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I borrowed the following phrasing from Ghost of Halloween since the experience turned into exactly an analogous, albeit decades ahead for this case: The band sought hard to find new phrases after Buckners explorations, but perpetually seem to fall short. They blew, they tried hard, they discovered it, they lost it, they wrestled, they writhed, they discovered it again. Someone would start a riff, and theyd jump in; each with his own head organization. They laughed, they cried as they fought to find that one pure harmonic sound that would someday be known since the sole sound that can also bring mans heart to joy; and Ron sweated at the bar, and drunkenly yelled for them to swing it! They didnt find that elusive sound, but they tried; and I knew on account of Buckner, theyd try again and again.

But Bus frowned. Cmon, guys, whatre you talkin? You were fidgeting with him for craps sake. Lets furnish it a go. Therere employees here who need entertained.

In the DRUM ROOM, a swing combo under the direction of Bud Widmers brother, Bus, came in about eight oclock, unpacked and played until two the following morningAll Saints Day. Ron and I were there on barstools with cocktailsI had moments before broken up with a female friend, and zipped upstairs to escape. At the intermission we cruised all up-and-down Clinton Street in Rons vintage, ugly Dodge Wayfarer attempting to pick out-up girls; virtually simply entice them back to Adolphs. Unfortunately, maximum seemed wary of Rons uncool, vintage-lady, maroon monstrosity of a car, and petrified of his bespectacled bug-eyed stare and erratic driving. The latter courtesy of beers at Kissners and gin at Adolphs. What a mixture. To let you know the truth, I turned into a little bit frightened as well, my hand on the door care for able to bail. Ron tittered manically and drove like a demolition driving force. On one of the facet streets he backed up smack on a fire hydrant, scraped a parking meter, then ran into a slight-weight pole. Soon the car turned into an utter wreck. The brakes were squealing, the rods were rattling, the fenders were stove in, and the Dodge bucked convulsively at traffic lights. It had paid the price of a boozed-up drivers night. It turned into a mass of scrap steel, and no longer famous as a road-worthy car. It turned into the last car Ron turned into to own. In the decades that followed, he morphed into one of those town oddballs; the type mothers warn their children about. He can also be considered walking (haunting?) the streets alone in the least hours. Ron passed beyond the veil of life numerous years back.

I looked. Milt Buckner. (AUTHORS NOTE: Buckner turned into a native boy who made excellent. He discovered fame as Lionel Hamptons piano player, and later invented the locked hands, or block chord, style of piano playing made famous by George Shearing. To this day, the Rivers Jazz Festival is held in honor of two local jazz legends, specifically, Buckner and my fathers friend, Wild Bill Davison.) Buckner leaned his head on his proficient keyboard fingers, and his ears opened extensive as if to capture the sounds for his own use at the Scenic Supper Club. They urged him to get up and play, and he did with innumerable choruses, and extraordinary block chords that mounted higher and higher until sweat splashed everywhere the piano. They let him off after about an hour, Milt The MAN Buckner, and he returned to his dark booth.

One particular Saturday night turned into greater festive than maximum. A Halloween Parade had passed in front of Adolphs, and across the street at Kissners the Bud Widmer Rube Band launched into a suite of irreverent, rowdy Dixieland head preparations. The Rubers were the so-known as official band of New Orleans. Well, at the very least they had a proclamation from the mayor designating them as such after loads of Mardi Gras appearances. After two sets, the band settled back into serious beer drinking, and the hoard at Kissners headed for Adolphs. ASIDE: In November 2015, I wrote an essay entitled, Ghost of Halloween, which is about the last time I saw the Rube Band at Kissners. Refer to my authors page for the exciting play-by-play!

The boys in the band looked wiped out. One of them looked extensive-eyed and whined, Geez, Bus, howre we imagined to adhere to Buckner?

AFTERWARD: Adolphs and the Drum Room eventually went the process of Brigadoon. When? I dont know. I returned years later only to find a small green park where the tavern once stood. The whole town seemed different like the very spirit of youthful zeal disappeared as well, but virtually simply thats just taking into account I had grown vintage. Like Brigadoon, will Adolphs return in one-hundred years? If so, will I be there? How about a steamed ex-female friend?

Upstairs (for a cover charge) turned into the DRUM ROOM that featured are living musicnot a DJ with manufactured musicand a dance floor at the foot of a low stage. There turned into a bar at the back near the steps, and booths among the bar and the dancers. This turned into a chief spot for time-honored male-female social interactions, and where dates were made. New relationships began upstairs, and breakups occurred downstairs. I turned into involved with the two. BTW, honesty compels me to admit I turned into a lousy boyfriend.

At two-thirty in the morning, all of us, everybodyRon, me, bartenders, waitresses, girls in tight skirts, and the single unhappy, burned-out alto sax playerhis horn pads rainy and valves stickingwalked out into the autumn relax of early Midwestern morn to appear forward to the wild Adolphs weekend again.

ONCE UPON A TIMEmany decades up to now there existed a tavern that turned into a weekend hub of activity for young adults, college age and up. The joint turned into located in the northwest corner of a Midwestern state. Booze flowed freely all days other than Sunday. Fridays and Saturdays the place turned into two floors of elbow-to-elbow merriment. People dressed better then: men in coats-and-ties; women in cocktail dressesall well-groomed. Other symptoms of the time: the sound of a flicked Zippo, and cigarette smoke filling the airgasp, wheeze, cough, choke. (Sound effects courtesy of Al Capp.)
That tavern turned into ADOLPHS. The first floor featured an extended bar, booths, a cigarette mechanical device, and a juke box that perpetually seemed to be playing Mr. Acker Bilks, Stranger on the Shore. A buzz of activity filled the air, but not loud enough to inhibit commonplace conversation. This is where one met new employees, renewed acquaintances, and shared a drink or two before going upstairs.

Copyright 2018 by Gene Myers. One final call into the ether, Hey, Gib Reas, wherever you are, the following martinis for you.

Hot damn! Bus and the boys were still blowing when we got back to the DRUM ROOM. Suddenly, Ron looked into a shadowy booth to the left of the bandstand, and grabbed my arm. Myers, the MAN has arrived! He pointed into the dark corner.

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