Over the course of time, there would be migrations from one band to another, from one part of the journey to the next. There were significant interludes when others were onstage and I was a jealous spectator. There was one special summer…
During the week, I was loading trucks in Marcus Hook, Pennsylvania. I had been assigned to the barrel house as an extra laborer. The Sun Oil Company was kind to give me summer work wrestling with 55-gallon drums filled with oil and who knows what else. I was admired for my ability to spin a drum off its pallet, across the slippery metal floor of the trailer, and into place next to the others. It was a talent but it wasn’t music…St. John was in Atlantic City that summer, leading a band at The Chez Pari. It was about a 90-minute drive from Philly and a weekend destination. Of course, I took my saxophone with me. I would arrive on Friday night, my father’s ’51 Plymouth begging for mercy.
After closing time at the Chez Pari, we would adjourn to The Fort Pitt across the street. For whatever reason that summer, The Fort Pitt was the place where all the musicians went afterhours to relax, drink, and jam. Sometimes the jam sessions would last into the next day. After one memorable night, we wandered onto the boardwalk nearby and found a Salvation Army group sweating out the noonday sun in their wool uniforms, playing songs with several unpolished silver horns of various description. We were looking for a good breakfast, but I could not resist another moment to play my horn with the encouragement of apostolic blessings. They were surprised that I knew their songs, and I think a little pissed when I laid down a blues lick at the end of “The Old Rugged Cross”…
They refused to recognize the presence of sainthood that day but at least they said ‘thank you’ when our unpolished silver coins hit the bottom of their empty bucket.
I was happy my father’s Plymouth survived the summer…