With your indulgence, here is an excerpt from the memoir thingy I'm writing. By way of background, "The Place Next Door" was one of the first coffeehouses to open in Seattle, and it was definitely the nicest one. A fairly big place, seating maybe 75 to 100 people at tables; served specialty coffees and teas, pastries, sandwiches, cheese boards, things like that. Part art gallery, it was clean, had an abstract mural on one wall, a fireplace. It was a much nicer place to sing than some of the famous folk clubs in the San Francisco Bay area that Bob Nelson (Deckman) and I encountered a few months later. It was next door to the Guild 45th Theater, which showed art and European films, and it was run by the same man, hence the name. It was also the first coffeehouse in Seattle to offer folk music as regular entertainment, and Bob and I were it.

         Spring of 1959 was well under way and on Friday and Saturday evenings in particular, Bob Nelson and I sang for near-capacity crowds at the Place Next Door. In the early evenings, the audience consisted largely of students, but as it grew later, the crowd swelled and became more varied. Late in the evening, the after-show folks began to appear, but not all of them were from the Guild 45th Theater next door. Many came in after the Symphony or the Opera. Late on a Friday or Saturday evening, it was not all that unusual to see a few evening gowns and tuxedos at The Place Next Door.
         Occasionally someone with preconceived notions about coffeehouses and folk singers would come in. One evening a couple arrived dressed to blend in with the natives—or so they apparently thought. They must have made a trip to Brocklind's Costume Shop earlier that day because they were kitted out as somebody's stereotyped half-baked idea of "beatniks." He wore a beret, a turtleneck sweater, tight pants, and sandals, all the same blue-gray color. She wore a thin, revealing red blouse, a short, black skirt split up the side, with black lace stockings and spike heels. Her dark hair was piled on top of her head, her fire-engine red lipstick looked like it had been applied with a trowel, and her vision was impaired by about three pounds of mascara. They looked like they had just escaped from a production of Irma La Douce.
         It was very busy that evening, so a waitress wasn't able to get to their table right away. As they waited, they gradually became aware of the rest of the crowd. Most people were dressed in shirts and slacks, skirts and sweaters. The few people clad in jeans and sweatshirts were balanced out by those in suits and dresses. Everybody looked pretty normal. Quite ordinary, in fact. They noted that Bob and I, the folk singers, were neatly dressed in shirts and slacks. Not only that, we had recently bathed and shaved.
         Not quite the pit of depravity they had expected.
         They also became aware that they were attracting quite a bit of attention. Lots of behind-the-hand comments and snickers. Dressed like caricatures of "beatniks," they were the weirdest looking people in the place. They began to look very uncomfortable. As one of the waitresses (wearing a slightly wry smile) approached their table, they quickly got up and left.

Copyright © Donald Richard Firth 2007

But there were some aspiring folk-type singers who began to appear about that time. Long hair, beards (untrimmed), clothes purchased from the Salvation Army Thrift Shop, often bare feet despite Seattle's occasional propensity for rain and coolish weather, looking very much like they and their guitar lived in a Dumpster. Sometimes you could smell them coming. These persons had bought the stereotype too, and were doing their damndest to try to "fit in." Often they would look down on those of us who were more interested in the music than we were in trying to present an image. Sorta sad, really.

Don Firth