We whizzed down I-95 and were outside New York in under four hours, prompting questions
about how far exactly is it to Philly, anyway? Incessant road work was causing parking lot traffic
as we approached the GW Bridge. We sat for over 30 minutes at one point, even at 3:30 a.m.
Most of our fellow stallees were truckers, as we were surrounded by the sounds of air brakes, big
idling diesels and the para-aromatic-hydrocarbons they chug out into the atmosphere. Just a bit on
the claustrophobic side...Soon enough we were moving along again, saved by the car-only lanes,
which were pretty much empty compared to the packed up truck lanes.
Philly was apparently only another couple of hours away, so we slowly realized we'd be hitting the
hotel prematurely, and would probably have to wait around to check in. We did indeed arrive at
5:30 a.m. and the front desk did indeed insist that they needed until at least 8:30 to get the suites
ready for us. But, mercifully, the clerk gave us the okay to pack our shit into the lobby to wait out
the prescribed period. I was way sleepy by this time, and struggled to unload my bags and stretch
out in the overstuffed easy chair in the lobby. I dozed for a little while until spying activity in the
adjacent room. They were setting out a lavish breakfast buffet, and we all availed ourselves of the
opportunity to pig out on the house. I indulged in a sweet roll, bagel, toast and some orange juice,
while the Today Show was firing up on the suspended TVS.
At last our suites were ready--a far cry from the usual Motel 6 banality we were used to. This was
an actual hotel--the Clarion Hotel--smack dab in the middle of Philly's Chinatown. We chuckled at
Terry's fondness for oriental food, because there were no less than eight Asian restaurants
crowded along next door and across the street from the hotel. The suites were actually good-sized
apartments, with a full kitchen, living room with TV, and bedroom with TV. Two of these suites
were provided by the club, so Jeff, Kenny and I shared one, and Terry and Jesse shared the other.
It was very nice. The only drawback was a paper-thin wall separating our suite from the one next-
door, which proved to be a problem later.
I slept till about 4 p.m., took a shower, dressed and headed next door for some Chinese Food at
the vegetarian-only joint. The food was very reasonably priced and the portions were gigantic, so
I munched happily while flipping through the local Philly weekly. The plan was to head on down
to Warmdaddy's around 7:30 to set up and eat. The phone instructions were for us to load in the
side door where the manager would meet us to let us in. He wanted us to unload all our stuff onto
the sidewalk first, then he'd let us in, because, you know, it was, in his words, "the nature of the
city." Ummm... As we pulled up to the load-in, a fella was waiting for us, and opened the door.
We just threw our stuff inside, ignoring the "nature of the city" warning. We soon found out that
Warmdaddy's left hand rarely knew what the right hand was doing...
This was an worn, dirty, old-school kind of place that hadn't been refurbished since the 70's, but
seemed to always have a full house of eager clientele to consume mass quantities of liquor and
very good Southern cuisine--catfish, yams, collard greens, barbecued ribs, etc. The green room
we loaded through to the stage was cluttered with various unfinished cleaning projects, and
several drums and drum parts in various stages of disrepair. They had an old red Premier kit from
the early 80's set up on stage. I declined it since the drumheads looked like they hadn't been
replaced since the set was purchased, and the tom mounts were worn down and slipping. We
toted the dilapidation off the drum riser and I set up my own.
We bellied up to the bar for some chow, which turned out to be a couple of steps above
institutional-grade, obviously prepared with mass-production serving in mind. It was good enough
and filled me up. The coffee was the high point, actually.
We got a briefing from the young sound tech about the music scheduling. We were to start promptly at 9 p.m., play until exactly 10 p.m., if we wanted a 30 minute break, because we then must start at exactly 10:30 p.m. and play another 60 minutes. The point being (as we figured out later), the start times for each set were non-negotiable. If we played over 60 minutes, that time was coming off our break. Geez...
The sound system was pretty deplorable, having served the club since at best 1980. There were no
mains, just cheapo speakers hanging from the ceiling throughout the club. Hence there were no
subs, no drum monitor--just two old monitor wedges up front. The lights were bright, and the
stage was good-sized, with dinners being served right up next to the stage. Every square foot of
the place was being utilized for profit, with single-file aisles amongst the tables and chairs. The
place filled up nicely, but the crowd was what I referred to as a "big-city crowd." They would sit
expressionless, arms folded with a prove-it attitude, and would applaud politely. I ran this by
Terry, and he said, "That's my favorite kind of crowd. I know when I get them going, I've really
done something." We did manage to break down the resistance, and by the end of the night,
everyone was enjoying themselves.
We had quit a little before 1 a.m., a point the sound tech ended up making a deal out of. "You
quit seven minutes early," he whined, and Terry just said, "Well, we're done." I pointed out that
we had played ten minutes over the previous set, so the net result was five extra minutes. The
next day, Terry received a phone call from somebody from the club saying we needed to play
"more blues," and be on time. Grrrr... Terry said he'd do what he could do, but the bottom line is
we're not a juke box, and Terry Evans does what Terry Evans does. The gall of some clubs...