the lowdown, law-defying, speed-fueled, underside of Fort Worth in the mid-60’s. The night before the Kennedy assassination there were CIA operatives partying late at the Cellar. I was unaware of just how dangerous my environment was, although I could feel its undercurrent, and the mystery was intoxicating. I was glad to have a job that wasn’t in the blazing Texas heat, curious and ready to live the musician nightlife. I had been there once before when I drove over from Garland with acarload of guys who just wanted to check it out after hearing the place described. Considering my age, I don’t know how I even got in, but a month or so later I was playing there with my high school combo “The Untouchables.”  

         The first version of the Cellar was downstairs, as you would expect, a basement beatnik coffee house started in 1959. I never saw that place. By ’65 it was at the upstairs walkup location on Main, not far from the Tarrant County courthouse. You entered and climbed the stairs to black walls with slogans written in day-glow. “Evil Is Live Spelled Backwards.” “Motel Is Letom Spelled Backwards.” And “You Must Be Weird or You Wouldn’t Be Here.” The bandstand was across the back wall with a riser for drums, house amps (Fender), and microphones (Electro-Voice 664s), with monitors overhead. There was a catwalk riser in front of the stage that separated the band from the mostly male audience who sat on pillows to ogle the dancing girls. When they were prancing the catwalk in panties and bra and you were singing a Beatle’s “ooh la,la,la” at crotch level night after night, a lot of the teenage mystery a boy has about girls became sweaty, fragrant reality.            

         Yes, all the waitresses wore only panties and bra, and there was a small riser in the middle of the pillow area in front of the band for some striptease. Considering the topless bars and all-nude shows of today, it was almost innocent. A young girl would do the hoochie-coo, hunch-and-grind moves and take off her clothes with all the suggestive bravura she could conjure till she was down to a bikini. Then they would kill the lights for an instant as she took off her top and the bouncer shined a flashlight on her bare breasts. The moment you realized you were seeing tits, they were gone. She would throw her top to the crowd of horny young rednecks, jump off the riser, and run backstage giggling. It was over in a flash and all the guys would keep howling and whistling. The routine got old fast, even for a band of horny sixteen-year-olds. I was more into playing pinball during our breaks.   

         I assume we got the gig because we did extra good Beatle’s covers and wore matching collarless jackets with Beatle boots, doing our best to achieve mop tops in those days of high school haircut fascism. Tommy, our lead singer/rhythm guitarist, played a seafoam green Stratocaster and a tobacco sunburst ’58 Les Paul. Wes played his semi-hollow single pickup Harmony bass. Eddie played a Farfisa organ and some harmonica and rhythm guitar. George was our energetic stick-twirling drummer. The good thing about the Cellar was nobody dictating what to play as long as it was rockin’ the place. We did favorite Stones, Animals, and Beau Brummels to go with our Beatle’s stuff and rock’n’roll standards. I do wish there were recordings, but it might be tough to hear myself singing “Long Tall Sally” at age sixteen. We rotated sets with two other bands, playing one hour on and two hours off. One of the acts was Johnny Nash, an excellent jazz guitar player, another was the infamous Cellar Dwellers. There was a fellow named Jack Estes who called himself Jack Asstes. He sang dirty limericks and novelties. Johnny Carroll was an adept showman, finishing his set with his echoplex continuing to loop his tricky guitar riff as he left the stage, smiling and waving.

         Depending on what rotation you were on with the other bands, starting earlier or later, the evenings would be hour sets at 6:00 pm, 9:00 pm, 12:00 am, and 3:00 am. The next week you might have the slot to start an hour later and follow the rotation. We never left there before 4:00 am, but we were making $25 a night and glad to get it. There was a Chinese restaurant across the street where I would spend some of my break time doing my American history homework for summer school. The waitress would let me nurse an egg drop soup and sneak a nap in a back booth. I was living on coffee and eating NoDoz like M&M’s. We didn’t know about all the amphetamines that were going around. I never saw a white cross or black mollie till the following summer. I guess we looked so young no one was tempted to corrupt us.     

         Our routine for getting to the Fort Worth Cellar from North Dallas every night was to meet at the all-night bowling alley where Tommy told his parents he worked. We would disconnect the odometer from his dad’s blue Ford Galaxie, load guitars in the trunk and pile in, the five of us. When we finished our last set at the Cellar at four or five in the morning, we would drive back to Dallas in time for me to get to my 7:00 am American history class. At 1:00 pm I was at my drug store job delivering prescriptions until 6:00 pm. Then I would meet the band at the bowling alley for the hour drive to Fort Worth, play all night, then drive back to make it to summer school at South Garland High. With my divorced parents not monitoring my whereabouts, there was no one to report to. It’s a mystery to me now how I made it all work. I was attempting to sleep in the car going to and from Fort Worth and Dallas every day and catching catnaps when I could. Of course, I fell asleep in class constantly, stirred awake by the yell of Coach Hicks, the monotoned textbook reader.

         There are so many dramatic incidents to recall from the Cellar days, but when I’m around other friends who worked there, I always get around to telling this one. I picture myself playing pinball while on break and seeing a muscled-up, shaved head dude seated nearby casually tear the side of a waitress’ panties, so that as she walked away with her tray, they began to slide down her leg. When she realized what had happened, she turned to see the “Mr. Clean” dude grinning big and sticking out his tongue with a flutter. She immediately walked over and slapped him, then he grabbed her wrist as she went for another. In an instant, an army of bouncers were on him, and he was batting them away like flies until a big biker dude (who I always assumed was owner Pat Kirkwood’s personal bouncer) appeared with a pipe wrapped with black electrician’s tape. The pipe bent a little, cartoon-like, when it came down on his fat, slick head. That got the blood started. As soon as the big fella was struck, he turned to go for the guy who hit him, leaving himself open to a straight-on second blow directly to the face, then another to the side of his head that brought blood from his ear. Brass knucks and slapjacks came out as a group of four or five bouncers kicked him all the way down the stairs and into the street. I followed the action with a few other band members on break. The bloody hulk stumbled away with the bouncers still cussing him. We all stood around reliving the drama and going over what had happened. The waitress who got it all started was now wearing new panties and waving the torn ones.

         Ten minutes later a white Mercury Comet convertible came down Main Street very slowly. As it approached, we realized it was big bad bloody Mr. Clean at the wheel. The windshield wipers were swiping back and forth for no reason. The car was swerving into the curb and bouncing off as it approached. He was waving a pistol and hollerin’ out, “I’m gonna kill all you assholes,” as he slowly rolled by, nearly unconscious. His car eased on down Main toward the courthouse and finally veered off to the right and hit a streetlight pole and stopped. By now the law was on the scene, and an ambulance came and hauled him away. Eddie, our organ player, was curious enough to walk down the street and get a better look at the blood all over the white vinyl seats. It was the story we had to tell till the next one, and it remains a movie in my mind. After all the activity that summer, going back to school to start my junior year of high school felt like a vacation.