1977, late summer, but it felt like fall in San Francisco. I was 18 years old, out on my own with no clear definition of the word “limits.” Andy Warhol said, “in the future, everyone will be world famous for 15 minutes.” I never got my 15 minutes of fame, but I was beautiful for about 15 minutes in the late 70s. Call it youth, health, confidence, I don’t know what it was and it didn’t last long, but for a short period of time, I was pretty. Being pretty, even briefly, had its advantages. I went out a lot with a lot of different people. I was taken places. I saw things. I attracted attention, although usually the wrong kind.
So, it was late summer in San Francisco in the seventies. I was young, beautiful and fearless; what could be bad, right? On the night in question, my journey began with me riding shotgun in a Chevy van while a half dozen of my partners in bad behavior rolled around in the back. The driver was my date, a young Asian-American guy whose name I can no longer recall. He wasn’t much to look at, but he always had lots of cocaine. I can’t remember who else was along for the ride, but I remember where we were going: The Great American Music Hall on O’Farrell Street to see David Grisman and Stephane Grappelli. Shortly after this performance, Grisman released Hot Dawg, which became the soundtrack of my misspent youth, but on the night in question I knew him and Grappelli both by reputation only.
We had, of course, done a few lines before heading across the bridge. It was the 70s people; no-one gave a second thought to driving under the influence. Of course I remember what I was wearing: baggy pants, a man’s white shirt, a skinny tie and my beloved Stetson fedora. Just enough coke on board to give everything that sharp, shiny edge, I was young, free and riding the wild energy of the nigth.
As we pulled up on O’Farrell Street, a line of people stretched around the club waiting to get in. That’s when the first miracle happened: I pointed my eyes at the curb and there, directly across the street, an open parking space appeared. “Pull in!” I shouted to the coke dealer, and he yanked the car into the space. As we crossed the street, the second miracle happened: I saw my friends Susan and Steven standing fifth in line, just back from the door. “Snuze!” I called and danced across the street to greet her, my posse trailing in my wake. That’s when the third miracle happened: just as I reached up to kiss her cheek, before the people standing behind her had a chance to react, the door opened and we were ushered in like Bianca Jagger at Studio 54. We took the front table, center stage. I sat in front, at the base of the microphones. The waitress took my order for a Becks Beer without batting an eye. The coke dealer paid.
The show opened with the Diz Disley trio, remarkably proficient purveyors of old jazz. Disley kept making eye contact with me, emmitting odd, guttural grunts of delight as he shredded like a motherfucker. After he left the stage and was standing off to the side, he raised a glass to me with a look of enquiry. “I think he wants to buy you a drink,” the coke dealer said, as he discretely passed me a hand mirror. I only smiled in return. I was happy where I was, holding court, the queen of the night.
The lights went down and the Grisman Quintet came on. Read it and weep music fans: David Grisman, Tony Rice, Darrol Anger, Todd Phillips, Bill Amatneek. I was young and dumb and had no idea that I was in the presence of greatness. I only knew that a torrent of notes, swing, soul and style was raining down my head like blessings from the gods. The majors, the minors, the diminished fifths and ninths, the sweet, long washes, the dancing 8ths and 16ths; I closed my eyes and let it enter me, fill me, change me.
Grappelli came onstage to thunderous approval and the energy twisted, turned, lifted to another level. He spoke for several minutes and I couldn’t understand a word he said, his accent thick, his manner mischievious. He opened with a Grisman composition (played with Grisman, of course) and with those first minor notes, the night filled with the past, the future, destiny, fate. Grappelli was rapturous when he played, his smile never left his face. His tone was like the sweet voice of a young mother singing to her child and I was that child, enveloped in the loving arms of his music. It was the sound of joy, of delicious delight. My life had led me to this brief, fleeting moment of unutterable perfection, never to be repeated.
Never to be repeated, friends, never again. Lightning like that only strikes once. I’ve heard many amazing performances by many incredible musicians, I’ve had some very fine times with some very fine folk, but this was the pinnacle. Nothing has ever come close. I stumbled out of that club transformed. Nothing would ever sound the same again.
Sweet Georgia Brown, was it really 32 years ago? Has it been that long since I was young, beautiful and very, very lucky? Care to hear how lucky? I recently found a recording of that very night on line:
http://www.tauthal.com/Weekly%20Broadcasts/David%20Grisman/1977_08_19/Archive%20Broadcast.html
Would those days could come again. They will, but not for me.
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