A two-year stretch in the Tallahassee gulag is enough to make anyone pine for the Old Home Town. The wattage was lower there, the “white only” water bubblers more prevalent and many no-necks cheered when Oswald shot the President down. The FSU students bought magazines, though, and our fortunes rose. We rented an apartment downstairs from two raving alcoholics who threw everything but the kitchen sink at one another every night but were just peachy the next morning.
Finding a printer for the Charlatan was a challenge, though, in the land of the troglodytes. Many of the ink-stained wretches depended on “the religious community” for work and our magazine was clearly involved with The Devil. I finally found a place 90 miles away in Albany, Georgia, run by a crusty refugee from Maine named Wilson Smith. When the hearse was in a bad mood, which was often, I had to hitchhike to the printer, alas, through the backwoods towns and pecan fields of southern Georgia. I was once blessed with a ride in a pig truck, fortunately in the front cab. You probably don’t know this but pigs will eat people if they’re really hungry.
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| Marilyn, 1963 |
We moved from Tallahassee to a reasonably-priced apartment on NW 16th Avenue, which was then almost a peripheral boundary. We signed up Alan Lederman’s thriving Alan’s Cubana to a permanent back cover (the fact that Alan’s wife, Claire, had been almost a next-door neighbor in Lawrence didn’t hurt), which led to several other merchants coming aboard. And after all, who could resist the quiet charms of an ad salesgirl like Marilyn Todd? Soon enough, life was just a bowl of pomegranates, though Marilyn’s dad kept poking at us with sticks. We finally shook him off with a devious plan; let’s toddle up to Folkston, Georgia and take advantage of the 24-hour, no-frills Wedding Special.
Except it wasn’t, which proves you can’t believe everything you read on a billboard. To save money, Marilyn went to Folkston on a bus and I hitchhiked, arriving to discover we had to wait until 9:00 a.m. for the county courthouse to open. Now ordinarily, weary travelers might sleep a few hours on the bus station floor, but in Folkston the bus station was a bench. A pair of cops came by and we explained our plight. Being Southern gentlemen, they delivered us to the city firehouse, where the men in red allowed us to sleep in the comfy front seat of the largest engine. In the morning, we gathered up our earthlies, went to the designated office and tied the knot. Then Marilyn got back on the bus and I polished up my thumb. Some people opt for a honeymoon in Hawaii, others like the traditional trip to Niagara Falls. Gainesville was plenty good enough for us. Magazine sales grew, ad revenue shot up and over the subsequent months Bill and Marilyn prospered. We’d finally solved our financial dilemmas, evicted most worries and settled down to a happy existence. There was nothing left to spoil our Eden except those ever-menacing gremlins called self-inflicted wounds.
Enter Pamme Brewer
For any of you who are deluded enough think I am a stellar guy, here’s evidence to the contrary. I saw Pamme Brewer floating down SW 13th Street one day with an armload of books, screeched into an illegal parking spot and hustled over to ask her to pose for a Honda ad in the magazine. One thing led to another and before you knew it Marilyn was on a plane back to Austin, deserving of and soon finding better. The Pamme Brewer story is well-known by now and if you missed it, the Last Tango In Gainesville movie re-covers that ground. In September of 1967, Pamme, Dick North and I opened the Subterranean Circus in a $75 a month fertilizer warehouse on SW 7th Street, almost next door to the old Buchholz Junior High School building. Friends Michael Garcia and Rick Nihlen bought houses on the same short street and before long we had the makings of a small country in the center of Gainesville.
These were the Days of Milk and Honey when hippies ruled the Earth and music inundated the land. Other young entrepreneurs took note of the Circus’ success and began opening stores everywhere. Ira Vernon, a South Florida transplant, started a clothing store called Tuesday Morning. Local boy Doug Bonebrake raised a health-food enterprise named Mother Earth. The Morning Glory Juice Bar popped up, then an eatery called Snuffy’s. A maternal barkeep named Helen Bianchi ran The Pub, which continued on as Anthony’s. Fun boy George Swinford took over the downtown with Lillian’s bar and later a big-time restaurant called 12 East. A music store named Strictly Folk arose across University Avenue from the Circus. A used-record shop called Hyde and Zeke opened in 1977 and a breakfast palace called Down To Earth was a fixture on the corner of University and SW 7th. All of them run by kids in their twenties, with the exception of Helen, who was really 17 at heart. Those were the days, my friends, we thought they’d never end. And they didn’t….for a long, long time. At least not in our town, Gainesville USA.
Memories Are Made Of This
We asked and you submitted. Below are some of the reactions from attendees of the Subterranean Circus Grand Reunion and/or The Last Tango movie about either event or the supreme wonderfulness of the city itself.
From Judi Cain: In 1973, I walked away in frustration from my job as a public school teacher in Missouri. I wanted to be a real artist. I wanted Peace. Heading for Florida with my future husband (we got married to qualify for a car loan) in a 1969 VW van, we met a group of artists from California doing art shows in shopping malls along the East Coast. Seemed like a good idea. Our first show with the group was in the Gainesville Mall in 1974. We traveled for a year, upgraded to a converted school bus (which broke down in Miami) and we started doing art festivals.
In April of 1975, the Spring Arts Festival on NE 1st Avenue in Gainesville was lined with magnificent trees shading the artists’ booths. Dogwood blossoms rained down on our displays. Azaleas flashed their colors in yards of stately homes and the scent of wisteria filled the air. Longhaired hippies in tie-dye shirts looked at the art with deep fascination. I thought to myself, “This is where I want to live for the rest of my life.”
Fast forward to 2022 and my Facebook friends were all talking about the Last Tango in Gainesville---the Grand Reunion of the Subterranean Circus. I wanted to be there but was not sure I belonged. “Wear flowers in your hair,” said Bill Killeen in a FB post, easy enough to do with a visit to the Farmer’s Market two days prior. I’ll take a few pictures, I thought, because that’s what I do when I’m not painting. As soon as I walked through the Heartwood gate, I was transported to a gathering of all the true hippies I had always wanted to meet. I danced among the crowd to music I understood in a shaded park, reunited with the soul brothers and sisters I had never met but was sure were out there. It was a thrill to finally meet them in person for the first time. I was never more sure I made the right choice when I opted to change my life and chose Gainesville.
From Ron Thomas: Just when you thought it was safe to return to the humdrum world of forgotten dreams and harsh reality, Last Tango returns! Climbing through the window to urge us to play hooky again, this time in the guise of a joyful documentary of the original event of May 7, 2022. Kudos to all involved in the filming, editing, producing and appearing in this paean to a bygone Zeitgeist that might just still be lurking in this community and the hearts of its more Bohemian citizens. This video is so good that the only thing wrong with it that it was too short at 41 minutes. Might it be hoped that there are more outtakes that could lead to Part Two?
From Ed Robichaux: A friend sent me a DVD of the film, Last Tango In Gainesville. I haven’t been there for quite a long time but now I wish I was. There is a fairly decent sense of community in New Orleans, where I live (better than before Katrina) but nothing like what’s described in this movie. I have found, however, that the phenomenon exists far more often in towns with a good music scene than those without.
The movie, itself, is joyful. It’s hard to believe it was put together by relative amateurs, as my friends tell me. Bill Killeen threads his story of the Subterranean Circus through bursts of really exceptional music from several different groups. The people interviewed (who are often funny) paint a nice picture of hippie-era Gainesville. It was interesting to see and hear Marty Jourard (I have his book---another gift) talk about old times with Tom Petty.
I hear good things about Heartwood Soundstage so it was nice to finally see the place. It blows my mind that somebody would have an “over 50” age restriction. The people there looked like they were having a blast. That’s all I got---thought you might like to hear what an outsider thought.
From Sara Flanders: I almost didn’t go to the Grand Reunion but at the last minute I thought, what the hell. I had a date once with Bill just before I left town so at least I’d know somebody there. I was a Gainesville short-timer but I loved the place---best city I ever lived in (left for good in ‘81). I clearly remember the Circus, Silver City, Down to Earth Restaurant, the Florida Theater and, of course, Lillian’s and George Swinford. I don’t know if it was just that time in my life or the energy of the town, itself, but it felt different to me there than anywhere else I have ever been. I loved going to the Prairie to watch the sunsets (nearby Cedar Key, too).
At any rate, the reunion was just smashing. I didn’t know anybody but I felt like I knew everybody. For the first time in months, I actually DANCED and I didn’t care who was looking. I met several people during the day and have kept in touch with most of them. I would LOVE to have gone back for the movie but it’s a long drive from St. Louis. I hope Bill does this again someday, I’ll be there for sure. Oh, and about that date---a lady never talks, but it was for a nice dinner and a movie. We never made it to either one (wink).
From Bill Killeen: When we conceived the Grand Reunion, our concerns were threefold; how to get the word out to everyone who might want to attend; making sure 1000 middle-aged to older people were comfortable at the venue; creating an exceptionally nostalgic and emotional environment. I think we did a pretty good job and so did the Heartwood staff. The party might have been more muted elsewhere. We were sad, of course, that many of our old friends couldn’t make it due to physical limitations, insufficient funds to travel or, worst of all, not knowing about the affair. So here’s an Early Warning Bulletin: if I’m still ambulatory for my 85th birthday in 2025, we’ll have a mammoth party same month, same venue.
So no excuses this time. If three years isn’t enough warning, you’re beyond hope. If you have medical woes, get an edgy doc to pump you up for a couple weeks on meth. If you’re financially disabled, start hitchhiking around the 15th to the 20th of April, depending on where you live. Will Thacker, Jeff Goldstein and I guarantee you it’ll be worth it. Everybody gets cake.
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| All Last Tango Movie photos by Judi Cain |
That’s all, folks….
