I was acquainted with two Bob Clarks in Seattle back in the Fifties and Sixties. One owned a movie theater that showed European films, and in 1959 he opened a coffeehouse next door to the theater. He named it, appropriately enough, "The Place Next Door." I sang my first regular, long-term gig there. Eighteen weeks, then back again for more. He paid well and on time. Also, it was a nice place to sing. Kind of up-scale. Part art gallery. And your elbows didn't stick to the tables.

The other Bob Clark I had met seven years earlier. He and Ken Prichard had opened a restaurant (The Chalet) a half-block off the University of Washington campus, in the basement of Eagleson Hall. On weekends, they would officially close the place (no liquor or entertainment license) but leave the door unlocked, and we would have informal song fests and "hoots" there.

The Bob Clark of The Chalet played guitar and sang at these affairs which surprised me at first because, due to an accident when he was younger, he had lost the thumb, index, and middle fingers of his left hand. But he played a left-handed guitar and could hold a pick between the remaining two fingers of his left hand. His accompaniments were simple, but he was a good singer.

By the way, the two Bob Clark's knew each other and each one referred to the other Bob Clark as "the other Bob Clark."

Anyway, this is an excerpt from my autobiographical view of the Great Folk Epidemic as it manifested itself in the Pacific Northwest ("soon to be published" if I ever get the damned thing finished!). The protagonist of the excerpt is the Bob Clark of The Chalet.

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.

© 2012 by Donald R. Firth

Don Firth