The guy had a southern mustache that drooped down to his chin. He played electric bass, and then, when his sets finished, he sat down at a bar and drank. To a kid like me, that was something. It was obvious he could throw a punch, and maybe at the same time as holding down the low end onstage in a club on Bourbon st. But later on, I got to thinking about him and the permanent frown the mustache gave him, the years of music practice he’d done, hoping to follow behind the greats of R&B, only to have it scuttled by disco’s ascent. Having to throw a punch while you played seemed like one of the worst ways of being musical. Which is why we met at a bar, on Bourbon street, burrowing ourselves away from the coming light.
by Hank Cherry