By the time I hit the Village full time in '67, there were other basket houses where you could order a cup of very bad coffee (for a buck and a quarter) and sit there all night. To be able to maximize the turnover they had what I later found out was called the turnover act, someone who was good enough to get on stage, but not quite able to hold an audiences attention. That way they would leave and (hopefully) new customers would take their place. That was me. I managed to survive on maybe 5 dollars a night for quite a while. Most of that went for Mr Boston Apricot Brandy. Then came the day that I started to improve, and could hold an audience for more than one set, so they had to find some other sucker to take that slot on the bill.
It was a great training ground, doing 4 to 5 sets a night in front of very tough audiences, learning how to pace your sets, hold their attention, and get their money. And, even though I was the very bottom rung of the professional ladder, the big clubs (The Gaslight, The AuGoGo, The Bitter End, Gerdes) would all extend that courtesy to me. Which meant that I could get in to listen to the big acts, who didn't play one or two nights, but weeks, sometimes months, and study how they did it. Pat Sky took me aside and said, "Schmuck, you're around the best in the business, learn to pick brains!" And I became something of a pain in the butt, latching onto one or two performers and studying their styles, how they played guitar, how they put together a set. You could go backstage (there wasn't the kind of security they have now) , introduce yourself and ask, "How did you do that?"
When I was seventeen people were laying good odds that I would never see 21, but I survived, and now 44 years later I look back on those days and realize how lucky I was to have been in the right place at the right time. Some of those folks are still my firends, and I'm still learning from them.

Mark Ross