US

Growing up in White Center in the fifties, I was exposed to the
revelry and tragedy that coincide in a honky-tonk town. The party
that had started on 16th Avenue, just across Roxbury from the
Seattle City limits at the end of Prohibition and persisted through
the war years was grinding on, pulverizing the souls of those who
had lost track of time and found that their elbows were rooted
deeply into the bar. Friday and Saturday nights the music would
begin as the carousel atmosphere came to life. Horace the cop was
law, West of the Pecos. Sunday at mid-night, the Blue Laws turned
it into a Holy Ghost Town. Saturday mornings, the Little Rascals
would make their way down 16th, past the taverns, to the Roller
Rink. Peering into the Glendale through the smoke stained windows,
one could see the stage at the far end of the dance floor where a
drum set stood triumphantly. Ah, Show Business. The course of my
life was set. The rest is a blur of garages bands, second rate sock
hops, a tour of duty in Vietnam, more garage bands, keggers, and
open mics. The lines between fantasy and reality, truth and legend
are obscure, but one thing is sure, the collection of songs known as
White Center Style Blues is as real as the nose on your face and as
serious as a heart attack. Join me for a season in the Underground
Spring as the leaves dropping from the trees drift on to a
confluence with the river Styx.