MUSINGS & RAMBLINGS

I was in a strange existential place and many things and multiple times were on my mind and in my heart at the same time. On the way down and at the Saloon I was the existential isolated person. I don’t like being that way, sometimes you just are that way.

It was a Saturday night crowd of non-regulars who only understood Hack's more obvious dance numbers, they wanted to party. The old time stuff I wanted to hear never got played. Hack can read a crowd and it wasn’t time for “Come On In My Kitchen” or even “Brownsville Blues.” My passion for early blues would have to go unsatisfied this night. It was all gonna be pretty much post-war and LOUD.

As I remorselessly shouldered my way up the narrow aisle along the bar through clumps of dockers-wearing clean types who were under the impression that the Saloon is for schmoozing in circles, I spotted Jack. He was enthusiastically dancing and his hair was unbound and frazzled outward giving him the appearance of a Hindu Saddhu high on an obscure god, Merlin in a wind tunnel, and the image on the Shroud of Turin. He’d been there a long time already by the look of it.

The place was packed and wall-to-wall and the dance floor part in the back near the Hacksaws was either jumping up and down or swaying in place. The few regulars were up front with elbows at the ready and maintaining space. I joined them and spent the balance of the night up close and personal with the band.

Ron Hacker had his red Gibson, SRV strat, and the modified Regal wood parlor guitar with the old De Armond pickup duct taped to the guitar. Ron wasn’t messing around. He had his amp up loud and was slashing out the licks hard and fast.

AJ was such a good sight; I just love the man, as always he was dancing up a storm while he played. What a fine player, he plays lead bass in this band.

A little dark haired young woman was most enthusiastic and kept screaming at every possible dynamic point. Scott kept yelling, “Stop Screaming!” She’d scream again. Since she was located right below the dancing-while-playing AJ’s left leg every so often she’d penetrate right through his bass sound and he’d flinch. She was great and provided focus for the milling crowd.

Maintaining position in front of the band with the skill of a power forward against all drives, I proceeded to have a good time watching Ronnie Smith play economical, strongly accented drums behind the Slash-and-burn of Ron’s distorted tone.

“I am….your Back Door Man,
I am….your Back Door Man,
Well, the men don’t know,
But the little girls they understand.”

I happily ate lots of chicken right along with the band. You other mens eat yo’ pork and beans.

I never did really bond much with most of the audience; it kept shifting with new tourists or something coming through. Lots of them didn’t seem to be part of the “blues show” and looked like they were examining something very strange. Two rail thin young guys wearing Euro Flash clothes and alternately holding one shared bottle of beer for fifteen minutes did indeed turn out to be speaking Danish. They managed to stand in the middle of the dancers without ever once making a motion with their pelvises.

There were a few Blues type people who knew what they were seeing and getting into it. Somehow we all wound up in front of the band or along the wall near the band. Linda and Shauna appeared and within seconds had moved right to the front. I met the delightful BABC member Diane in the flesh for the first time and she cracked the existential wall good and hard with a big hug. It was so good I finagled another one and was rewarded with the woman’s knowing crooked smile.

“I ask Sweet Mama, do she ever think of me?
I ask Sweet Mama, Do she ever think of me?
I’m broke and hungry, blue as I can be.”

The slashing guitar was driving the room wild. As Ron would switch guitars, AJ and Ronnie would do funk grooves and make it even wilder in front of the band.

Breaks were odd. It was if almost everyone down the aisle along the bar was disassociated from the band and music. They were in circles blocking the aisle and you had to push through them. They seemed surprised and unaware there was a dance going on. Social chat at the Saloon, yeah, uh-huh. The people outside were completely unlike the people just pushed through, pan handlers, blues regulars, the slightly demented people Greg won’t allow inside, the young people pushing up the sidewalk looking for the good times between the strip clubs and the Upper Grant bars, the young women looking more intrigued with the Saloon than the furtive young men.

Across the street the Cafe Trieste looked, as always, like an Edward Hopper painting.

I never did really get connected. As I pushed my way back inside I passed the cute little screamer. She was explaining to a guy who was putting a move on her, "I always wind up friends with Guys! It's Great! I love Guys as friends!" He didn't look as appreciative as I was at hearing this.

“Well I’m broke and hungry, ragged and dirty too,
Well I’m broke and hungry, ragged and dirty too,
If I clean up, Mama, can I come home with you?”

The second set was as packed as the first, and the third set too. I like third sets usually as the population falls and the band can play some of their more personal songs, but that didn’t happen this night. Ron checked the crowd and piled on more high energy tunes with the look of the long time musician on his face, “Ah, one of these nights!” “Almost Grown” and “Baby, Please Don’t Go” were the order of rest of the night.

Realizing I wouldn’t get free of my mood and tired of being bumped and jostled I headed back through the mist to my car.

“Sitting here thinkin’, will a matchbox hold my clothes?
Sitting here thinkin’, will a matchbox hold my clothes?
Well I ain’t got so many but I got so far to go.”

The drive home was slower. When I got home at 1:30, my daughter was still up. “I’m just finishing up a Japanese Anime movie. It’s way better in the original Japanese!” Yeah Baby, it’s always better in the original. Thanks Ron.

Ron Hacker and the Hacksaws "Welfare Store"