Celebs Behaving Badly: New York City Edition

This is the latest in an ongoing gossip marathon but I’m calling it a memoir, so bite me. Be sure to see Celebs Behaving Badly, Celebs Behaving Badly: CalArts Edition, and Celebs Behaving Badly: Burbank Edition.

Copyright © 2017 SYDNEY SCHUSTER – All Rights Reserved

Glorious Pile of Rubell

I used to go to Studio 54 with my pal David, the handsomest gay man in the world. (Sorry, also-rans. Is what it is.)

David, Copyright © 2017 SYDNEY SCHUSTER – All Rights Reserved

David, Copyright © 2017 SYDNEY SCHUSTER – All Rights Reserved

Co-owner Steve Rubell was always out front, personally cherry picking who could go in. He’d be all “You, you, and you but not you.”

David and I breezed past the eternal line of bridge-and-tunnel losers. Well actually, David breezed by them and I got in too, because Date of Handsomest Gay Man. He coulda breezed into Fort Knox.

One night David and I spilled out of a cab in front of Studio and scrambled straight for the front door. Rubell stopped us.

Well actually, he stopped me. My outfit was something best described as Raquel Welch’s costume in One Million Years B.C. Or as David put it, “Ohmygod you’re not wearing anything!”

He got over it. But Steve, he no likey.

“C’mon!” I said to him. “You always let me in!” which he had no reason to remember. He was totally blasted on … something. He looked me up and down, all bug-eyed and weaving (him, not me). Finally he said okay because a fight was breaking out that he had to go supervise. I think that was the night David and I shared a couch with Lee Radziwill and Jay North.

West Side doorman Steve Rubell - Copyright © 2017 Robin Platzer/The LIFE Images Collection/Getty Images

West Side doorman Steve Rubell – Copyright © 2017 Robin Platzer/The LIFE Images Collection/Getty Images

Lifecycle A-Go-Go

Way back when, I used to write for cycling magazines. They made me attend the annual ritual of mass consumption, Boogerbike or whatever it was called. It was a trade show held at a venue nobody misses now, the New York Coliseum. The Coliseum was less like a place where gladiators would’ve hung out and more like a dirigible hangar. (Later Biketastic moved to the Javits Center, then to Philly, then I stopped going.)

Tedious as these shows were, they did have their moments. I met his highness Eddy Merckx and the delightful Georgena Terry, from whom I bought a delicious custom frame. But mostly Bikegasm was endless displays of fredware and birdseed energy bars. One magazine I worked for wanted me to write up the launch of a stationary bike called Sit-N-Spin. I am not making this up.

As you might imagine, the swag in the vast crapscape that was Bikerteria generally sucked. So I was thrilled the time I scored a huge poster of Connie Carpenter.

She was all kinds of hot that year, having just won the Coors Classic and Nats, and gold medals at the Olympics and World Championships. She was a force of nature, that girl. Also really cute. (You young’uns might know her better as the mom of Taylor Phinney, who rode the Tour de France for BMC.) Someone I knew who raced her told me, “When Connie makes up her mind to win, everyone else may as well go home because what the hell’s the point?”

Anyway, I was so excited to get this great poster with her on it that I had to pee. I ducked into the Bikerama can, and holy macaroni — there’s Connie Carpenter herself! In the flesh! By which I mean buck nekkid!

She’d been biking around town and was changing into street clothes, so she’d look less smelly at the booth of the company she repped. We’re not supposed to see superheroes out of costume. But sh!t happens, especially to me. I was so embarrassed, I spun outta there like a motorized dreidl.

Everything worked out okay, though. A little later I found her at the Cannondale booth, where she graciously autographed my poster and laughed at me for running away. She was adorable! And I still have her poster.

The magnificent Connie Carpenter - Copyright © 2017 Getty Images

The magnificent Connie Carpenter – Copyright © 2017 Getty Images

Haute Cloture

I used to design artsy fartsy fashions. (See Celebs Behaving Badly for a brutal play-by-play.) One of the first places I tried to sell them in New York was Julie: Artisans’ Gallery.

There really was a Julie — Julie Schafler — and there really was a colon in her store’s name. It was on Madison Avenue in the 60s. I don’t think it’s there anymore, but here’s a Groupon. Let me know.

Julie Artisans' Gallery - Photo Copyright Julie Artisan's Gallery

Julie: Artisans’ Gallery – Photo Copyright Julie: Artisans’ Gallery

The store was famous for wild one-of-a-kind artisanal clothes and accessories. I introduced Julie to my already-made stuff, which she liked but not enough to buy any. Instead, she wanted me to custom-make something just for her: patchwork leather gloves slathered with beads. Like an idiot I said okay.

Meanwhile, the only customer in Julie’s store did want to buy something I’d brought in: the fancy leather suit bag I’d made to transport samples to buyer meetings. I was happy to sell it to her. I was happy to sell anything.

I really wanted into this store. It got lots of publicity and the prices were crazy stupid high. Assuming Julie would double my wholesale price for her hapless customer as is customary in retail, I asked her for an economical $700. “That’s not enough,” Julie said and marched away.

Not enough? What the actual f⊔⊏k?

While she was off doing who knows what, I met the customer she’d been yapping at  through a curtain about her “jet-setting husband,” as if she had no money or identity of her own. Not that there weren’t shoppers like that in Manhattan. But blow me down! Out of the dressing room stepped Ann Turkel, one of the hotter-than-a-rope-burn supermodels of the late 1960s.

She was on the cover of every magazine I ever loved. She’d just begun acting (soon to star in one of my fave guilty pleasures, Humanoids from the Deep). And only tangentially interesting (to me, anyway) was that she’d recently married Richard Burton’s beer bro Richard Harris, who’d just won a Grammy and a Golden Globe.

Ann Turkel - photo Copyright © Conde Nast

Ann Turkel – photo Copyright © Conde Nast

I’ve seen lots of models in person, and way too many are totes skanky. Not Turkel. OMG, so gorgeous! And funny. And so not snobby. She said she had to attend a stuffy, old-money formal event for which she needed suitable attire. She wanted to look special, she said, “not like all those old ladies in their crappy chiffons.”

She tried on a boho frock that was… interesting, I guess. But in the end she left with nothing. As did I, with the exception of my assignment from Julie that I should’ve gotten a contract for but didn’t.

A month later I returned with exactly the unique, labor-intensive creation she’d requested. She greeted it with “No! Needs more beads! And feathers! And fringe! Go crazy with it!” Stylewise, she was still shaking off the brown acid at Woodstock.

I left with my gloves and never went back.

Art & photo Copyright © 2017 SYDNEY SCHUSTER – All Rights Reserved

Art & photo Copyright © 2017 SYDNEY SCHUSTER – All Rights Reserved

Steal This Suit

Back when Barney’s New York had just the one extraordinary store on 7th Avenue, I practically lived there. This was before it became McBarneys, moved uptown, and morphed into the Men’s Whorehouse franchise that went bankrupt.

Barney’s men’s suit department was the bomb. I got a lot of stuff there, because a) it fit me better than women’s clothes, b) Barney’s tailors were aces, and c) they never gave me any crap about being a girl and/or using the men’s dressing room. They were so utterly cool!

One day as I rapturously rifled Barney’s suit racks, a great commotion arose from the dressing room. I hadn’t gone in yet, so it wasn’t my fault this time.

Presently a disheveled old fart shambled out, ranting and confused, wearing a fine Italian suit with a hopelessly rumpled shirt and the pants around his ankles. A coterie of handlers hustled him off the sales floor, but not before the whole store recognized him. Even with the plastic surgery you could tell it was acquitted Chicago Seven superstar Abbie Hoffman.

Hoffman needed elegant attire for his upcoming coke trafficking trial. He was convicted for that one, but received a commuted sentence. See? Barney’s rules!

Abbie Hoffman makes a public appearance in his Barney's finery. Copyright © 1981 Ida Libby Dengrove

Abbie Hoffman makes a public appearance in his Barney’s finery. Copyright 1981 Ida Libby Dengrove

 

Another Kind of Suit

There was a club on Fifth Avenue at 13th Street that I liked a lot, the Lone Star Cafe. It hosted a steady parade of unrepentant Stetson-wearers and big music stars (Willie Nelson, Roy Orbison, Albert Collins, The Blues Brothers), plus a 40-foot iguana. The humans worked the inside; the lizard had the roof.

The Lone Star Cafe

The Lone Star Cafe

I once saw a performance there by The Suits, a rock band fronted by New York City slumlord Jay Weiss. Weiss owned the Happy Land Social Club, a Bronx venue burned down by an arsonist while 87 people were inside. In case you’re wondering: Yes, Weiss was as good a musician as he was a landlord.

Happy Land Social Club - copyright New York Daily News

Happy Land Social Club – copyright New York Daily News

Anyway, pre-show I ducked into the can. I was shocked to be competing for the vanity with Kathleen Turner. Yes, that Kathleen Turner.

Turned out she was The Suits’ singer. Also Weiss’s wife. Yes, she acts better than she sings. No, she wasn’t really bad, it’s just that I wouldn’t have paid to hear that. The Suits were the opening act for the band I actually did pay to see. They probably got the gig because they owned the building.

I was pretty sure the Lone Star had private facilities for the talent. Whatever. Dressed in her best rock chick outfit, Turner bounced off every hard bathroom surface — people included — while emitting a nonstop look-at-me rap. I fled the restroom mid-plea.

Sadly, the Lone Star burned down in 2006. Probably just a coincidence.

Kathleen Turner rocks out.

Kathleen Turner rocks out.

Copyright © 2017 SYDNEY SCHUSTER – All Rights Reserved

I make no money from this blog. If you find it interesting or useful, please buy my book Dead Spot. The Kindle version’s only $5 and you’ll love it! Thanks.

DEAD SPOT on AmazonSydney Schuster and Dead Spot neither approved nor endorse any third-party advertising that may appear below, nor do we derive any income from it. Feel free to ignore it.

5 O’Clock World | Joyriding with the High Rollers

I used to be the nightlife columnist for a newspaper so dorky, I was the best thing in it. Here’s one of my club reviews from 2005.

✯✯✯✯

high rollers

Copyright © 2013 SYDNEY SCHUSTER – All Rights Reserved

You sure wouldn’t know it to look at it, but the Narragansett Cafe in Jamestown (25 Narragansett Ave.) is one mighty interesting place.

On the face of it, it’s just another small-town bar. Except it’s a small-town bar that occasionally books national acts. We’ve got a few of those around here.

Anyway, that’s how I used to think of the Ganny, as the regulars call it. Unassuming. Low key. Sort of Ernie’s Garage-looking. Am I on the right block?

Then I went in. Many things make the Ganny special. First of all, the bartenders take no prisoners when out-of-towners get out of line. (“Martinis?! What kinda place you think this is?”) Plus there’s this resident angry mob that chased me — twice, actually — because they thought I was some dude invading the sanctity of the ladies’ can. One time a hysterical guy nearly kicked down my stall door. In the women’s room. I am not making this up.

Now, I’m assured by my loved ones that I do not (as Bunny Swan put it) looka like-a man, despite a propensity for motorcycle jackets and cowboy boots. It’s just that the Ganny, where the lights are atmospherically dim and the beer goggles extra thick, is a place where magic happens! Or something.

In other words, the Ganny is my kind of place. So forget that the outside looks like Mayberry Hardware. I’ve heard an awful lot of good music inside, the quality of which easily overshadows any cosmetic disadvantages by many orders of magnitude.

Last week I was overdue for some pixie dust, so I stopped in to catch Dave Howard and the High Rollers. Tommy Ferraro, the band’s guitarist, agrees that the Ganny looks deceptively laid back from the street. He should know. He’s played there for fifteen years.

“Most every night can be a crazy experience,” he says, recalling the old days when he’d perform atop the bar, dragging a long cord behind him. “I might’ve kicked over somebody’s drink once or twice.”

His favorite Ganny memory, though, is a birthday he’ll never forget. “The owner, Danny Alexander, and the manager, Lynnie Sisson, are great people. They brought out a big cake. I played a green Fender Stratocaster in those days, and the cake had a green guitar on it. It was really sweet!”

As it turned out, a bunch of my friends had had the same idea as me on this particular night. So I sat at a table full of jaded professional musicians whose idea of a fun night off is a date with the High Rollers.

Back in New York we called this a busman’s holiday. And let me just say, an evening off doesn’t get any better. We were all kinds of raucous, careening into the night with the High Rollers driving. It was like our own private party except with a killer band, someone to clean up our mess, and a bunch of other people we didn’t know.

Our bus never rolled in but the club was jammed anyway, because the High Rollers always draw a crowd. The dance floor was total chaos.

For the record, the only thing actually rolling here besides the band was a local guy in a wheelchair, who I’m told gets ejected regularly for groping distaff patrons. The vigilante mob? Not so much rolling as roiling. The band’s other fans range from gymnastic swing dancers to crusty jitterbuggers, to hardcore R&B and rock’n’roll purists who brook no shoddiness. This place is like dance school, with beer. And seething mobs and projectile wheelchairs.

The High Rollers’ bread and butter is blues, but they are chameleon-like, adapting seamlessly to the tastes of whichever town they’re in and whatever revelers drop by. They’re almost a different band every time, each incarnation flawless and irresistible. Whaddya like? Rockabilly? Honkey-tonk? Country? Stones? Ballads? You came to the right place. If you’re breathing, you’ll love them. There’s nothing they can’t play the hell out of.

If ya gotta ask why, then here ya go: Each band member is a monster in his own right. Ferraro is one slammin’ guitar wizard, perhaps one of the most underrated artists in the music industry. Paul Bondarovski of Midnight Special Blues Radio said: “Les Paul would stay open-mouthed having heard [Ferraro’s] solo in ‘Old But I Ain’t Dead.'” Ferraro’s been playing since he was eight, he explains, when his accordion teacher goaded him to “play an instrument you can make some money with.”

The rest of the line-up consists of Robillard alumnus John Packer on bass, ex-Radio King Bob Christina on drums, and of course Dave Howard on vocals and harp. He was one of the Vipers (as in Young Neal And The). Along with Ferraro, he’s also the High Rollers’ songwriter. Collectively the band has, like, 800 years of chops. They’ve cut three CDs that’ll blow your doors off: Sure Bet, Lonesome Tears In My Eyes, and Ride Past Midnight (the latter two are hard to find but worth the work).

The Providence Phoenix named the High Rollers “Best Blues Band” four freakin times. They play at the Ganny a lot. So ignore its Guido’s Pizza facade and go on in already. There’s plenty of room to dance and a stunning range of suds on draft. Just steer clear of the wheelchair perv and that lynch mob over by the restroom. Hell, there’s no cover. Whaddya want — everything?

Above: A killer solo by Tommy Ferraro.

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Copyright © 2013 SYDNEY SCHUSTER – All Rights Reserved
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Five O’Clock World | A Time for Thom

Review: A TIME FOR THOM
Musical Benefit for Musician Thom Enright

Copyright © 2012 SYDNEY SCHUSTER – All Rights Reserved

On March 25, 2012, there was an all-day benefit at The Met in Pawtucket for musician Thom Enright, who died of cancer in January. The event was called A Time for Thom and featured an all-star buffet of musical acts.

There haven’t been any reviews of this extravaganza in the media (not any that I’ve found, anyway). WTF? So I’ll do it.

First off, let me just say this: Thom was my friend, and my hope was that this show would be one he’d enjoy, too. It was. In fact, it was epic. Feeling bad never felt so good.

I’d never been to The Met before, and I’d be lying if I told you the acoustics are great. In fact, they’re pretty much what you’d expect for a warehouse space, which is exactly what this place is. You probably don’t want to hear the Boston Philharmonic here, but for this event it was fine. The club has a comfortable, airy feel (plus two bars, to help make up for the lack of insulation). The structure imbued the music with a fun raucousness reminiscent of parties in your high school gym. Like I said, not altogether unpleasant.

Amazingly, the event’s organizers (bassist Marty Ballou, keyboardist Dick Reed, and saxophonist Klem Klimek, all friends of Enright’s) threw everything together in record time. Was it Woodstock? Nah. For one thing, there was less mud and better bathrooms. But it was one helluva show and a testament to the trio’s resourcefulness that they pulled it off at all. It was also a measure of the community’s esteem for Enright, guitarist/singer/songwriter extraordinaire. Hundreds of people overcame their loathing of Pawtucket to gather together, share memories, hear some kickass music, and help pay for Thom’s medical bills.

I got there earlyish and was rewarded with performances by musicians I’d heard about for years but never had the pleasure of seeing in person: Music Hall of Famer Ken Lyon, the Super Chief Trio, and Rizzz. All were more than worth the cover.

Program-wise, it would’ve been nice if more women had joined. But what there was (as Spencer Tracy would say) was choice. Trombonist/vocalist Pamela Murray spiced up Super Chief Trio. Singer/songwriter Karen Cappelli Chadwick (you may remember her from Forrest McDonald’s band Sundance) helped round out impromptu combos.

One of the most touching numbers was the James Taylor song “You Can Close Your Eyes,” sung by Karen Cappelli and Klem Klimek, who were backed up by hosts Reed and Ballou, and Keith Munslow of Super Chief Trio. I don’t recall Enright ever performing it, but it always makes me bawl like a toddler in coach, and I thought it especially apt for the occasion.

I had to leave before The Young Adults (three of them, anyway), Chris Vachon (of Roomful of Blues), and Duke Robillard played. Sorry, dudes. But what I saw of the show was bangin’. The roster also included James Montgomery, Chris Turner, Dennis McCarthy, and John Cafferty.

All the performers were asked to play songs Enright wrote or covered. I saw many of Thom’s shows, and he would’ve been surprised by some of their choices. Compliance was — well, let’s just call it casual.

Many musicians who took the stage did tell stories about Enright, and Super Chief Trio totally nailed the assignment. They performed with Thom often in recent history, which may be why keyboardist/vocalist Keith Munslow could imitate his goofy vocal lope to perfection. It was magical to hear Thom’s voice again, and for a little while he was in the room once more. I half expected him to leap onto the stage and rip into a tune. Yes, I did see some damp cheeks. You know who you are.

The Met overflowed with Enright’s fans and friends — some just jazzed to be there, some completely discombobulated by his untimely passing, and some a combination thereof. And let me tell you, it was SRO — at three in the afternoon!

To be honest, part of the reason for all the standing was a lack of seating. And apparently some guests were so distraught, they needed the available chairs to park their coats. (Note to The Met: You really need a coat check. And more chairs. Just sayin’.)

I’m not gonna review performances I didn’t see. You can now watch a bunch of them and judge for yourself. Just go over to YouTube and search your band’s name, “Time for Thom,” and/or “Thom Enright.” Sort by upload date.

They advertised seven hours of performance, and they weren’t kidding. Thommy would’ve liked it. It was one beautiful, hot mess.

Karen Cappelli Chadwick and Klem Klimek perform at “A Time for Thom”

Buy Thom Enright’s music here:
http://thomenright.com/

Text Copyright © 2012 SYDNEY SCHUSTER – All Rights Reserved
Video Copyright © 2012, 2013 RAY CAPPELLI — used with permission

DEAD SPOT on AmazonSydney Schuster and Dead Spot neither approved nor endorse any third-party advertising that may appear below, nor do we derive any income from it. Feel free to ignore it.

Five O’Clock World | Was (Not Was)

I used to be the nightlife columnist for a newspaper. The column was called Five O’Clock World, after the old Vogues song. I’ve already explained this a gajillion times, so won’t bore you with the details again. The following is a club report I wrote in 2005. I’m posting it as a tribute to my departed friend, Josh Barber. Cheers, Josh.

Five O’Clock World
Was (Not Was)
Copyright © 2014 SYDNEY SCHUSTER – All Rights Reserved

Old clubs around here never die. It seems they just change names and reopen with different management. Such is the case with a couple of “new” lounges I checked out.

The first was Rusty’s (Wave Ave., Middletown), which in a former incarnation was the popular neighborhood watering hole called Overflo’s.

Though it has changed hands as well as names, everything at Rusty’s seemed comfortably the same on a recent Saturday night: the usual highly animated customers; a local band from the regular rotation; the familiar cheesy decor; the squirming line outside the miniature restroom; the rutted, parked-out parking lot.

As ever, the place was jammed. A cadre of loopettes commandeered the dance floor, boogying manlessly to driving rock‘n’roll and R&B tunes. The band providing them was Smokestack Lightning, the totally awesome project of Jamestown’s Josh Barber. A guitarist who’s a devotee of Stevie Ray and Jimmie Vaughan, Barber possesses staggering musical ability all his own that belies his tender age (25). Plus he’s really cute, which explains all the chicks.

As it turns out, one critical element of Rusty’s is different. I ordered a straight margarita and received — check it out — a straight margarita. I couldn’t remember the last time a bartender didn’t load up my margarita with ice and other useless crud. Score!

The way Rusty’s is losing money on the bar, you better go before you have to call it “the place that used to be Rusty’s.”

Josh Barber

Josh Barber

***

Being from a land where businesses stubbornly remain in the same families for all eternity, I find it amusing how the natives here describe everything in terms of what it used to be (as in “the place that used to be Overflo’s”). So don’t be surprised when you phone the new club Area Venue (3 River Lane), and the recording assures you “it’s where the back door of Friends used to be.”

Like Rusty’s, Area Venue lived a prior existence (in addition to Friends, apparently) as a place called Area 22. It was bigger then, and its front door on Broadway was easier to find. Area Venue is about half the size of Area 22 and its front door, to be honest, is in an alley. An alley exactly like the one with the bistro where Buffy and Principal Wood battled vampires on their first date.

Spooky? Kind of. But on the plus side, no vampires here yet. And Area Venue’s dance floor is now the perfect size. Its stage is elevated so that overwound drunks can’t slam into the band, only each other, as it should be.

The bar is on sort of a terrace that offers terrific people-watching opps for armchair dancers like me. No margaritas, alas, but you got your beer, wine, champagne, sake, juice, and endless combinations thereof. The bartender is indefatigably cheerful.

It’s all charmingly reminiscent of the punk-era pubs of London, especially the bathrooms. Not only don’t the stalls lock, but they have swinging saloon-style doors — the better to see you with, my dear.

Despite this one drawback (or value add, depending on your perspective), it’s just incomprehensible why a place this awesome is flat empty on a Saturday night.

Remembering the great wriggling hordes at Rusty’s, I ask the bartender whither Area Venue’s. Well, it’s been open for barely a couple of cold, nasty months, she explains, and “we’ve only had our liquor license for two weeks.” Another mitigating factor, she says, is that “people travel in clusters, following ‘their’ bands around. When we get an out-of-town band, it’s tough.” Ah, Newport — every touring band’s dream.

Indeed, the night’s music is provided by a New Jersey group, The Commons. They’re plenty good enough, playing original dance material for their sound check when we walk in at 9:30. They stop playing at 10:15, presumably to wait for more customers to arrive.

Now the band’s at the bar with us, drinking suds and watching “Design on a Dime” on the huge flat screen. (“Here, you hold the remote,” the bartender told me and then promptly regretted it.)

Me, I think an imported band is a fine reason to go anywhere. I hope others cluster on over to Area Venue, because I like this place and want it to stay open, swinging doors and all.

Text, Art & Photo Copyright © 2014 SYDNEY SCHUSTER – All Rights Reserved
Sydney Schuster and Dead Spot neither approved nor endorse any third-party advertising that may appear below, nor do we derive any income from it. Feel free to ignore it.

Enright Has Left the Building

Copyright © 2012 SYDNEY SCHUSTER – All Rights Reserved

Thom Enright

Thom Enright. Know that name? Well, he’s a musician. Or more accurately, a musician’s musician. Three of Thom’s old bands — plus Thom himself, natch — will be inducted into the Rhode Island Music Hall of Fame tomorrow.

Thom’s a certified big star in New England. Maybe he’s not a household name where you live, but if you think you’ve never heard him play, think again.

He was a regular member (and MVP, some would argue) of numerous bands of historical significance: The Young Adults, The Duke Robillard Band, The Pleasure Kings, Tombstone Blues Band, Roomful of Blues, Shakey Legs, and John Cafferty and the Beaver Brown Band. He was also a first-call guitar and bass player who performed on many Grammy-winning and gold-selling albums for Sony, Columbia, and Rounder. Thom worked with Bo Diddley, James Cotton, Robert Cray, John Lee Hooker, Paul Butterfield, Ronnie Earl, Hubert Sumlin, Jimmy Vaughan, Big Joe Turner, John Hammond, Jimmy Thackery, and Dr. John. You can read more about his career here, here, and here.

As an artist and especially as a friend, Thom was unmatched in grace and style. His wry wit was legendary. He was some kinda snazzy dresser, too. I wish I’d gotten to see 1970s Tombstone Band Jewfro Thom, and skinny-ties Pleasure Kings Thom of the ’80s.

Should time machines ever be invented, here’s the top of my do-over list:

✔ See Thom Enright perform “A Power Tool Is Not a Toy” in a kimono and fishnets.
✔ Buy Apple shares at $22.
✔ Kill Hitler.

Thom and I met in the ’90s during his blazers-and-berets period, after he joined Beaver Brown. JCBBB sax player Tunes Antunes introduced us. “You should meet the new guy,” he said. “He needs a fan.”

He didn’t really. He totally had that covered. But I was sold. Long after Thom departed JCBBB and well into his Barney’s-manager-lookalike phase, I was still bugging him for his gig sked.

He was cute. And funny. And he really could play the hell out of every kind of music. I am not exaggerating. I heard it all.

What I’ve been hearing for the past few days, though, is lots of Thom Enright stories. Here’s one of my personal favorites:

After one of his shows, he was saying his goodnights to everyone. I grabbed his guitar case and said, “I’m carrying this!” He looked at me sideways and argued half-heartedly (girls didn’t carry anyone’s guitars back then, except their own, if they had one). Realizing that resistance was futile, he laughed as we hauled his gear out to the parking lot. One of the band wives happened to see this. We caught her glowering at us (we were both very married to stay-at-home spouses, so this cartage business was simply unacceptable). We paused to speculate about the havoc we’d wreaked on her moral sensibilities. That took, like, two seconds. Then we waved at her and resumed laughing and gossiping and cramming stuff into Thommy’s car.

A prize in every box

For sure, everyone in The Biggest Little knows Thom. It got me out of a traffic ticket once, when I blew through a red light I didn’t see because I was looking at a map instead. The cop who pulled me over asked me where I’d been. I told him I’d just left a Thom Enright show. It was my get-out-of-jail-free card.

Whenever I went to any of Thom’s gigs, I felt like I’d won the nightlife lottery. One time his wife Olga and I alternated loud singing of our favorite Enright tunes with loud yakking about shoe shopping, which I’m sure the band really appreciated. She isn’t your typical band spouse, and it was obvious why Thom loved her. She came to his gigs often, presiding over a salon of sorts with their friends.

There were always interesting people who came to hear Thom play. His audiences regularly included music world royalty, and sometimes Hollywood’s. It seemed perfectly natural to see Duke Robillard, Bobby Farrelly, Paul Geremia, or Barry Cowsill at the bar.

But a lot of Thom’s admirers were just crazed fans. When he was a regular at the Narragansett Cafe and I was in my cowboy-boots-and-DA period, I always got followed into the ladies’ head by an angry Jamestown mob that thought I was some drunk guy stalking their women.

Me, I was just there for some dazzling musicianship. I sometimes had to battle my way out of a restroom for it, but I was never disappointed.

Some Thom history & trivia

Thom elevated every band he ever joined, and he was in a lot of them. I saw him perform with two national acts.

The configuration of JCBBB that included Thom was their best. He gave them an oomph — sometimes on guitar, sometimes bass — that was new for them, yet complemented their style perfectly. One night Cafferty broke a string and ducked offstage to replace it. The band had already started playing their barn burner “Runnin’ Thru the Fire,” so Thommy and Gary Gramolini covered Cafferty’s absence with a dueling guitars shootout. It was such a steaming hot can of whupass, the band kept it in the act.

Thommy eventually left JCBBB for Roomful of Blues, who were willing to perform and record his songs. His blues romp “Love to Watch You When You Go” was the big hit on Roomful’s eponymous album of 2001. The Enright era of the long-running franchise was a particularly successful one. Roomful was so much in demand that Thom had to leave, he told me (with no hint of irony), because the constant travel was killing him.

He started recording his own albums, and it’s too bad there weren’t more of them. Blue Teeth (1994) and Intoxicated (2005) featured original material, plus blues and rock standards stamped with his unique creative spin. Thom was a superb tunesmith. He could also take pop songs you’ve heard a million times — “Don’t Worry Baby,” “To Love Somebody,” “Don’t Think Twice, It’s All Right” — and finesse them into something refreshingly new.

Reviewing Intoxicated for the Boston Phoenix, Bob Gulla wrote: “The lead title track stands out, with some wicked riffs and an edgy arrangement. If you want to hear what all the fuss is about, you can get Intoxicated here.

Intoxicated - Thom Enright

When he fronted his own bands, serious magic happened. That’s when Thom became a really good singer, too. He sounded a lot like Warren Haynes. I heard him wring the bejeezus out of “Crazy” — any vocalist’s nightmare — and was blown away. I congratulated him on it. And this guy — this honkin’ monster talent who could play everyone else under the table — said this: “Thanks. I’m still kinda self-conscious about it.”

I don’t know which was more amazing — the sheer scope of Thom’s talent or the fact that he never got a big head about it. He welcomed any opportunity to play. No club was too small. That’s what he lived for.

You know, the dude could’ve been a raging egomaniac and no one would’ve questioned it. But he wasn’t. Years ago he asked me to write him a press release. The original title was: All Meat. No Filler. Enright Delivers! He was embarrassed and changed it to something not so Mister Saturday Night. Actually, his title was much better: Plays Right. Sings Right. Enright.

And that was Thom in a nutshell. He towered over everyone in his field (literally and figuratively). Yet he was never a diva, not that I ever saw. He’d be so mortified by this post, he’d turn eighty shades of pink. Sweetest guy you ever met, always with a joke and some gossip, always glad to see you. Unless you were a ginormous dick, in which case good luck with that.

For those who weren’t, an evening with Thom was always fun. Once I asked him to sign one of his CDs for me. “Write something steamy,” I said. He wrote: “Hurl, baby, hurl, all night long!” Another time he asked me if I wanted to sing. Sing? Really? I’d never suggested that was in my arsenal of dubious talents. I was quite shocked and wildly flattered that he trusted me not to skunk up his gig. He admired my fashion statement that night — blinding white Varvatos Cons.

I wore them to his funeral. In 2008 Thom was diagnosed with a brain glioma and given six months to live. He died on February 20 after kicking its butt to hell and back for four years. He never stopped performing, nor being a friend to the many people who now have one more reason to admire him. There’s been a disruption in the force, and it’s big.

Text & Photo Copyright © 2012 SYDNEY SCHUSTER – All Rights Reserved.
Thom Enright album covers copyright © Thom Enright.
No, you can’t use them without permission.

Five O’Clock World | Rock ‘n’ Bowl

I used to be the nightlife columnist for a weekly newspaper. This paper was so chaotic, I had a different editor for every column I submitted. No kidding. In the encyclopedia, next to the description of “revolving door,” there’s a picture of this place. Fun!

Anyway, the running title of my column was supposed to be “Five O’Clock World,” and then each week’s piece had a subject-specific title based on a song lyric. A cool musical theme for the club column! Get it?

Unfortunately, only my first editor knew this. So I’d dutifully turn in my pieces, and every week the new editor changed the title and didn’t tell me. Then I’d submit an invoice for each piece referencing what I’d named it, except it wasn’t called that anymore, and then I’d have to call and beg for my money. By then everyone there thought Sydney was some big fat guy, and I was some chick trying to steal his money. The poor bookkeeper had no idea what the hell was going on.

I bagged the gig after not getting paid a couple of times, and the sixth or seventh editor called to say he couldn’t wait to meet me. Maybe he meant in the parking lot, on his way out, if I got there fast enough.

The following is one of the “Five O’Clock World” columns I wrote in 2005. It was a blast while it lasted.

Copyright © 2011 SYDNEY SCHUSTER – All Rights Reserved

Drink‘n’Roll

When I was in high school back in the last millennium, I hung with a bunch of delinquents who loved to go bowling. Actually, it wasn’t the bowling they loved so much as the shoes, which they always wore home.

Wondering whether things have changed any with this century’s young fashionistas, I cruised over to the Hi-Way Bowl in Middletown to find out.

Seemed like a pleasant-enough way to spend an evening. Every Saturday night from 8 until 11, the Hi-Way Bowl hosts a thing called Rock‘n’Bowl. I called in advance to get the details.

“It’s a DJ. And music. And a light show. Uh, and bowling,” said whoever answered the phone. There’s a $10 cover, too, but they throw in the shoes.

They also have a bar, which meant everyone would be too sauced to notice what a terrible bowler I am. So off I went.

It took a really long time to find the Hi-Way Bowl. First of all, it’s on a road with no street sign. And the guy on the phone had assured me that “it’s right behind the Ames.” Of course, there is no Ames. And natch, the Hi-Way Bowl isn’t on a highway. After driving up and down Route 114 for what seemed like weeks, I finally turned into the Home Depot parking lot on sheer gut instinct. I’ve been told I can smell a bar from the next county.

Sure enough, way behind the big box store and the Holiday Cinema and completely invisible from Route 114 is the Hi-Way Bowl. The parking lot was crammed with cars owned by people whose olfactory powers far exceeded mine.

I wasn’t sure what to expect once I finally got inside, but I figured a bunch of drunks slinging 16-pound balls around had to have some kind of entertainment value. But Rock‘n’Bowl is more than that. Much more.

First of all, there’s disco music and pulsing lights and semi-psychedelic projections on the walls. There’s a really polite, fine-looking hunk who relieves you of your cover money as you stroll in. (“Yes m’am, we do draw regulars on Saturday nights. No m’am, it’s a different crowd from the other times.”) Do people still steal the shoes, I ask? Occasionally, yes.

Sharing the building with the bowling alley are the Oddball Sports Bar and a video-game arcade. The edifice is better known to all and sundry as the “Halls of Balls.” Inside the bowling alley, the music is loud and fast. I’m reminded of marketing studies that proved customers in grocery stores that play up-tempo hits shop faster and spend more than those at stores (like mine) that play Spishak’s Greatest Hits of Plane-Crash Victims. I presume that’s the marketing tack at Rock‘n’Bowl, too, and it’s working. This place has 20 lanes, and they’re really getting down with the bowling here. It’s $3.50 per line. You do the math.

You’re probably way ahead of me here. To my mild disappointment, there was no caveman-like action with bowling balls, nor herds of snickering teens stampeding out with smelly, purloined shoes — just neatly dressed couples in their 20s and 30s, drinking and rolling in a civilized way. But Rock‘n’Bowl fans, I’m told, are eclectic. The Boston Celtics have been known to drop by.

So if it’s a Saturday night and you’ve seen every movie in town, and you’re sick of breathing other people’s cigarette smoke in clubs, and you like to bowl or just like the idea of it, check this out. It’s a great place to go with a bunch of friends. Call it a party and bring your own festive grub. The owners of the movie theater next door are threatening to expand their operation and “upgrade” the Hi-Way Bowl out of existence. Go while you still can.

Copyright © 2011 SYDNEY SCHUSTER – All Rights Reserved

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Five O’Clock World | Thom Enright

For a while I was a nightlife columnist. The gig was for a newspaper that shall remain nameless, only because they were so crappy to me. Somehow I thought the job meant club hopping every night and drinking for free. Ha! They were keeping the free drinks in the same place as the paychecks I never got. Here’s one of my favorite columns from 2005.

FIVE O’CLOCK WORLD
Copyright © 2011 SYDNEY SCHUSTER – All Rights Reserved

It’s 9 o’clock on a chilly, rainy Monday night, and maybe a dozen people are in Billy Goode’s. Half are leaning on the bar. The other half are holding down tables. They’re all working folks who stopped by after a hard day at the mines and just got too comfortable to go home.

Compared with some other pubs in town, Billy Goode’s is pretty laid back. There’s no hyperactive pickup scene here, no hordes of self-conscious poseurs. The decorations are softball trophies and neon beer signs. Tonight’s dinner special is The Elvis, something appropriately involving spicy pork. And the music, right now anyway, is at a decibel level such that people can converse civilly, so they do.

Tonight’s opening act is the Killdevils. Despite the scary name, it’s just Jake Haller and Chris Monti with acoustic guitars. They respectably acquit an odd array of genres — Irish ballads, American folk, Bo Diddley. Some drunk requests “Sweet Home Alabama.” The duo plays a rag called “Indiana.” Nobody seems to mind.

To call Billy Goode’s a reliable neighborhood joint is sort of an understatement. It’s the oldest continuously operating tavern in Newport. And yes, there really was a Billy Goode. He was the club’s first owner, says current proprietor Kevan Campbell, who’s been its steward for the past 15 years.

Being right across the street from City Hall and near the harbor, Billy knew everyone in town, says Campbell, “from politicians to sailors. Goode started the club prior to Prohibition. He was the first one ever arrested. They held him overnight, played cards with him, and sent him home. He opened a speakeasy called The Mission. The day Prohibition ended, he nailed up the Billy Goode’s sign. Later on there was a fire in the neighborhood, and this was the only place that didn’t burn. Goode poured beers the whole time.”

Campbell says that in gratitude, Newport bestowed upon his predecessor a great honor: William J. Goode Day. I don’t know if this last part is true, but I like the way it sounds.

Goode may be a tough act to follow, but Campbell has a talent all his own — running the kind of place where top-shelf performers enjoy hanging out. Country blues legends Tom Russell and Paul Geremia play here, and John Lincoln Wright does a show every Christmas. 1960s pop icon Barry Cowsill drops in all the time and jams. Tonight’s headliner is blues guitar whiz Thom Enright, accompanied by drummer Mike Warner and bassist Dean Cassell. They don’t have a band name. May as well call them Roomful Meets Beaver Brown, since that’s where else they worked at one time or another.

It’s hard to believe music this good is free, but it is. “There’s never a cover, so I don’t pay the bands much,” admits Campbell. He’s as amazed as anyone that musicians of this caliber keep coming back.

Enright explains it this way: “It’s my therapy session. We can do whatever we want. I’ve met some unbelievable folks here who really dig what we do. It’s one of the most comfortable places I’ve been in a long time. And I’ve been in a few places.”

At 10 pm the Killdevils split to a booth in the back and tuck into some hot food. By the time I amble by in hopes of sighting whatever an Elvis is, their plates are clean.

The Killdevils may have hoovered The King, but the music lives on as Enright’s trio takes over. More people come in. Three TVs are going (two football games, one baseball). The boxes ought to be muted but aren’t. The band ratchets up a notch and lights into blues whompers like “Goin’ to New York” and a rumba called “Too Many Cooks.”

By 10:30 the place is crammed. Did I mention this is a Monday night?

Now a gaggle of Salve Regina preppies bursts in. It’s a crapshoot, really, whether they’ll appreciate this kind of not-Top-40 music enough to stick around. They nest at the last available table, directly in front of the band. Next thing you know, they’re flailing with wild abandon on the dance floor, which is really just a postage stamp-sized extension of the stage. Every once in a while the band jumps backward to avoid flying body parts, but they never miss a beat.

By 11 o’clock the pub is wall-to-wall synergism. Men are lighting pretty girls’ cigarettes. People are laughing, swing dancing, cheering for the band and touchdowns. Beer is flowing. Billy would approve. Enright’s crew is doing a shockingly zestful spin on a Dylan chestnut, “Don’t Think Twice, It’s All Right.” And seriously, it is.

Copyright © 2011 SYDNEY SCHUSTER – All Rights Reserved

Thom Enright’s music is available here: www.cdbaby.com/cd/thomenright

Read more about Thom Enright here (Enright Has Left the Building).

DEAD SPOT on AmazonCopyright © 2011 SYDNEY SCHUSTER – All Rights Reserved
Sydney Schuster
and Dead Spot neither approved nor endorse any third-party advertising that may appear below, nor do we derive any income from it. Feel free to ignore it.