Free Bird

If I leave here tomorrow, would you still remember me?- Lynyrd Skynyrd

After playing a few times at Whiskey's Saloon, I am invited down the road to a place not so distinctively called "The Beach House".  The Dude, Vato and D.J. have by now christened the jam sessions "No Jacket Required" aka NJR.  I figure this refers to the fact that many talented musicans show up, are just handed equipment and jam. I had seen this phenomenon in New Orleans with a friend and fellow musician named Tony.  I ask the same thing that everyone asks me when I invite them to this place.  "WHERE is it?"  It turns out to be the westernmost liquor license in the county.  I cast a wary eye at the cloud accumulation in the sky and attempt a run at it on my motorcycle.

I arrive and find motorcycle parking, thankfully, because the other option is in a sand dune.  My street tires  and thin kickstand would not handle that.  There is a bonfire going, as usual and as I make my way into the bar I notice a strange phenomenon.  I have arrived "fashionably late".  Every one greets me like a V.I.P.  I am really starting to like these people.  I am about to make my transition from sociologist studying them, to a full member of the tribe.

It is owned by a guy named Shawn who keeps a special keg of IPA on draft in the back room that he refuses to charge me for and he often employs a worker named "Coondog".  They have a great collection of posters on the walls and many humorous signs.  My favorite is a hand painted one over the bar that simply says "IITYWIMWYBMAD" The bar is right across from an open stretch of beach.  The Dude invites me to walk over and watch the sunset.  As we return to the bar, someone mentions that since I have been through the initiation, we were now blood-brothers.  I am only fractional Cherokee, and I am not sure how to take that, so I smile.  The Dude only shakes his head.

Bass-eye view

The usual musicians are there plus some new ones that I have not met yet.  Terry from Hangar Sixx hollers out from the stage "I didn't come up here for NO... BULL... SHIT!" Everyone laughs at this feigned attempt at impatience. I meet Vincent, a great acoustic guitar player that also  sings and plays drums who shakes my hand.  I also meet Barry, who, I find out,  always puts on a high energy performance.   The location of this venue brings in musicians from the next county over.

John, a drummer from Walton County that also plays guitar and sings, calls out "Freebird".  I laugh at this old cliche' and I find out that this is supposed to be a $100 tip song.  I look up at Shawn the bartender/owner who points at his watch and yells out "12 minutes". I have learned the additional drunken crowd participation chorus lines to "Margaritaville", "Sweet Home Alabama" and "Family Tradition", but this 12 minute thing confuses me.  D.J. tells me it is a time limit and if we go over, the house lights will go down and the sound would go off.  John plays like a machine gunner on the beach at Normandy, so this is not a problem.  We played the hell out of it, at one point I was just punching the neck of my bass in time with everyone else, smiling ear to ear.  We clocked in at around 11 minutes and Shawn punctuated the ending with crashes from the cymbal hanging above the bar that was usually reserved for tips, and the crowd seemed to love it.

I still try to attend this venue when my time allows, and I have even played a few paid gigs there.



As usual, when I arrived home, my wife asked "How did it go?"
"I played a $100 tip song." I responded.
"How much was YOUR cut?" She prodded.
"Free bird  BEER!" I yelled.

What else could I say?

Stir up that MONKEYDUST!

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