the whole room, sometimes forgoing the microphone. When she did use it, she pushed the PA to its limits and had it begging for mercy. Her powerful renditions drew loud applause and hoots of approval, her connection with the audience growing ever stronger.
She ended rather abruptly after about 4 songs or so, and the 2nd round of jammers went up, myself included. The whole jam was distinctly underwhelming, though not totally unexpected. Jams are generally a mixed bag, especially on a crowded night.
Laura was not too impressed either. As the set wrapped up and people started leaving, she was candid about her opinion of the jam that night. Ah well, there are good nights and there are bad nights.
As I left, however, she made me promise to come back, throwing in an offer I couldn’t resist.
“I’ll bring down my old guitar and you can use that, since you don’t have yours.”
“It’s a Gibson.”
Ka-ching.
# posted by BloozeGit @ 12:41 pm 
