This is not "explosives" exactly, but—well, yeah, it is!

In Seattle back in the Fifties and Sixties, there were two Bob Clarks in and around the folk scene (or should that be "two Bobs Clark"?). One owned the Guild 45th art cinema theater, and opened Seattle's second—and nicest—coffeehouse next door to the theater. Hence the name, "The Place Next Door." As I say, nicest. Your elbows didn't stick to the tables, and fairly often, late in the evening, you'd see a few tuxedoes and formal gowns worn by people who were stopping in after an evening at the Symphony, Opera, or Ballet. "The Place was fairly large, art gallery on one wall, good selection of coffees, teas, and snacks, entertainment every Thursday, Friday, and Saturday evening. That's were I came in. I sang there for a number of years. Bob paid pretty decent money, which some of the coffeehouses didn't.

The other Bob Clark was co-owner of The Chalet, a restaurant in the University District, and a hangout for writers, poets, philosophers, folk singers, and other ne'er-do-wells such as Walt Roberton, Sandy Paton (back when he lived in Seattle), and me. Bob also played the guitar and sang, and took an occasional whack at song-writing. He put together the really brilliant "The Ballad of Giddings' Fall," about a real incident in Seattle, which, as I understand, he witnessed, and thought, "This is the stuff of which ballads are made!"

Anyway, the Bob Clark in question here is the singer-guitarist and occasional ballad writer who was co-owner of The Chalet. The following is from the book of reminiscences I am writing about my adventures as a modern troubadour.

Bob Clark brewed his own beer. It had gained much currency at hoots and songfests, possibly because he usually brought substantial quantities of it in quart bottles, and it was free. People raved about how great it tasted, but to be honest I can't say that I was very fond of it. I thought the flavor was just passable. It struck me as very yeasty.

Someone who knew something about brewing beer told me that he didn't like it much, either. He said that Bob's beer was still green when he bottled it. He should have left it in the crock and let it "work" longer.
This gave it two outstanding characteristics. For a number of people, including me, one characteristic in particular--its aftereffect--was a major drawback.

Now, some people escaped this, but many others did not, and I was among the latter. If you drank very much of the stuff--but still not enough to get a buzz on--you would wake up the following morning with The Mother of All Hangovers. It was a real throbbing, gut-wrenching, nuclear powered, hundred-megaton head-banger. Victims of a religious bent would be convinced that they were finally being visited by the retribution of an angry, Old Testament God. Those who were medically oriented would be certain that the level of agony they were suffering had to be symptomatic of severe brain damage. It was the kind of hangover where every pulse-beat felt as if a hammer were being vigorously applied to the base of your skull. At first, you would be afraid you were going to die; after awhile, you would be afraid you were not going to die. Some drank substantial quantities of it with no apparent problem, but those who were susceptible to this particular aftereffect would drink a thimbleful for the sake of conviviality, then move on to the store-bought stuff.
And the second characteristic: the instant you popped the cap, the contents erupted in a foamy geyser that surged to an impressive altitude. It then returned to earth in a mighty deluge, drenched the carpet and many of the assembled celebrants, and filled the room with odor of hops and yeast.

It was quite a ceremony when Bob opened a bottle. He would usually set the bottle into a dishpan or washtub, apply a bottle opener to the cap, then cover his hand, and the bottle, with a large towel. Apprehensively, he would begin to manipulate the bottle opener until the cap was ready to go ballistic. As he made these preparations, the assembled company would gather in a circle, then carefully back up several paces to a safe distance.

It was like watching somebody blast a stump.

© Copyright 2012, Donald R. Firth.

Don Firth

P. S. A link to the words to, and the story behind, "The Ballad of Giddings' Fall.