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| Dick North, John Buckley and Dan Levine pitch the Circus tent. All Atlanta Pop Festival photos by Circus alum Chris Thibaut. |
Even before Woodstock, however, several hip movers and shakers down South had their own ideas. How about getting a few dozen bands together and putting on a monster musical event in Atlanta? There were rentable facilities available which were unused many weekends in the Summer, there was nothing comparable to compete with and the West Coast bands would jump at the chance for a little Southern exposure. And so the Atlanta International Pop Festival was born and scheduled for the July 4 weekend of 1969 at the roomy International Raceway in tiny Hampton, Georgia. Instantly, everyone knew about it. Instantly, everybody decided to go.
Great Moments In Circus History: Number 3, The Siege Of Atlanta
“We gotta go, Bill,” insisted Dick North. “There’s never been anything like this before. Janis Joplin, Johnny Winter, Led Zeppelin, Canned Heat, Creedence….everybody.”
“I know,” I told him. “But who’ll run the store?”
“Close for the weekend,” Dick said. “There won’t be anyone left in Gainesville anyway.” When Dick North, aka The Quiet Man, got this excited about something, you had to listen. I called Atlanta, rented booth space and packed up the gang. The Subterranean Circus was going north for the weekend.
And what a weekend it was. 150,000 people crammed into the raceway (ever tried to walk on one of those tracks with steeper than 30-degree banking?), cars parked en masse in such a way that once parked, you were there for the duration. Or at least your car was. In times like these, it’s nice to have a roomy sales booth to protect you from sun, rain and the nearness of youth.
A cautious person would have been startled to see the ease with which people unquestioningly bought and used dope at this festival, contraband which was often not what it was cracked up to be. That’s why they have medical tents, of course, and Atlanta’s were, shall we say, amply used. The music was great and unending. Delirious people danced and sang. When night came, most sleeping bags served double duty. And before it was over, I got to see Janis Joplin again.
Illegal Entry
Dick North posed the question: “Are you going to try to see Janis? This is probably your last chance ever. She’s getting bigger than the Queen of England.”
“Are you kidding?” I scoffed. “It’s a madhouse back there near the fences” (which separated the staging area from the roiling sea of humanity). “The bikers they’ve got for security behind stage kill first and ask questions later. I can’t get in there.”
But Dick, as always, had a plan. He would get a faux fight started 50 yards from the left side of the stage; security would respond and not be aware of someone climbing the twelve-foot fence to the right of the stage. And that someone would be me. It worked perfectly and I skittered quickly into the Holy Land. In less than five minutes, I spotted Janis heading to her trailer just behind me.
“Hey Janis, remember me?” I asked. How many times do you think famous people have heard that line? It had been seven years, but I didn’t look much different, just less ragged. She remembered, ran over, actually picked me up off the ground and swung me around. “Killeen, you old motherfucker!” she exclaimed. “Can you believe it---I’m a fucking corporation?” Janis’ circumstances may have changed but much of Janis never changed. We might as well have been back in Austin.
With the booming success of Atlanta, everyone knew the star-spangled Woodstock whoop-de-do would be a monster. Everybody we knew had plans to make the trek to the Great Shrine at Max Yasgur’s dairy farm in Bethel, New York a month later and many of them did, along with 400,000 other hadjis. Alas, I was in New York City at the National Boutique Show, wondering what I was missing. The second morning of the show, I went downstairs and picked up one of the NYC tabloids. Splashed across the entire front page was the headline, “HIPPIES WALLOW IN MUD!” along with the requisite photo. I smiled, happy to have escaped the misery. I could live with having missed the soaking at the most historical event in the fabric of hippiedom. After all, we’d always have Atlanta.
Great Moments in Circus History: Number 4, The Opening Of Silver City
Despite the enormity of the Subterranean Circus building, the inventory kept piling up. The entire north wall of the front room was eventually taken up with bellbottoms, the underground comics and newspapers were crowded into a small space on the east wall and all the counters were full. We kept moving the other clothes further and further to the rear of the store, where they would eventually collide with the space we rented to Ted Hanson’s Acme Records. Obviously, measures had to be taken.
The spark which lit the match was once again Dick North. Dick had moved across University Avenue, where he’d opened a leather and brass shop called The Apollonian Alternative. He correctly figured he could capitalize on the heavy Circus traffic across the street but he failed to reckon that others might get the same idea. When an enterprising fellow opened a sandal shop on the southwest corner of Seventh Street, almost adjacent to the Circus, Dick came in moaning. “Y’gotta do something, Bill. These guys will put me out of business.” I talked him off the ledge and went to work.
We had always wanted to buy the property the Circus rested on, afraid the nice old lady who owned the place would some day discover the nefarious goings-on in her building and put us to rout. She’d been unwilling to sell, however, wanting to unload the entire corner lot, which consisted of us, Cecil Shannon’s auto salvage business next door and a tankless old gas station on the corner. By this time, we had enough in the bank to make the purchase and local realtor Louis Bliziotes consummated the deal. We tossed the upstart sandalmakers out and installed ex-Gator offensive lineman Dan Iannarelli and his drive-in beer mart in the spot. Smiling Dick North was back in business. Now we had to give poor old Cecil the bad news.
Cleaning The Augean Stables
Hercules might have had a challenging job, but how bad could it have been if he finished in a single day? The building at 8 SW Seventh Street defied rehabilitation. The previous home of oily automobile engines and other indescribable debris was filled with grease and mire and expired auto parts, not to mention the chief residence of a prominent rodent family which had no intentions of leaving. There were substantiated rumors that one day a snake fell onto a workman’s bench from the rafters, a half-digested rat protruding from its maw. The shaken employee quivered. “I thought it was something from ‘The Alien!’” he whispered.
Desperate measures were taken. First, the entire building was sprayed with hydrochloric acid, followed by days of scouring with industrial cleaners. The old windows were removed and replaced with artistic colored plastic models. A large skylight was cut into the roof and a huge garden constructed in one corner, the stone wall of which was once ballast in a sunken ship. Plants were hung everywhere, colored orbs of modest lighting value were strung from one end of the store to the other. An elevated platform was built along the south wall, which butted up to the Subterranean Circus, and a double door joining the two buildings was constructed. Ron Blair, not yet a Heartbreaker, built a fancy curved stairway leading from the ground floor to the boutique platform. A stone fountain was shipped in from Tlaquepaque, Mexico in 16 parts and assembled. Finally, a radio station remote crew was called in for an opening day which lasted until midnight. Silver City was in business. And it thrived, many days overtaking the total sales of its older sister-store. Legendary workers like Rickie Childs, Debbie Brandt and Jagger Hatcherson walked its halls. And occasionally---only occasionally---its patience was tested.
Giggling In Heaven
“When the thief has stolen from a thief, God laughs in heaven.”---Armenian Proverb
If there is merchandise, there will be theft, and Silver City had its small share. Our staff, however, did a masterful job of keeping it to a minimum, and one wily miss named Patti Bert seemed to have antennae for teenagers in search of illicit bathing suits, the toughest items to keep track of. She never had anyone arrested but she left a lot of miscreants in tears. Security Chief Rod Bottiglier was called in on difficult cases and the cowering thieves immediately threw up their hands and assumed the position. And then there is the shocking case of The Deviant Dancing Queen.
Young ladies spent a lot of money in Silver City, especially with Ricky Childs; many of them even let him pick out their wardrobes. Thus, it was not unusual to get very large checks every now and then, especially from regular customers. One of these, a girl we’ll call The Dancing Queen, even frequented many of the same discos as did Ricky and co-workers Jagger and Debbie. One day she came in and spent a walletful of money. A proud and smiling Ricky came over to the Circus to show me the check.
“Very nice, Mr. Childs, but doesn’t this woman usually give us a credit card? Like ALWAYS?” I called the bank to make sure the check was good. It wasn’t. Naturally, The Dancing Queen wasn’t answering her phone, but Ricky called one of her pals and discovered that next day she’d be on a flight to London. It seemed only fair she wouldn’t be taking our stuff with her.
We called the cops to report the theft, knowing full well they couldn’t do anything until the check failed to clear the bank. Then Ricky, Debbie and I drove out to her apartment. Above the door was an open transom, but only a tiny person like Ricky could fit through the thing. He scrunched inside and unlocked the door. Debbie and I went in and the three of us rounded up all of our merchandise. We also found a lid of medium-quality grass in the refrigerator and took that as a form of taxation for our time and efforts. Naturally, we did not report our adventures to the police.
When the DQ returned from England, the cops were waiting for her. She told them we had stolen back our stuff and even about the missing marijuana. We denied everything, of course, Breaking & Entering being a crime and all. Being the kind and charitable people that we are, we neglected to press charges when the matter finally arrived at the state’s attorney’s desk. As you might imagine, we were sorely miffed never to have gotten so much as a ‘thank you’ for this fine display of Christian charity. The Dancing Queen was last seen shopping at Penney’s.
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| An actual photo from one of the early Balls. Contrary to popular belief, this is NOT Lynn Maxwell. |
Great Moments In Circus History: Number 5, The Halloween Incidents
“I need a hero. I’m holding out for a hero til the end of the night.”---Bonnie Tyler
Halloween has always been a mixed blessing for retailers. Any celebration which legitimizes the use of masks puts store owners in a dicey situation---they want the maskers’ business but they don’t desire getting the business from quaintly dressed superheroes, natty chimpanzees or stickup men in Richard Nixon garb. The best guide to the legitimacy of customers is an old one; check the hair on the back of your neck. If it’s up, alert the militia.
One fine Halloween, a quartet of dubious-looking characters walked in about 8 p.m. and immediately turned to the right and away from us. They were just milling around, obviously not searching for anything specific, and seemed unduly nervous. We threw them out. Twenty minutes later, they robbed a store down the street. Bob Sturm was very upset to hear about this. “You mean I missed a chance to shoot somebody?" he complained. We told him there was always next year.
In 1969, a group of miscreants created the first Halloween Ball on the University of Florida Plaza of the Americas. It was a small affair, nothing worth remembering, but it turned out to be the straw that stirred the drink. The following year, the affair was much larger and vastly more outrageous. The Halloween Ball grew in infamy by the year, eventually drawing massive crowds of evil clowns, Clockwork Orange bullies and the best-looking transvestites you ever saw. Rock bands were brought in to thrash about on stage while the maskers did the same thing in the bushes. Drugs were everywhere and the campus Keystone Kops were nowhere. The Ball spilled out of the campus onto surrounding city streets and was on the verge of bursting into a nova when UF officials tossed it. An attempt at revival was made on the Santa Fe Junior College campus but it just wasn’t the same. In 1975, a troublemaker named Jeff Goldstein---who was rumored to possess lewd pictures of UF administrators dancing the naked macarena---somehow got the thing back on campus, where it lasted another 22 years. Jeff gets testy if you don't use its proper name, The Annual Halloween Masquerade Ball. We'd ignore him but he has naked pictures of us, too.
The Circus closed at ten p.m., revving-up time for the balls. Several of us assembled there on Halloween before parading the six blocks to campus and it was not unusual to be joined by ex-employees and old-time Gainesvillians for the trek. One night, a lovely young blonde named Pam DuBois showed up about 9:30. Miss DuBois had been a dormmate of Pamme Brewer in 1967 and had been very supportive during her trial, an idealist of the first stripe in an age when many young girls kept quiet.
The store crew and customers had emigrated to the parking lot while I collected the day’s receipts and shut off the lights, but Pam was still waiting at the bottom of the steps when I got there. She backed into the still open door, closing it, put her arms around me and gave me a spectacular kiss. I know most of you think this happens to famous head-shop owners all the time but I’m here to tell you that's not the case. I felt like I was in a movie and hoped there’d be no intermission. The rest of the gang headed off to the ball, not without looking over their shoulders. Pam and I graduated to my house next door.
During ensuing political discussions in the bedroom, I became aware that I had not been visited by this brilliant creature merely for my physical charms. Without her saying as much, it was obvious Pam had been a little disappointed by the world at large, that white knights were few and sellouts were many and she was looking for a hero. She remembered that I’d led the charge against the outrages of en loco parentis at UF and thought that might be me.
“Are you still an idealist, Bill? Do you still believe in all the things you used to believe in or do you find your determination slowly withering away in the day-to-day?" Something like that.
Oh-oh. The devil on your shoulder advises you that if you want to keep this magical being around, you will say what needs to be said. The critter on the other side reminds you that sex is temporary and Truth is eternal.
“I think the philosophy is the same, Pam, but as you go along you begin to practice the Art of the Possible. Instead of reaching for the sky, you reach for the next rung on the ladder. You understand that purity of cause sometimes prevents progress and you’re willing to accept less.”
She seemed disappointed, but smiled and thanked me for my honesty. I pondered the great question of whether Truth should always be adhered to and if so is it curtains for the male gender? The early voting shows a trend in that direction. The next time I saw Pam she seemed to have a girlfriend.
That’s all, folks….
