Okay, here's some more stories:

DOG AS A SMALL MUSICIAN

Ya know, I played with them all: Josh, The Weavers, Gibson, Ronnie, Will. (Will? Will who?) Will Holt, that's who!; Shel Silverstein, The Kingston Trio, The Clancy Brothers.
Let me tell you about Gibson. He had always been an idol of mine. The zenith. To play like Bob Gibson was the best. I remember first seeing him, in 1960, at The Gate of Horn. He was playing in the basement of a three story apartment building on Chicago's swinging Gold Coast. The "apartment" was now the nightclub: The Gate Of Horn. The big "buzz" going around was, "Have you seen Gibson and Camp yet? They're incredible. They're the best. A new sound!"

I remember entering the packed bar. I was only seventeen. The show was going on past the door on my left. You could faintly hear the music for the crowd cheering and clapping. The excitement going on behind the door was palpable. Irresistible, magical things were going on in that room. I had to get in no matter what! The door was closed and guarded by the hostess. No one could get in anyway, because the room was "packed". Occasionally the door would open letting someone in or out, and you could peak in and glimpse just a flicker of the stage. The railroad-car-shaped room was long with a low ceiling and dark, except for the brilliantly lit stage which silhouetted the heads of what seemed to be a million, jammed in people. You could feel the heat, the sweat and the excitement. Craning my neck, I caught something on stage: a movement, a flash (from the guitar?), singing. Then the door snapped shut!

This was no good. I had to get in to that room! The way to sneak into a filled-to-capacity-show and not pay the cover, of course, was to wait until the hostess went off on some errand. Then quickly, like a thief in the night, slip, while crouching, into the showroom and disappear amid the crowd to find an empty chair—if there was one—hunch over and be invisible; ducking whenever the hostess walked by.
And there they were, Gibson & Camp. Boy, they were cool. The two Bobs! With their suits and skinny ties, they were epitome of coolness. There were three of them. Gibson, with his mighty twelve-string. Bob Camp, with nothing but his incredible voice and stage presence, and Herb Brown: Mr. Mellow bass player. His bass was the size of a ice box, and you could feel every thundering bass-rumble he had to say with it. I had just sat down when Camp started doing an impression of Louis Armstrong, and the audience was howling. They were so good together and they were really getting off on each other. Their harmony and blend was anything as good as Lennon and McCartney's. (Coincidentally, it was the same kind of frenzied musical energy that was happening, at the very same time, in a place called The Cavern in Liverpool, England. Except the audience there was, of course, much younger.)

Well anyway, that was the first time I ever heard or saw Bob Gibson.
A little while later I finally got my chance; to show and prove to myself that I could match my talent—at least as a bass player—with Gibson's. I was hanging out at Mother Blues—a nightclub on Chicago's Wells Street—when Gibson came up to me and asked if I wouldn't mind playing behind him while he did a guest set? Mind? Hell no, I didn't mind! Now was my chance to finally play with the great one. (And I'm not talking about Jackie Gleason.) I ran up to the dressing room excited and nervous thinking, 'This is a big prove it or lose it time'. Now I get the chance to show my mettle; to step-up a notch in musical prominence. (At least in my mind.) It was a challenge I was longing for. I was sure I could do it. I had to do it! When it was near time to go on stage, I went downstairs to confer with Gibson. He comes up to me and says, "Oh, by the way, John Brown is going to play Guitaroon behind me instead. But, Thanks." I was devastated, but I didn't show it. I played it cool. I was so pissed off at Brown. Not really pissed off at him but pissed off at the unfortunate timing of Brown walking in the club that night at that time, and him having that goddamn guitaroon. He sure looked like he was having a good time up there with Gibby.


The next shot I got at Gibson was in '66 at Mother Blues, again. I was the "official" house bass player, and he was booked for two weeks. The club had to have an "official" house musician to appease the local musicians union, and I was asked to go along with the charade. "Officially" on paper, I was paid a hundred twenty five bucks a week. Of course, I got nothing, unless I was working. The "real deal" was: I got all the free drinks I wanted.


Anyway, here I am. I'm supposed to play with Gibson. Now, first of all, I didn't own an upright bass. Never did. Any time I needed a bass, I would go down to Kagen & Gaines on south Wabash and rent one. They had a wall with a row of basses, I swear, that was about fifty feet long. One bass after another. Basses of every kind, shape and color. Most of them were pretty bad. No tone, or too hard to play. All of them had on really old, gooey strings. I knew Gibson would do his version of "Sweet Betsy From Pike" and would need a bowed-bass accompaniment with it. Bob Mathews was the originator of this bass arrangement and it really sounded great, and I had to do the same arrangement. Now, I had never "bowed" a bass before in my life. I definitely am not a classically trained musician. I was lucky though, and had rented a really nice bass with a bow, and it wasn't too hard to get a fairly decent bowed sound from it.


So now I was set. I went to the club early opening night thinking, "Oh man, this is it. Make it or break it." Well, up in the dressing room, Gibson got his guitar out, we tuned up, and we broke into the first tune. I was carefully studying his face for any signs; approval or displeasure, but it was just kind of a blank stare. Well, after a couple of tunes he just said, "Let's go." That was it. I had passed muster. I had made it! The first set was pure joy. Went off without a hitch. He had a big smile all through it. Sometime even smiling at me! From then on, I was in. Gibson treated me like an equal. I had reached a new plateau.

More later...