Those who enjoy the works of genius investigative penman Bob Woodward may have been lucky enough to have caught “Wired.” Not in the least political, “Wired” chronicled the swift rise and sad descent of the hefty SNL star John Belushi. In both the book and film adaptations, Belushi is seen making the passage to the hereafter in a slouchy and yellow checker New York taxi cab.
Sheer coincidence that one brisk night in 1981, my best bud from childhood – and now a fellow lower Manhattanite – Rad Guitar Robbie and I should pile into a capacious checker backseat, laughing and “shooting the shit.” Me in the middle, Robbie on the right.
What was our ultimate destination? Well, here’s a little hint: music to muses! We embarked at the famed Lone Star, notorious for fitting James Brown’s entire 26-piece review up on a platform over the long bar in the main space; and for the 125 -foot green Iguana (with strawberry waddle to match). Our ultimate destination, even for their downtown than “One Fish” was “Hudson and Dominick,” gutturally evinced from the grinning dude on my left in the aforesaid backseat.
My left seatmate, whose failed attempt at a shave matched that of our taciturn cabbie (whose chunky build was “doppler” to Burt Young of “Rockie”), knew most of his crew were aware that was the address of the Blues Brothers’ Black Rhino Bar natch! Strikingly anonymous, the BBBRB was a two-and-a-half-storey stub of paint-weary brick on the edge of the old “Meatpacking Zone.” Yes, Belushi was our guide this particular midnight.
We bumped the cobbled byways leading to the Black Rhino, taking potholes hard. “So you play the guitar, do you John?” drawled Belushi. If he was heavily “lubed” he managed to maintain fair congenialism. “Robbie here [gesturing across to my friend adroite] he taught me sweet home Chicago! On Magic Slam’s red ES-335! No joke!”
I happened to have the skinny on how my brother in southside blues idolatry not only schooled “Bluto” in the fabled love of the late balladeer Magic Sam Maghett but Robbie actually gifted the scruffy star with teh gleaming cherry-lacquer guitar. But Belushi went on in a deeper, somber tone.
“Dude, you’ve worked in films, you and Rob have played and sung on stages…You may not believe this but the fame thing can be a bit of a bummer…” He then fell silent, but as we lurched to a rude halt outside the bar covered with peeling posters, dimly lit with the upper windows trimmed over the scarred doors swung open. Who should greet us but the red-bearded bass man Donald “Duck Dunn himself!
Duck was on loan to the Blues Brothers Band. Looming behind him was an even bigger behemoth in a Hawaiian shirt and iridescent shades and looked vaguely familiar. “Just call me Dan,” he growled.
“Dan” motioned us to our “workstations” with no fol-de-rol. He flicked on a couple of switches in the smoky dimness. There were no audience members to speak of – some beat-up bar stools were lined up, overturned along the service rail. A string of cheesy Christmas lights blinked fitfully.
Belushi, as if by magic, had donned a blue Kahua shirt and sprang to life at a four-piece denim fit with his hat. His sticks aloft, he bellowed, “Hit it, boys!”
The “boys” namely me on an upright piano, Duck on the bass guitar, and Robbie on a Fender strat, fell right in rag-tag fashion to the Blues Brothers’ theme, “Can’t turn you a-loose!” There was no mike here, but with Belushi, you didn’t need one.
We struggled through half a dozen stock numbers, climaxing with “Mustang Sally,” at the close of which, the great Belushi passed out, knocking over the bass drum as he went down.
“Show’s over, folks!” grunted Big Dan. Rob, Duck and I glanced at each other, shrugged, and stumbled out into weak Dominick street daylight.
A memorable jam, if there was one.
