Beejorama

MICK JAGGER

Part One is John Callahan’s recollection; Part Two is mine.

It was 1991. (A few of us went to a bachelor party for one of the Jimmy’s waiters and we ended up) at a “gentlemen’s club” on Sunset Boulevard, called “The Body Shop” (not too subtle). As we were sneaking shots into our sodas, I heard a dancer mention something about Mick Jagger. I looked around the room and there he was, sitting at a table with two guys who looked like linebackers in suits. I was definitely the biggest Stones fan at the table, because when I suggested we say ‘hello,’ everyone else backed off. I knew I had to say ‘hello,’ so I approached his table. One of the bodyguards stood up and squared off with me. I told him I just wanted to meet Mick. Mick waved him off and I told him how much I loved his music, blah, blah, blah, which he has heard thousands of times. But he was cool and put his hand out. I shook it and he said, “Thanks, man.” That was it. But it was a great moment for me. 

William, you can vouch for me on this one.

William:

Yeah, so true. I remember a few things: like all of a sudden the girls on the stage in front of us disappeared and we couldn’t figure out where the hell they went until we saw Jagger at a rail a few stages down and that’s where all the dancers had gravitated—of course, in true stripper fashion, following the money. 

Secondly, I look over at Mick and I’m trying to get a bead on his emotions (I know, a weird thing to be doing in a strip club, but there you have it). And I’m running titles from the entire Stones’ catalogue through my mind—”She’s Like a Rainbow,” “Satisfaction,” “Honky Tonk Woman,” Sympathy for the Devil,” “Brown Sugar,” et. al.—trying to match the song with the moment but nothing’s sticking. And here’s Mick, and he’s like in his late forties, his eyes not wavering from the stage, and what I’m really wondering is: What is Mick Jagger doing alone in a strip joint on a random Wednesday night? Hasn’t this guy had enough, er, companionship in his life? How much is too much? Don’t you just reach a point? . . .

And I’m left there, pondering.

So after John introduces himself to Mick (truth is, I don’t head over with him because I’m just not that big of a Stones fan—now were it Bukowski or Pete Townsend . . .), and we hang out at our table awhile longer, finish our spiked colas and head to our cars parked on the hilly, apartment building-cluttered side streets off the Strip, feeling like you always do heading back to your car from any late night venue in LA—alone—it dawns on me: “Ruby Tuesday.” 

“Lose your dreams and you will lose your mind.”

Even Mick.

One last thing, earlier in the night a stripper walks by and notices John, hamburger in hand, eyes agog on one of the dancers on a pole in front of us, and she quips, “How’s the burger?” . . . oh, wait, that was a different place, different time. (Sorry, John.)

FRANK SINATRA

He was always a sharp dresser, sported a year-round glossy tan, and was groomed to perfection with nary and never a gray curl out of place. He knew the lyrics to every standard by heart and could tinkle the ivory with surprising aplomb.

He was also sweetly, disarmingly gay. 

And no, we’re not talking about Sinatra here but a piano player at Jimmy’s, Reese Allen. Reese was an endearing little man with an ever ready smile, diminutive in stature—frail comes to mind—and of that age where politeness begged off asking (he was a friend of Mae West, one of her boys as it were, so you could place him in his late sixties). He was east London born and had come to America a long time ago with show biz ambitions, and now played the piano a couple nights a week in the lounge, clad in a tux and belting out the standards—Porter, Van Heusen, Cahn, et.al.—in a voice that sounded a lot like Kermit the Frog (if Kermit had an Estuary English accent.) 

Reese never spoke of burning desires or throttled dreams—probably well past the stage where those things mattered—but still lugged around one all-consuming obsession . . . and that was to meet the Chairman of the Board, Ol’ Blue Eyes himself, his idol of idols, Frank Sinatra. 

And Reese had a plan. 

On a regular basis, Bob Newhart and Don Rickles, and their wives, would head to the bar after dinner and gather around the piano to hear Reese sing. One evening, Reese asked Newhart and Rickles for a favor—would it be possible somewhere down the road for them to introduce him to Mr. Sinatra (he humbly submitted)? He was Sinatra’s biggest fan and it would be the fulfillment of one of his life’s biggest dreams if they could help him out. The Newharts, Rickles and Sinatras often dined and cocktailed together, and without making promises (because Sinatra was so mercurial and you never knew what frickin’ mood he was in and how’d he’d react and so forth) that next time they were in, Newhart and Rickles offered to see what they could do. 

So a week or so later, shortly before the dinner hour, who descends into our sunken lounge and piano bar, sans wives, but Newhart, Rickles and the Sultan of Swoon himself. They take a seat in one of the discreet, recessed banquettes across the room and settle in. Were we to pan across the room to the piano at this instant, we would find a slight, silver-haired crooner in a white tux, saucer-eyed and stumbling over a lyric, looking as if he’d just passed what he assumed was gas and suddenly realized wasn’t. His eyes were riveted on Frank. And from that point on, did he put on a show. His posture piqued, his face radiated and somehow lost years, almost as though his wrinkles had receded in excitement. He sang number after number as the lyrics seemed to float on an invisible breeze. No matter that Frank, chatting with his buddies, gave no indication that Reese was even there, Reese continued in that rapt state until, suddenly, Newhart stood and headed to the piano. 

A few words were exchanged and slowly Reese rose from the bench, and followed Newhart toward the banquette. With a steadying gait—you couldn’t tell if he were being led to his execution or a date with Santa—Reese approached Sinatra.

As Newhart returned to his seat, Rickles and Sinatra continued their conversation, not even acknowledging the (now extremely awkward) little man who stood before them. But Resse launched away: 

“Oh, Mr. Sinatra,” he said. “I’ve been your biggest fan for years. You were my inspiration when I heard first heard you on the radio with Mr. Dorsey. I knew right off . . . well, my friend Mae West, God bless her, and I, we used to listen to to your records for literally hours on end . . .” And on and on and on Reese gushed. 

Until Frank stopped him with a nod, and beckoned him forward with index finger. Reese timidly leaned closer.

Sinatra stared him in the eye. “Sing closer to the mic,” he said. 

That’s all he said. Sing frickin’ closer to the mic. Then resumed his chat with Rickles. 

With a kind of dazed look, Reese turned and walked back to the piano.

Needless to say, the last half of Reese’s set was more subdued than the first—but you could hear him better. He sang closer to the mic. 

LAWRENCE WELK

Another contribution by John Callahan.

Off to the side of the bar was a small dance floor. To give you an idea of how small, the Steinway baby grand piano took up about half the space, so not really a dance floor but more like a place to plant your feet while gathering around the piano with a cocktail in your hand. One of our piano players, John Gilmore, worked on the side from time to time with a jazz trio, and the bass player had been in Lawrence Welk’s Band.

Now for those who don’t know, Lawrence Welk was a bandleader, accordion player, and an icon of early television. He was famous for producing “champagne music,” a ‘lite,’ bubbly alternative to the more aggressive sounds of Glen Miller and Duke Ellington, and his conservative, non-offending aural pablum keyed a thirty-one year run for his show, The Lawrence Welk Show, one hour each week on Saturday nights, most of that stretch on ABC. 

As for Welk the man—by all reports, he was a pretty decent fellow: married to the same woman for sixty-one years; shrewd but honest businessman who paid his musicians well (and on time!); and (interesting fact) took Communion everyday of his life. 

But the one thing Welk was famous for, after his music, was his accent. He was born in North Dakota in an entirely German-speaking enclave, and he never fully conquered the English idiom. His malapropisms and confusion of even the simplest of colloquial phrases, which came to be known as Welk-isms, became his trademark and endeared him to his fans. And they never failed to crack up his band members. 

And now we come full circle back to John’s bass player and to John himself, who related this story. One night, while speaking to the bassist, John pressed him for some inside Welk gossip, hoping to rake some dirt on a man whose reputation was impossibly immaculate. The bassist paused for a moment, then said, “Well, there’s this:  

“We were at midweek rehearsal one night when Welk comes into the studio and gathers us around. Something was up. We could tell by his demeanor. Generally easy going, we had seen this look a few times and we knew it meant business. He began to speak. 

“Now what he meant to say was: ‘Ok men, there have been some problems in rehearsal, so you had better be on your toes or I may have to pull you of the show.’ But what he actually said was, and I am totally serious, ‘Ok, men, pee on your toes or I may have to jerk you off!’ There was not one lunch left in our stomachs by the time we got done laughing.”

Apparently, Welk realized his error, laughed along with them and no one lost his job. And we got a Welk-ism you will never find in the history books. 

OLIVER REED

I would like to thank John Callahan for allowing me to reprint his story. But first, I begin with a prelude.

Our job was not complicated but it took a certain knack, which all good bartenders have. John and I worked the evening shift at Jimmy’s and, not to brag, we both had that knack in spades. We had a huge following of Beverly Hills and Bel Air regulars who flocked in nightly for the music, the scene and the booze. On these busy nights, our rhythm behind the bar was like a choreographed jazz riff, metered by the flow of unending pours, pirouettes past the espresso machine, and well-timed tacits before a punch line. Our regulars loved us. We were ears to their troubles and hackneyed jokes, and we bequeathed them a validation they were bereft of elsewhere. We were their home (and occasionally drove them to their real ones when a night of “validation” rendered them immotile).

So most of all, they truly knew we cared about them (even the ones with sick money we shamelessly and openly pandered to). But there was another element at play in our success that was maybe even more important: both of us had total command in that bar. Our patrons could trust us in their most vulnerable moments, when the liquor kicked in, and knew they’d be fine; we were their proxies of consciousness that allowed them a respite from their skins, if only briefly, and an unscathed return to normal lives the next morning. 

On the other hand, Vinnie, the day bartender at Jimmy’s and the third member of our team, possessed none of these attributes. He poured drinks (often lots of them) and filled a slot, which was seemingly to get the afternoon drinkers as drunk as possible until John and I arrived at our shifts to clean up his mess: a bar full of shit-faced drunks. 

And this is how the Oliver Reed story started with John.

                                                                                           ***

It was a typical drive from my suburban home, with a pool, loyal wife, and three children, driving my “sedate sedan” down the San Diego Freeway to Beverly Hills. As usual, my air conditioning wasn’t working, and within minutes my clothes were soaked with sweat. I looked “unsightly,” as the owner of Jimmy’s liked to say. The drive took me well over an hour, stop-and -go traffic, with all of my windows rolled down, breathing in the diesel-filled exhausts of the trucks and busses. When I finally exited the freeway, I headed east on the Santa Monica Freeway to Beverly Hills. The air became cleaner and 20 degrees cooler. I felt better, and put on a Stones CD, pounding out “Brown Sugar” on the steering wheel. I pulled into the underground parking lot, past the scowling valets, Rolls Royces and limos, and found a spot at the very end of the lot. I got out and looked at myself in the car window. Shit. Oh well . . . shrugged my shoulders and went in the employee entrance.  

As soon as I got to the lounge and ducked under the bar hatch, I knew something was wrong. Vince scooped up his tips and scurried past me, whispering, “Be careful.” Thanks Vince. I started counting the till when I heard a loud bellowing. I looked up. Please God, no! But there he was. The infamous Oliver Reed, in all his debauched glory. I was already frazzled from the drive, and now I had to face this. Thanks Vince. For those who don’t know, Oliver Reed was an English actor, and a barrel-chested bull in a china shop. He had built a reputation as a true bartender’s nightmare. He was known to grab a bartender by the tie, and pull him over the bar for the smallest perceived slight. It is rumored that bartenders began wearing clip on ties because of him. 

He had stains on his white shirt, and a matted beard. His eyes were more of a maroon than red. “Aaarrgghh!” he screamed at me, “Give me and me crew a round of black rum.” I looked at the bottle of Bacardi Black, which was nearly empty. Strange, it was full only last night. Thanks Vince. Against my better judgment, I reached into the cabinet and pulled out a fresh bottle, and poured them all a shot in their empty tumblers. “Give us a man’s shot,” he yelled at me. The other bartender did!” Thanks Vince. I felt my heartbeat pick up and my Irish adrenaline started pumping. “I have to charge double for a man’s shot,” I retorted. He gave me a short glare, and drank his drink.  

The mood at the bar slowly started to change, something not many, except someone who has been “behind bars” for over 20 years, would notice. I signaled to the cocktail waitress to bring some cups and a pot of coffee, but before she could, Reed suddenly yelled out, “Another round of black rum!” His “crew” cheered. I just stood there. He looked at me and yelled louder, “I said another round for me and me crew!” I planted myself and said, evenly but strongly, “I’m sorry, Mr. Reed, but I can’t serve you anymore.” It sounded like I was hearing my own voice from a distance. Everything became very quiet. He turned to me, fire in his eyes. “Listen you, I’m a pirate captain and this is my crew! Now give us that fucking rum!” I leaned toward him, but not too close, and for some reason that I shall never understand, I said, in even a louder voice, “Well I’m the captain of this ship, and you’re all cut off!” He looked at me, fire in his eyes, shaking with rage. He slowly turned his head toward someone who seemed to be his first mate, and said, “Shall I kill him?” “No, Oliver,” his friend said. “Perhaps it’s time to move on.” I went back to making drinks for the cocktail waitresses and waiters, who had been enjoying the show. The manager had long since disappeared into the back office, which he always did at the first sign of trouble. I felt Oliver’s eyes boring into the side of my head. During my early days as a bartender at a rowdy dive bar in Venice, I saw a bartender take a beer mug in the face while trying to reason with a drunk. Never try to reason with a drunk. Just ignore them, which I did—and they slowly left, with a few choice pirate curses for me. 

So a couple hours pass and later, as I was telling my tale to the bar regulars, laughing it up like I wasn’t afraid, the cocktail waitress said, “He’s Baaacckk.” 

I looked up the short set of steps, and there he was—drunker than ever, if that is humanly possible, and swaying from side to side. He had two very large men with him who looked like they had just been released from prison. He marched down the steps while they waited. He walked right up to me, and said in a very loud baritone, “I’ll have that drink now!” The other bar customers looked away, not wanting to make eye contact. The line of waiters disappeared. I said in a calm voice, “I can’t. I already told you. Why don’t you come back tomorrow?” He leaned over the bar. This was it. I clutched my tie instinctively. “Listen, mate,” he whispered. “Give us a glass of orange juice, would you?” I got it. He was trying to save face. I reached for a glass, filled it with ice, and said, loud enough for the others to hear, “Ok, ok, you’ll get your drink.” I held the glass beyond their line of sight and filled it with orange juice, shaking my head. I set it in front of him. He turned to his companions and triumphantly raised his glass. They cheered him. He guzzled the drink and slammed it on the bar, and as I shall never forget, he looked up with a smile and winked at me.  

And off he went into the night, head held high, never to be seen by me again. 

DEAN MARTIN

My friend, and fellow bartender at Jimmy’s, John Callahan, posted this vignette and with his permission I am grateful he is letting me repost here.

When I worked at Jimmy’s, Dean Martin came in on Friday nights with his family, including son-in-law Carl Wilson, of the Beach Boys. They always stopped at the bar for a drink before dinner. One night the family went to their table, while Dean continued to sit at the bar. He had never gotten over the death of his son Dino, and he looked like a sad old man, his head bent down as he nursed his scotch and soda. Two older women very timidly approached him from behind, clutching pen and paper. I said quietly, “Dean, I think these ladies want your autograph.” Suddenly, he sat upright, took off his glasses, and turned to the ladies. I have never seen anything quite like it. His face transformed into THE Dean Martin, the Star. He gave them a killer smile, and said, in his famous baritone, “Hello ladies.” They gasped audibly. He gave them both his autograph, and kissed them on the cheek. They walked away smiling, in a cloud. Then, slowly, he took off the Dean Martin mask, put his glasses on, and once again became a sad old man.

MUHAMMAD ALI

He wasn’t “the Greatest” anymore. Still physically imposing and still surrounded by an overblown entourage, he shuffled toward his table—VIP section, of course. But it wasn’t the “Ali shuffle” we knew and were awed by from his glory days in the ring; it was the unsteady gait of a man old beyond his years, the slow, tentative steps of someone who’d been dealing with Parkinson’s for over a decade. The face was still there (at one point the most recognizable visage in the world), albeit a bit soft now, even bloated, skin the color of tanned mule deer hide, those small ears succumbing to age and gravity, now lobed and droopy. But you could see it in his eyes. They’d lost the cocky twinkle and focus, and seemed to be locked in a search—both outward and       inward—for something, or someone, to grasp. In other words, you could tell he wasn’t all there. I’d heard rumors that a particularly despicable young waiter, while serving Ali a meal, whispered “Ding, ding, ding” in his ear and Ali rose to his feet, shadow boxing ghosts. But that was only a rumor (which becomes less LOL and more WTF as one ages, of course). 

DEAN MARTIN

John and I had just started working at Jimmy’s, a famous restaurant and watering hole back in the 80s in Beverly Hills, known for its megawatt star clientele and patrons with net worths easily exceeding most Third World nations’. 

So here it was, a busy Friday night, tandem bartenders behind a packed bar, barely able to steal an occasional wide-eyed glance at the splashy décor and the occasional A-list celeb traipsing past on the way to his or her table, both of us truly in awe of our new surroundings.

As if on cue, John and I catch each other’s eye: here’s frickin’ Dean Martin taking a seat in the middle of our bar. John gives me a look. He takes Dean’s order, cocks an eyebrow, and now at the well, his back to Dean, I watch him pour about a 4 oz. shot of J&B scotch into a tall tumbler and fill it with soda, and return the drink to Mr. Martin. We are slammed, and no sooner do we get back to work, when out of nowhere comes this rich baritone voice, bellowing across the bar. It’s Martin.

“Whoa! Who’s the new drummer?!”

John and I swivel. Dean’s got this sour look on his face, his lips puckered, as he gingerly pushes his drink away from him.

Turns out that despite his reputation as a heavy drinker, Dean preferred just a drop of scotch in his soda. On his first night serving Dean Martin, John had presumed otherwise, and the most famous lush in the world at that time let him know about it.

I pledge a great deal of doubt to the Flag of the United States of America, and to the thinly veiled plutocracy for 

which it stands, one Nation (of countless special interest groups) under no God (in deference to secular 

correctness), divided, with liberty and justice for all (who have money or the whimsical support of the fickle 

masses’ current activist agenda).