"Sergeant Pepper's"

Underground Atlanta in the 1970's was a rock band's dream. Lined with clubs and bars, the cobblestone/brick streets of "Underground" were busy most weeknights, and flooded with party-goers on weekends and holidays. Clubs such as, "The Pump House," "The Mad Hatter," and "Scarlet O'Hara's," drew the best bands in Atlanta, and were known for the cheapest beer and drinks, as well as the best-looking women in the south. A slam-dunk profitable combination for club owners.

Underground would have reminded most folks of Bourbon Street in New Orleans, Beale Street in Memphis, and/or a poor band's "Music Row." Being under a viaduct made the weather a non-factor, and added a coziness to the atmosphere. Rock was king in Undergound, but one could also hear jazz, dixieland, and on rare nights, maybe even a little country. Since the area was not in close proximity to a residential district of any sort, there were no noise restrictions. You could play as loud and as long as the club owners would allow. Preferably, the louder the better. Decibels seemed to incite folks to dance and drink. There was no quiet, elevator music. The crowds that frequented Underground did not come to sit in a library-quiet-coffee-shop-like corner, hold intellectual conversations, and stylishly sip from wine glasses. The came to boogie.

One of the coolest places to play in Underground was a club called, "Sergeant Pepper's." Like the legendary Cheers from the sit-com, Sergeant Pepper's was below street level. A long staircase led down to the front door. It almost felt like you were entering a New York subway station as you descended down below the streets of Underground. Sergeant Pepper's had rustic looking wooden floors, a large bar, and limited seating that encircled a gigantic dance floor. It was obvious that this place was built for two things - drinking and dancing. The ceilings were exposed beams, with an extensive air-conditioning duct system hanging in full view. Every square centimeter of the ceiling and duct work had been sprayed with foam insulation. Only heaven knows how much asbestos we all breathed in that place.

The only other music scene in Atlanta that rivaled Underground involved the hordes of singles apartments and their party-central clubhouses. Our band was king of this circuit - playing every single weekend, and even on weeknights about half the time. We had all been to Underground to check out the clubs and bands, but had never gotten our foot in the door to play at one of these storied clubs.

Enter our drummer, Robert Banks.

Robert was the epitome of the skinny kid who can't sit still in church, school, or any place else. If there had been conditions like ADD in Robert's day, he would have been ADDDDDDDDDD. This is one of the reasons he made such a great drummer. Pounding the daylights out of a drum kit, surrounded by drumheads and cymbals that begged to be struck over and over, was Robert Banks' heaven. His flaming red hair and spindly legs made him look almost clown-like. It was fun to stand back and watch him devour a set of drums.

Robert's hyper personality also moved him to be the band's self-appointed booking agent. He could talk the britches off a prostitute, and have her paying him for the evening's festivities. Too, Robert never met a stranger. He was not in sales for his day job, but he should have been. Robert got our band more gigs than anybody. In five minutes with a club owner or apartment complex clubhouse entertainment coordinator (yes, they did have those back in the day), Robert could somehow convince them that we were the next Lynyrd Skynyrd. He was almost always able to get us more money than the venue manager/owner would normally pay. We owe that great guy a lot.

The year was 1974. Actually, the gig was to be on New Year's Eve - 1974 (and ending on New Year's morning - 1975). About three weeks prior, Robert waltzed into one of our Christmas Party gigs and announced, "We got it, dude!" "Got what???" was the rest of the band's reaction. "The gig to end all gigs," Robert said, slapping his legs with his drumsticks. "New Year's Eve...Sergeant Pepper's...Underground...9-Until...$100 per hour...Dude!!!"

The other four of us cheered.

The night was magical from start to finish.

Our roadies - Kenny Polson, Billy Page, Scott Goza, and a couple of their friends had lugged our huge Marshall amplifiers down the long flight of stairs and set them up, as always, in their proper stage configuration. They had the PA system all rigged up and ready, and our guitars were sitting on their stands in front of the amps when we arrived about 7:30 PM. We walked in like rock stars. The New Year's Eve crowd had already started to gather. There were great looking, young females everywhere. They cheered when they realized that we were the band! Life was good, and only going to get better!

As usual, we tuned up and ran through one number as a sound check. Our standard sound check tune was, "Sweet Home Alabama." When we cranked into that classic anthem of 70's southern rock, the patrons at Sergeant Pepper's cheered, the ladies hit the dance floor, and even the bartenders and owner stopped what they were doing to listen. You know it's going to be a good night when even the bartenders are bobbing their heads in time with the music. We ran through about half of the song, and stopped. This guitar player thought here was going to be a mini-riot among those gathered. There was still a little over an hour to go. The owner was smiling.

Nine o'clock seemed like it would never come.

But come it finally did. Every booth and table in Sergeant Pepper's was full. As we started our first set, the crowd was ripe for a party. Almost half of those who had been sitting and talking were immediately on their feet. Most of them did not sit down for the rest of the night - at least while we were playing.

There were so many memorable moments on that night. But, as usual, there was one moment that stood out above the rest.

This guitar player was on the left hand side of the stage - as the stage faced the dance floor. Fortunately, the ladies restroom was on the very same side of the stage.

The female bladder is a very delicate and sensitive thing. At every ballgame, concert, movie, and church service, a perpetual stream of female restroom goers snakes their way to the ladies' room under the guise of, "powdering their noses." Too, as young ladies pour liquid into their bodies at a place such as Sergeant Pepper's, and as they actively gyrate around a dance floor, it is a given that their bladders will work overtime.

That night, it was very difficult to concentrate on D - C & G with a constant bevy of eligible, southern belles strolling by. This challenge became even more daunting whenever the line stopped for any appreciable period of time. During one of these times, the mother of all groupies came by the stage.

I never really saw her go by. We were playing Lynyrd Skynyrd's, "Needle & The Spoon." This tune was a very popular cut from their monster album, "Second Helping." Everybody knew and loved Skynyrd, and this song was one of their best. "Needle & The Spoon," has a somewhat unique guitar solo. Seldom did the Skynyrd guitarists use an effects pedal called a, "Wah Wah," but on this particular song, the soloist did.

To play a solo utilizing a wah wah pedal, the guitarist has to stand still, while placing one of his feet out in front of his body to rock back and forth on the pedal. This means that his legs will be spread a little wider apart than normal. He is as helpless in that position as a new baby in its crib.

Solo time came in the song. This guitar player was really getting into the solo. All was going well. When, suddenly, without warning, the feeling of a dainty female hand became unmistakable - as it ascended up this guitarist's left upper thigh. Continuing up the thigh like a reptile sliding through the leaves of a palm tree, this young lady's hand finally and purposely found its mark. And, once she got, "there," she held on for dear life.

I do not remember a single note of the remainder of the solo. I immediately turned and looked. She was blonde, had a body that was built for naughtiness, and was obviously not shy. She winked, pooched her lips and blew a kiss, and gave one last, memorable squeeze. Giggling, she and her female friend turned and made their way through the restroom door.

Everyone who has been in a band and has played out in public has their stories. Some are hard to believe, and some even harder to forget. The 1970's was a great time to be young and in a band in the south. Atlanta was a hopping place in those days. Lots of single folks, lots of places wanting music for those single folks, and lots of memories waiting to be made.

To Sergeant Pepper's, the Pump House, the Mad Hatter, and all the other great music clubs in Underground Atlanta, thank you. You gave us a place to have great fun. And, you paid us well while we were having it. And, to all those young ladies who made being in a band THE place to be, your reaction to our musical efforts was - rewarding!  

This guitar player will never forget you.