Bob Bell - 26 shows, 23 cities, 31 days and God Only Knows How Many Miles
August rolled by, and the September tour dates were booked, a done deal, and Greg was booking fall and winter gigs.
All the promo had gone out, and the press interviews had been either scheduled or completed. Gail Nickse, an artist friend of the band had designed a logo, a sax player on a checkered floor, and we printed up T-shirts. Our last Rhode Island date was going to be the last day of August - the next day we were to depart for what was to be the band's longest tour to date.
There was just one little problem - our trumpet player Danny Motta was leaving. Danny had joined the band in late 1979 when Greg had reorganised Roomful following Duke Robillard’s departure. That was when he had hired Danny and Porky Cohen, the veteran trombone player who became such a favourite over the next few years, adding two brass instruments to the three reeds. He had also hired Texan singer Lou Ann Barton, who had been singing with Stevie Ray Vaughan’s Triple Threat. These were bold moves. Duke and Roomful had been synonymous, and by making these changes, Greg was creating a fresh environment for the new lineup, which included Duke’s replacement, Ronnie Horvath, soon to change his name to Ronnie Earl. Lou Ann couldn’t take the New England winters, and split after six months, in early 1980, not long before I had encountered the group in Atlanta, Georgia that year.
1979 Vinnie Scarano. Left-to-right: Lou Ann Barton, Rich Lataille, Ronnie Earl, Greg Piccolo, Danny Motta, Porky Cohen, Doug James, Jimmy Wimpfheimer, John Rossi, Al Copley. Photo by Vinnie Scarano
So Danny quit, right there on the eve of our first big national tour, right there as I was telling the country about this jumping and swinging band with its big five-piece horn section; now the number of horns was a dilemma, diminished as it was by twenty percent.
We had a gig at Harpo’s, a small club in Newport, Rhode Island, on Monday, August 31st. The following night we were to play The Red Creek Inn in Rochester, New York, and from there to play 26 shows in 23 cities in 31 days. All around the nation, coast to coast, east to west, north to south, all around North America. Greg had put the word out that we were looking for a trumpet player, and that night at Harpo’s a dark-bearded muscular guy, wearing a shabby long raincoat and holding a trumpet by his side, ambled up to the stand. Pic obviously knew him, and waved him up, pointing to the mic next to Porky.
Danny had had a great sound; his use of the plunger fit the band well, but this guy had power, power in spades. He hit notes spot on, time after time, pinning a shining polish to the top of the section, giving the sound a punch and precision. He blew, oh man, how he blew, hard, even, bang on the money, as strong at the close of the set as at the start of it. He had the chops, literally.
At the end of the night Pic and the bearded stranger leaned against the bar, deep in conversation, as I broke down the equipment and the PA. The trumpet player left and Greg came over to me and said, “He’s in, he’s coming on the road with us tomorrow, we’re gonna come over here early and pick him up.” And that was that.
Early the next day we pulled up outside a nondescript apartment house in Newport, and the bearded guy came out, carrying his horn and a suit bag. Giving the Suburban and the U-Haul trailer a quizzical and rather forlorn look, he climbed in. ‘Hey, you guys, I’m Bob. Bob Enos’. We found out days later that he thought he had really hit the big time, getting hired by Roomful of Blues, the band that was making so much noise in New England, and that the forlorn and quizzical look was due to his surprise that he wasn’t climbing aboard a swanky and luxurious tour bus. Greg had given him an idea of our upcoming schedule the night before, but I imagine it had not really sunk in. Or maybe it had, but the reality of traveling with nine other men in a Suburban for five weeks most certainly had not.
Bob Enoa: Photograph: Joe Rosen
I guess it was a very real reality by the time we hit Rochester late that afternoon, seven or eight long fidgety hours, shoulder to shoulder, knee to knee, cheek by jowl, those hours being eternities of discomfort, perpetuities of pain, eons of aches. And this was just the beginning.
The gig at the Red Creek that evening was fun as always. The place, a large restaurant with a big dance floor, was owned by Jeff Springut, who had been a supporter of the band for years. Roomful of Blues had a strong following there and always drew a good crowd. Usually present was Ann Piccolo, no relation to Greg, whose brother was Steve Alaimo who had made some good records back in the Sixties, and there was a sweet crippled guy in a wheelchair, named Eugene. I dunno just what ailed him, muscular dystrophy or something similar - he’d been stricken since birth. That night he was talking to Ronnie, saying in his nasal and highly pitched voice, ‘Aw, youse guys are great’, and Ronnie, thinking he is a she, bends over and takes his hand and kisses it. Not absolutely sure just what Eugene made of this act of gallantry, but I did notice he was a bit surprised.
We had a day off the next day, and I spent hours at what was perhaps the largest newspaper store I had ever been in. The place, just a few blocks from the Holiday Inn we always stayed at, carried papers from all over the world, plus the dailies from all the major US cities, to say nothing of magazines on every subject possible. Wearing my new found publicist’s hat I scoured the shelves, making notes of papers from towns we were about to play, or might play in the future, jotting down names of writers and critics, leafing through magazines, lost in the news, gossip and opinions of the multitudes of and from many nations. The place was a kick and a gas - for years after, whenever we hit Rochester, I’d make a beeline for the building.
Thursday was a show in Toronto, Canada, at a truly legendary showcase club, El Macombo, a venue that had been in business since 1948. The Stones had played there in the 1970s, which kinda put it on the map for many, but that was just one night out of thousands. Just a three-hour jump from Rochester to Toronto, but of course it meant crossing an international boundary, having to show work permits and all that kind of jazz. Slow and tedious, but as always, worth it come showtime. From there a five-hour drive through Canada to Detroit and on to Ann Arbor, Michigan, and Rick’s American Cafe. Ann Arbor was and still is a college town, and Rick’s, with the obligatory Bogart logos, a popular destination on the blues and rock circuit.
Another day off in Ann Arbor, before showtime on Saturday. Odd to have a Friday off, but looking ahead at the schedule, it was a day to be savoured. Albi introduced me to Jerry Del Guidice, owner of Blind Pig Records, who lived in town. His label had a roster of intriguing acts, such as John Mooney, Johnny Nicholas, Walter Horton, Roosevelt Sykes, Boogie Woogie Red and Steve Nardella. Locals Mark Braun, playing piano as Mr. B, and Steve Nardella showed for the gig, sitting in for a few tunes.
It was at the end of the show, leaving up against the bar, I saw my first giant. A huge muscular guy, he towered over all of us. “Jeez,” I muttered to Doug. “Who the fuck’s that?” “Oh, I dunno. Some football jock I guess, most guys on those teams, they gotta be big like that. Get squashed if not.”
As the years have gone by, I know I have seen plenty of athletes like that, but he was the first one, and I guess he made an impression, fortunately just a visual one. I would have hated to meet him on a football field.
From Ann Arbor, it was a four-hour trek to Chicago, through Battle Creek, Kalamazoo, past the rusting ruins of abandoned steel mills and vacant factories in Gary - it was sad to see the dereliction and decay of these areas - immense areas of real estate just let go, crumbling, long walls of shattered windows, nary an unbroken pane to be seen, rust streaked concrete, brown rusted steel structures and deserted machinery aimlessly pointing at the sky, their purpose buried in time, forgotten railroad lines to nowhere, bent and buckled, acres of land that had hit the skids, tangled with weeds and scrawny trees, bridges lorn and bereft of traffic, home to none but hoboes and vagabonds, ragged and desperate in the night. Looking at all this waste and ruin, the exhaust of a profligate society, just made one realise how much wealth there was in this country, just how much there was to spare, to simply be able to afford to abandon all of this.
Chicago, Chicago, that toddlin’ town. Why is it called that toddlin’ town? Fred Fisher wrote ‘Chicago’ in 1922, and the lyrics do indeed refer to ’that toddlin’ town’, and it turns out that The Toddle was just one of the many dance crazes to hit in the early twenties, along with the Shimmy and all the mad steps that went with Chicago’s place in the history of jazz and popular music in the first decades of the twentieth century. On August 22nd, 1922, at La Salle Street Station, Louis Armstrong disembarked from a train that had come from his native New Orleans, and hopped a cab to the Lincoln Gardens on the South Side where his idol Joe ‘King’ Oliver was playing with his Creole Jazz band. Oliver had summoned him, and he came, and music has never been the same since. I’ve no idea how much dear ol’ Satchmo actually toddled his own self, but I bet he was hep to it. So Chicago has been a music city for a long long time. In the post-war years, it has been best known for its blues scene, but it was a living and breathing scene way before the war too. Countless sessions - jazz and blues - took place there, many of them supervised by Lester Melrose, who freelanced for many labels, including RCA, Columbia, Okeh and Decca, artists he recorded included Big Bill Broonzy, Memphis Minnie, Sonny Boy Williamson, Roosevelt Sykes, Arthur Crudup, Jazz Gillum and the Harlem Hamfats.
After the war, the sound he had championed hardened with the advent of amplification, and newer acts like Howlin’ Wolf, Little Walter and Muddy Waters ( whom Melrose had turned down in the ‘40s) exemplified the sound of the city. It was this tougher post-war style that influenced the British bands in the early ‘60s, who then in a 'bringing coals to Newcastle' move, sold it back to US audiences as rock music. They call Chicago The Windy City too, and the reason for that one is a no brainer, especially in the winter, when the temps drop way down in the minus zeroes and the winds come howling off the lake, biting, nagging and tearing in angry and savage blusters, and you just want to cry and moan, it hurts so much, bitter to the bone.
I’d been in Chicago the year before, when I got off the Greyhound bus that had taken me from Seattle to Providence, but then I had had only 40 minutes to stretch my legs. This time we at least had a few hours. The gig that night was at a joint called On Broadway. There were two or three bands on before us, and we were scheduled to hit at 2.30 am, which was Monday morning. Calling the place a joint is perhaps a bit unfair - it was a showcase club, but my god, showtime at 2.30 am? We had got some great press, and drew a big crowd and managed to keep them dancing until around 4 am, but man, that was one long-assed night. Among the crowd was Bob Koester, owner of Delmark Records and the Jazz Record Mart, a truly great record store. Delmark had been issuing great records since the 1950s, and among the masters he had acquired over the years was United Records, whose catalog included Memphis Slim, Tab Smith, Jimmy Forrest, The Four Blazes and others. I didn’t really know what might be the result of inviting Bob to the show, but felt it couldn’t hurt our cause, and with a bit of luck, he’d be able to sell a few ‘Hot Little Mama’s’.
