The Peter Frampton show did not go as expected.
Apparently, something happened to Frampton at the last minute; a mishap with his vocoder, perhaps. We were all worried then because there would be no entertainment for the big fundraiser to save the frat.
But then Jon Favreau appeared in the doorway with none other than George Clinton and Parliament Funkadelic. Way to go, Gutter!
I did not actually see very much of the show. The seats were filled by the time I got there, so I had to stand in the aisle. Not a good vantage point for someone who is two feet tall.
Being flanked by patchouli-drenched hippies was an added bonus. And by ‘bonus,’ I mean ‘fate worse than warm Pabst.’ Get the funk out of Chocolate City, longhairs.
Speaking of Pabst, the good ol’ Blue Ribbon was graciously served at the well-appointed Orpheum bar. As I climbed upon a stool to summon a barmaid, a Coastie next to me ordered a Vox on the rocks. High-priced liquor is not magic; it will not turn you into not-a-jackass.
But the bass was phenomenal.
Even from the storeroom, where I found a secret stash of Pringles and string cheese, I was treated to heart-thumping extended versions of the standards “Atomic Dog” and “We Want the Funk.”
During the 20-minute guitar solo intermission, I nipped off next door with some friends for a bit of smoked salmon and Miller High Life Light. Eventually we made our way back and I scored a better seat up in the balcony.
Sir Nose (devoid of funk) had found the light, and was dancing funkily atop a speaker stack. I, on the other hand, found a quarter on the floor. Plans for Galaga were made.
At about a quarter to midnight, some fruitstand started turning up the house lights. My need for groove not yet sated, I bit him in the ankle and we found common ground — in him turning down the lights and me not biting him again that much.
A half-hour later the band was spent and retreated to the Georgia plate-bearing motherships parked along Johnson Street.
After the show, I met up with a couple of Navy buddies and headed over to the Plaza, with memories of the operation performed by Dr. Funkenstein still fresh in my mind. The night ended with Seaman Jesse (Lieutenant, Junior Grade), clad in his dress whites, screaming “Edmund Fitzgerald” at the bartenders and searching furiously for Gordon Lightfoot in the jukebox.
If only the previous two-term president had been this Clinton.