I hated wearing even blend shirts much less 100% polyester, and normally I had those clothes off within about a minute of getting home, but apparently the urge to play with Albert was stronger, and that's cool. He was a fun little animal. Ha-ha, so was I.
At one point we had a month booked in the lounge of a Ramada Inn I believe. It was on Green Springs Avenue. Although happy hour has been outlawed in many areas for obvious reasons, it was alive and well back then. They used miniatures for every pour, so a happy hour drink would contain two.
They made a drink called a Colorado Motherfucker. It had all the clear liquors- vodka, rum, tequila and gin, plus half and half, a splash of Coke and Creme de Cacao. It was like a White Russian except it tasted like chocolate milk...chocolate milk that would kick your ass that is. They were served in plastic beer pitchers, and looking back it's a good thing they weren't glass, since I know we dropped more than one.
Normally they'd have one miniature of each liquor, but during happy hour they'd double that to eight miniatures. Half the pitcher was liquor. Where things got crazy was that they gave the band happy hour all the time, and so when official happy hour kicked in, they'd double the amount of liquor again. There was barely room for ice, half and half and Cacao, so there was just a splash of each. I think they enjoyed getting the bands wasted, and it was pretty radical to have 16 miniatures in one pitcher. It was probably flammable. It sure lit us up.
I don't know that I'd have mixed tequila with gin, but after a few sips it didn't matter. That much liquor will dull your taste buds in a hurry, and your brain too for that matter. Turns out it was a coveted gig because they treated the bands so well. Not only did they get us plastered nearly every night but we got a huge discount on food, and it was really good. On top of everything else they gave us all our own rooms for the duration. That may have saved our butts, since we could wait until morning to drive home if we needed to.
I should mention that the music was a blast and an invaluable experience. I was learning on the job and I had to play, or at least fake, several styles I'd never really played before. I could do the Rock and Pop stuff no problem, and go "Ding ding a-ding" on the cymbal for Jazz, but we played everything from Disco to Samba to ballads to Polka, and I had to learn quickly. We'd play the latest Pop songs on the radio, like "Cheeseburger in Paradise" by Jimmy Buffet and "King Tut" by Steve Martin, and people would go nuts. I learned how to rev-up a crowd.
Skip also got me singing and playing drums at the same time, and I'll forever be in his debt, although he passed many years ago. RIP Skip, and thanks. He heard me singing a Zappa tune while I was setting up my kit, and thought I had a decent enough voice that I could do backup.
At first I couldn't even go "Ahhhh" and play a simple beat at the same time, but Skip was very patient, and before too long I was singing words, and I was thrilled. I never had a beautiful, Greg Lake-type voice but I've always loved to sing, and if I have a skill, it's that I can blend my voice well with the lead singer.
But this post is more about liquor, so back to the story. Man I still shudder when I think about taking the first sip from a pitcher of Co. Mofos. It'd give you the piss-shivers. One pitcher was easily enough for two people, although we didn't always stop at one. I started drinking later than most people, and I guess I was making up for lost time. Half a pitcher was eight miniatures, or at least 12oz of liquor. "Liquor? I hardly know her." Ba-Dop...PSSSSHHHHH!
About the third night, two fine sisters came into the bar. They were actual sisters. They'd come here from New York and were staying at the motel. The older girl was taking a job managing a clothing store here called Mangle's, and her younger sis had come along for the company, and to help her find a place and such.
They were great girls. They were a bit more laid-back than most people I've met from New York, and although their pronunciation was perfect, they didn't have that thick Bronx accent, which was a relief, and no offense to accents. I have a bad one myself.
The older girl was a year younger than me, and her sister another year younger. Shame on me for not remembering their names. I'm blaming the Colorado Motherfuckers for that. I do remember that they were both very beautiful. They were smart and funny, my type, and they were sweethearts for days. Being into clothes they were dressed impeccably and tastefully. They wore cashmere sweaters and things like that. I was very pleased to meet them.
I'm guessing the pitchers with 16 miniatures in them probably played a part in the social lubrication, but the older sister and I hit it off pretty quickly. For the next month we hung out every day. Right away I took her to the river. She was a city girl but she took right to it. It was a beautiful thing to turn her on to that and to see her love it so much. We got a bit frisky, and when we got back, her sister was giving her shit about having leaves in her hair. I'll never forget...she goes: "You been rolling around in the woods?" It was a rhetorical question.
One night they'd gone up to their room before we'd finished playing. Supposedly her sister was tired and wanted to crash. I called after we finished, and ordered a pitcher to go. It did take a minute or two to pour all those miniatures, but it couldn't have been more than five minutes before I got up to their room, and my girl was supposedly asleep. I figured she was faking but I didn't know why. Then I heard her sister start to moan. "Hmmm...a setup" I thought.
She casually slid down the covers to show that she was naked. I figured big sis was okay with it. Did I oblige? Sometimes you gotta roll with the punches. That's as far as it went and it never happened again. I was really into the older one and she was plenty. She ended up getting homesick and moving back to NY and not taking the job, or I'm sure we'd have gone out for a long time.
I wonder what she's up to. It's surprising I can remember anything about that month, considering we were drinking all the quadruples we wanted, but I remember big sis very fondly, and I hope she feels the same...that is if she can remember. I really liked her. I bet they put in a good word for Alabama. Cheers, sisters!
Well, that's my happy hour story. Actually, "happy month" would be more like it. I had a blast and got buzzed to the gills. This story isn't as good as I hope some of my other ones are, but I can say that I've never had a stronger drink. Basically it was like: "Here, have a few sips of this" and things just happened. I remember more general craziness, but finer details escape me, and I'm doing good to remember what I do. 16 miniatures in one pitcher...that's nuts. Oh, and thank God for the free rooms. No wonder they outlawed happy hour.
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