One for Kenny, in honor of his comment here: The Young-Holt Unlimited’s unforgettable 60s soul classic “Wack Wack.”
Update! What the hell, while we’re on the 60s soul music, here’s two more for my old friend, legendary CLT lounge-lizard Mr Roy.
Great stuff, that. Might’s well throw in one of my own personal faves while we’re at it.
Background on Mr Roy: Roy is an elderly, diminutive black fella who also happens to be one of the most dapper men of any age I’ve ever had the privilege of hanging out barside with. Roy is a truly dedicated lover of the good old blues, soul, rockabilly, and zydeco music. To my knowledge, he never missed a BP’s performance at the late, lamented Double Door Inn, even with as loud and rowdy as we were notorious for being.
Every year, without fail, Roy would pile in his pristine Cadillac and make the 12-hour drive down to New Orleans for Jazzfest. Way back when, I made a pact with Roy that I was gonna make that particular trip with him sometime. Alas, the scheduling never worked out for me to be able to do it, to my everlasting regret.
Everybody around town knew and loved Mr Roy. A fixture on the local dive-bar and live-music scene, Roy could reliably be seen sitting on a stool at one bar or another sipping on a Scotch and milk, a bevy of dynamite young white chicks in close and hanging on his every word.
And what words they were, too; he had a store of catchphrases he would toss off, like “Mighty fine, might fine” or “I’m a charming motherfucker!” That one led to years of debate between me and Mr Roy; one night in some gin-joint or other, he declared me a “bad motherfucker,” whereupon I responded in the only way I could think of: “No, Roy, YOU’RE a bad motherfucker!” He shot back, “No, I’m a CHARMING motherfucker, YOU’RE the BAD motherfucker!” I can’t even begin to tell you how flattered I was by that. This good-natured ribbing was taken up again many times after that first night, and we’d both just about kill ourselves laughing when it did, every time.
So popular was Mr Roy and his catchphrases around here that a local artist got a snapshot of Roy, highball glass in hand, which he then did up in the style of those old Shepard Fairey posters—logoed with one of Roy’s notable catchphrases, natch, not “Obey Giant” or any of that later “Hope & Change” malarkey—and did a limited-edition run of them to give away at various local dens of iniquity. I had Mr Roy autograph my copy for me:
Had to take a photo, because it’s way too big to fit into my scanner. The lighting is all wrong, but hey, don’t hate me ’cause I’m beautiful, aiight?
I referred to Mr Roy in the past tense a couple times above, but having aged out of the bar/live music circuit myself a few years back after the curse of Viking Disease had junked my guitar-playing hands, I really couldn’t say if Roy is still around or not. I sure hope he is; there never was enough like him out there, and once they’re gone, they ain’t coming back. Whether he’s gone or still kicking, his poster will have a position of honor on my living-room wall wherever I may live, for as long as I do.