The Music Hall

When I was a junior at Dunwoody High School, a number of my friends and I bought tickets to see Doc Watson at the Great Southeast Music Hall in Broadview Plaza on Piedmont Road. When we got there, the dude at the door turned us away because we were under age. He told us we could come back on Sundays, since you couldn't buy alcahol on Sundays back in those days.

Later, after I turned eighteen (the drinking age back in those days), some friends of mine and I turned the Music Hall into our natural second home. We saw Doug Kershaw, Cheech and Chong, Savoy Brown, Cowboy, the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band, Greg Allman, Dr. Hook and the Medicine Show and other bands. We also saw Steve Martin opening for Martin Mull as a comedy duo.

The most interesting act we ever saw was a Chicago bluesman named Willie Dixon. How we got there and what happened was amazing.

One Saturday evening, a bunch of my friends and I gathered at Gary Defillipo's house. Flip was a bright guy who had moved in to Dunwoody with his parents and sister from California or New York. Flip's dad was and Italian-American, with dark skin and hair, and was rather quiet. Flip's mom was an Irish-American, with fair skin and red hair and was very vivacious. Flip got the dark hair and the fair skin and was a pretty fun guy. Flip drove an MG roadster and had several cool guitars, including a hollow body Gibson electric.

Anyway, we got together at Flip's house that night and were wondering what we could do. Somebody got the idea of calling the information line at the Great Southeast Music Hall. When we did, the recording said that you could come out and listen to 450 pounds of the best Chicago blues: Willie Dixon. None of us had ever heard of Willie Dixon, but the recording was intriguing.

So five or six of us piled into my red 1968 Plymouth Sports Fury convertible and drove down to Broadview Plaza, off Piedmont Road. When we got to the ticket office we were informed that the first show was in full swing and that we could come back for the second show at 9:30. Not having anything better to do, we decided to go downstairs on the back of the shopping plaza and bowl a couple of games at the bowling alley located there.

So we walked downstairs and rented some shoes and a lane and began to bowl several games. John Boswell, my alter ego in high school, went to the juke box and found his penultimate song, 'Down South Jukin' by Lynnerd Skynnerd. John got eight quarters and set it up to play the song eight times in a row.

Meanwhile, we bought a couple of beers from the snack bar and started bowling. As we bowled, the sounds of Lynnerd Skynnerd come be heard over and over again all over the bowling alley. As John got ready to bowl, the juke box abruptly stopped playing. Only John noticed the missing beats, and he turned around to see one of the patrons with the power cord from the juke box in his hand. Our Down South Jukin' was over for the night.

After awhile, the time for the concert arrived and we headed up to the Music Hall. We paid for our tickets (about three dollars each) and bought tin buckets of beer for the shower (also around three dollars each) and entered the music hall. The Music Hall seated around three hundred fifty or so, and the patrons sat on the floor on plastic pads with plywood backings. Any lack of comfort was ignored by us. This was not a locale for people with back problems.

As we waited for the show to start, I noticed that there were only about twenty of us in the place. Suddenly, the announcer came on the loud speaker behind us and announced that we should welcome our opening act, Gove Skrivener. We looked over to the far right and noticed as a young, bearded guy came up from the back, leading a dog on a rope leash. The guy walked up on stage; the dog sat down and we applauded the beginning of the show.

Gove played a good set of traditional and folk music, some old favorites, others his own. All the time he played, the dog slept on the wooden stage. He finished up with several tunes accompanying himself on the autoharp. When he finished, we offered appreciative applause and about a fourth of the audience left.

Meanwhile, we left our positions in the center of the hall and went back out front to buy more buckets of beer and some hot pretzels. When we returned, we took new seats up closer to the stage.

Finally, a group of African-American men took the stage. As they set up for the set, we tried to figure out who looked like he might be four hundred fifty pounds. No one looked the part.

After the band had set up, they began to play some real good Chicago style blues. At the time, none of us had much experience with the blues, but these guys were real good musicians. They had played maybe six songs, and we were clapping and yelling in appreciation, when suddenly a huge man came out of the back, offstage. As he lumbered up the short stairs to the stage, we were aghast. He cheerfully took the stage and picked up the bass fiddle laying on its side in the back of the stage.

With that, the band began to play what I found out later was the foundation of Chicago blues, songs that Willie Dixon had written for other others. Songs which had become famous on Rush Street and other places all over the world. Songs which had been covered by rock musicians like Eric Clapton and Cream, the Rolling Stones, Savoy Brown, and others. It was amazing.

Later on, I decided that certain experiences were greater than most and had to be defined as "cosmic experiences." These types of experiences were so great and so influential that the fact of the experience changed your life and your orientation. This concert was one such experience. In fifty years of experience, I have now had a number of such experiences. This concert with the blues players from Chicago was my first 'cosmic experience.'

After the concert was over, there were only about ten of us left in the hall. As Willie announced the end of the set, we stormed the stage and shook hands with the band members. I will never forget how amazing it was to shake hands with Willie Dixon. His hands were huge. His fingers were like Polish keilbasa. They wrapped around my hand. But the amazing part was the ability to listen to and show our appreciation to someone who is truly a legend. And interact with him so closely.

It was fun and it was amazing. Unbelievable. Even today, thirty years later.