“Don’t Think Twice, It’s Alright.”---Bob Dylan
So you think you’d like to have a modest reunion, get a few friends together, play a little music. Maybe the McGillicuddys could come over with their new grill, Uncle Pete could break out the banjo and Cousin Amy could run off a few t-shirts at her job down at the print factory. Sounds like fun, nothin’ to it.
Then again, maybe we’re thinking too small. What if we included the whole neighborhood. That way we’d have more room, could bring in that four-man-band from Darleen's Deluxe Diner, the one with the steel guitar man. The Galumphers could show home movies from their trip to Guam, we could roast marshmallows in Eddie Cranepool’s firepit and we could get one of those bouncy houses for the kids.
On the other hand, why not get a little crazy? In for a dime, in for a dollar, right? Let’s just invite everybody we knew from 1967 to 1990, rent out a big field somewhere and let the good times roll. Think of the fun! And what could go wrong, we’re all friends right?
Segue to a few months later. Jeff Goldstein’s blood pressure is up. Dave Melosh’s schedule is trashed. And Bill Killeen hasn’t written a word in a week. There are lawyers to consult, insurance men to recruit, bands to engage, souvenirs to create, hotels to book, blacklight posters to dig up, tickets to print. And that’s just for Wednesday morning. Whose idea was this, anyway? Did The Devil make us do it? Is there a doctor in the house?
Stairway To Heaven
Viewed as a whole, Life is a confusing maze, a sometimes stormy sea to sail, an ocean which offers balmy breezes but also hurricanes, beautiful islands among savage shoals, friendly natives and lurking pirates. To contend with Life’s challenges, we are given a seaworthy ship, a modest crew and a cargo hold full of Choices. We pull up the right ones, it’s a pleasant journey over the bounding main. We guess horribly wrong, we sail into The Perfect Storm. But how to decide, we are mere mortals, after all, unendowed with the brilliance of prophets and sages? Ah, that’s when we turn toward the wizard called Experience.
We sit in typing class at 15 years old and stare at the scary beast. It might as well be The Seven Bridges of Konigsberg as far as we’re concerned, there’s about as much likelihood we’ll learn the mystic arts of the typewriter as solve that puzzle. Amazing as it may seem, however, we discover that learning to type is merely a series of steps taken one after another until the lesson is complete. This accomplishment is a great revelation, a thrilling moment, a noteworthy experience. We put it in our pocket to use later when learning to drive, tackling solid geometry and getting a date with Cheri the cheerleader. And much, much later when planning The Last Tango In Gainesville. One step after another. Walk the straight and narrow path, avoid the wreck on the highway. Secure a guide or two who know the terrain. Give yourself plenty of time to make the journey. And never doubt you’ll get there. After all, you’re now an excellent typist.
Onward, Through The Fog!
As young journalists, we are taught to avoid cute prose and get to the point. The famous 5 Ws---the Who, What, Where, When and Why of a story---are to be inserted in the first paragraph or two. When you’re planning the world’s greatest Reunion, the same five Ws must be considered in detail. What first looks like a quintet of simple questions evolves into a series of subquestions.
WHO is easy enough. The invitees will be the crew and customers of the Subterranean Circus, an entity which arose in Gainesville in the Autumn of 1967 and became the hub of hippie culture for as long as this breed thrived. The Circus was as much a counterculture information center as a store, a haven for runaways and lost souls staffed by a bevy of amateur psychologists and life coaches. A unique bond arose between the shop and its shoppers, similar to that between a kid and his mildly misbehaving favorite uncle who let him do things his parents might not approve of. You never forget good old Uncle Eddie.
WHAT is slightly more out-of-focus. There will be a party, of course, a regathering of the tribes somewhere in Gainesville, a lively affair with music, perhaps a light show, with bands playing tunes from days of yore, with psychedelic posters and t-shirts celebrating the event. But how many to plan for, who will come, how can we find them all?
WHERE is the critical question. Ideally, it would be an open meadow with no limits on capacity, a place where old hippies could wander free, dip into cooling lakes, get naked, let their freak flags fly. We investigated local venues, wandered around the old YMCA day camp north of Micanopy, roamed the highways and biways of Alachua County looking for a convenient place with plenty of room, excellent management and a strong desire to host the party. We got all of that and more at Heartwood Soundstage, which had the added benefit of an experienced concert staff and exceptional sound quality. We talked to dozens of musicians, all of whom gave it a thumbs-up. True, Heartwood had a limited capacity of 2000, but that was more than anywhere else that had even close to the appropriate amenities. Others offered free rent, tempting perks, pie-in-the-sky, but Heartwood promised the assistance of our old friend, Experience.
WHEN would be well into the future, since an enterprise of this nature took months to plan, organize and publicize. The date was easy. Sometime in early May when it’s not too hot or too cold, a time when rain is rare and the hotels are not filled up with sports fans or the families of graduates. Some one pointed out the day following the scheduled party was Mother’s Day. Fine, instead of giving Mom a few peonies and a box of chocolates, buy her a plane ticket to The Last Tango.
WHY is a logical question. One day I was sitting around assessing my age and my bank account and I considered what would be the best thing I could do for the most people with the assets I had left. A Grand Reunion came to mind. At age 27 on the day the Subterranean Circus opened, I had barely two nickels to scrape together. The success of the store led to establishing a sister-shop, Silver City, and eventually to operating businesses in Orlando, Tallahassee, Washington, D.C. and Denton, Texas. It made possible significant land purchases and a fruitful and exciting career in horse racing as well as a comfortable life. To whom much is given, much should be expected. The Last Tango In Gainesville is part of my repayment plan. Good idea, huh?
HOW is not necessarily a journalist’s first quandary, but it should be considered. HOW is often the most interesting question and answer, and certainly the longest. So the following is HOW.
Having a Grand Plan is one thing, fleshing it out is another. Once a site has been determined, several questions are immediately answered but others arise, like considering the size limitations, how will entry be obtained? First come, first served? Too raucous. By invitation only? We don’t even know where everybody is. This is where experienced people like Heartwood major domo Dave Melosh come in handy. Dave promised to create an internet ticket that would not only allow admission but also let ducatholders pre-order t-shirts, posters and movies so we didn’t make far more of each than we’d sell. With a ticket in hand the only means of entry, there will be no last minute surge of customers crashing the gate. Brilliant. That’s why they give the man a corner office on the tenth floor overlooking Luke’s Bagels.
The Plan was always to recruit local bands to play music of the sixties and seventies. In a brief moment of weakness, we considered bringing in a Beatles cover band but the discrepancy between the ones we heard and the actual Beatles was a bridge too far. If you’re aiming for the moon, you’d like to get closer than the roof of the Seagle building. We’ve done well in life by following the indisputable advice of Dirty Harry---“A man has to know his limitations,” We decided to let The Impostors take care of the Beatles, they’ve had plenty of practice.
In early consultations with local musician, radio host and beach bunny Cathy DeWitt, I was made aware of the dearth of bands still playing the music of the sixties and seventies. Later, Jeff Goldstein, Heartwood’s ambassador of arm-twisting, confirmed it. Goldstein is an expert in these matters since he’s been around since the dawn of time when people lived in caves and ate dirt (Jeff demurred and dined at Wolfie’s, of course.) How do I know he’s an expert? I have it on unquestioned authority. He old me so, himself.
The Ghost Of Halloween Past
In days of yore, Jeff Goldstein put on the memorable Annual Halloween Masquerade Balls. (You have to phrase that just right or he gets testy.) For the uninitiated, these were classic events where anything was liable to happen and usually did. Goldstein scheduled the appropriate bands, put up clever posters all over town and brought in only the best transvestites. In no time at all, thousands of semi-naked costumers were rampaging around the University of Florida campus and spilling out into the surrounding streets, befuddling local law enforcement and shocking the citizenry. The UF administration eventually put a stop to it but not before the celebration became nationally famous for freedom of expression, advanced ribaldry, wicked music and the abuse of nearby vegetation.
The upshot is that Jeff now wears his GENIUS shirt a lot and can be a bit of a nudzh when you disagree with him. He will stand outside your house in the rain, waiting for you to come out so he can change your mind. He will bark, he will cajole, he will remind you he is old and feeble and perdition could be waiting around any corner so it would be nice of you to play ball. All that said, he knows his music and he knows his bands. Jeff is responsible for scheduling every minute of what happens on the Reunion stage. We tell him what we want and when we want it, he writes it down on a piece of paper and puts it on the card. He works on the song lists with the bands to assure that everything forthcoming is from the correct era. He attends to all the musicians’ concerns, fusses about the sound and lights, wakes up in the middle of the night worried he forgot something. His cardiologist advised him to take a three-week vacation in Tahiti when the affair was over but Jeff told him there was no rock ‘n’ roll there. He’s going to Cleveland instead.
Sweating The Small Stuff
If The Devil is in the details, so is the ultimate success of the venture. Hotels must be recruited for discount rooms. The revelers must have access to food. Someone must build a large duplicate of the Circus facade for picture-takers. Insurance must be purchased lest some lunatic fall off the stage while seeking to pinch Ron Thomas.
The event being a ten-hour marathon, emcee Will Thacker must go into training to get to the finish line. Jeff Goldstein must set up a light show. Blacklight posters, once in abundance but now rare as hens’ teeth, must be begged, borrowed or stolen. Bob Simmons will need a healthy brute to carry around his photographic equipment, you can’t expect a creaky octogenarian to tote that barge and lift that bale. Who’s going to hose down the girls for the wet t-shirt contest? It’s all a mystery wrapped in a riddle inside an enigma.
Have you ever tried to find a few troopers who could pull off a semblance of HAIR? Just a few songs, a little dancing around, not even a nude finale? Try it sometime, it’s easier to climb Mount Kilimanjaro in a blizzard, to ingest boiled chitlins or to give Dumbo a pedicure. These folks are an endangered species so when they show up in all their radiant splendor, toss them some roses.
To fill some of the gaps in the show, we’ve acquired the rights to Mike Boulware. If you see him playing his guitar with each and every band, think nothing of it. If he delivers your chicken wings, smile and leave a tip. If he’s a little off key during The Age of Aquarius, forgive him. How to recognize Mike? Oh, that’s easy. He’ll be the only naked guy on the HAIR set. Clap loudly and throw nothing smaller than five-dollar bills, please. Mike has habits to support.
That’s all, folks….
