Me and Hank, jr. (T.P. McWhorter)
I never saw anything so bizarre in all my days...
(Editor's note: World News Trust has a policy of following Associated Press style in the stories that it publishes. However, the editor is making an exception in this case.)
(World News Trust) -- I've seen a lot of concerts in my life and by a lot, I mean somewhere in the several hundred range. I have worked on many and paid for many, and gotten into many shows for free. By concerts I mean giant festivals like Woodstock and the California Jams in the late 1960's and mid 1970's, and then I also mean bands like The Beatles and The Rolling Stones, Santana, Janis Joplin, Kiss, Jefferson Airplane, Van Halen, The Grateful Dead, Stevie Ray Vaughn, Black Sabbath, David Bowie, The Doors, Fleetwood Mac, Yes, The Ramones, Metallica, Mott The Hoople, Soundgarden, Snoop Dogg, and far too many to more to name because the list is too long and would probably bore you by the end of reading the list. I've sat in the very last row of stadiums to see Bowie, and saw Jerry Garcia on the front row a few months before he died, and saw many others from the backstage perspective as well. I can say I enjoyed 'em all, and I would not be lying, but a couple stood out way beyond the pale of normal thoughts of what I would consider a good time, and venture to say some were out and out scary as hell.
In 1984, I saw the Dead Kennedys at a club in the East Village of New York City, that is now long gone, called "The World". Not only was the place "standing room only", but the club also oversold the show far past fire codes by over 1400 tickets. I have to say, I was not the common kid with a spikey haircut attending these shows either, as by 1984 I was already 43 years old, but still was excited by the energy generated by a good punk show. It was scary during that show because there would have been no way to escape from that place in a hurry if something terrible happened, but the crowd was so insane that I was scared for my life when I witnessed people running and pushing through the packed place with spikes on, striking anyone that happened to be unlucky enough to be in these crazy people's way. For four relentless hours the maniacs would flail their way through the unsuspecting crowd, hurting those unlucky enough to be in the way of the maniacs, and I stood pinned against a wall just trying to survive the show while trying to enjoy my favorite punk band.
In 1995 or six, I can't recall which, I went to see Motorhead at Roseland Ballroom, also in New York City, and that too was a scary experience. During that show, the crowd was just angry and many fights broke out spontaneously all around me and my friends, and just to feel like I was protecting myself, I unsheathed a secret small blade that I carried on my key chain. I held it ready to slash the first psycho that thought it would be smart to begin a losing battle with my friends or me. Thank goodness I did not have to release blood from any ignorant moron stupid enough to come to a rock show looking for a battle.
But the show that was crazier than both the Motorhead show, The Dead Kennedys, or for that matter, any punk, heavy metal rock or any show I ever went to or even heard of, was the Hank Williams, jr. concert I saw in Birmingham, Alabama, in 1987, and was, by far, the looniest. I was visiting the state of Alabama and the person I had been there to see, Billy, was a huge fan of Hank, jr. and I was not. As a matter of fact, I had never heard a single song by Hank Williams, jr., and I was barely familiar with his father's songs. Billy insisted that during my visit that we attend the Hank, jr. show, and that by the time we got to the show, I would be a fan of "Bocephus", as that was what his real fans called him. How my becoming a fan was to be accomplished was by me being bombarded for the four days prior to the show with Hank, jr.'s catalogue of tunes. To say the least, I was not interested. I protested at the very thought of hearing what I considered ,"that redneck crap". But my relentless friend did as he said he would and he played Hank Williams, jr. songs from his albums, and then made sure I heard the live album to get me familiar with what a show of his would sound like. So after four brutal days, I knew some of the Hank songs I was supposed to know before going to a Hank, jr. show.
The day of the show, we went to the big arena in Birmingham, without tickets, and walked up to the sales window, and five minutes before we got there the arena released several hundred floor seats, by our good luck and timing. We purchased three tickets, as there was myself, Billy, and a mutual friend Keith, who came with us. The seats we were so lucky to get was dead center on the 26th row. I was happy because I loved being in close proximity of the stage at any concert I attended. And in retrospect, when I say we were lucky to have the seats we had, I mean it.
When we went to enter the arena, there were long lines at every entrance. The reason for the lengthy lines was that the security for the show was doing very thorough searches of all attendees, no matter what they looked like. Before I understood why the searches were so thorough I was perplexed at the intensity of the security. When we finally got near the entrance, after standing on a long line to get in, I saw what the hullabaloo was all about in regards to entering. Next to the line, right before the tickets were torn and the attendees entered, were two security guards on each side of the line, patting down, checking pockets, bags, and the like. Next to the guards were two of the largest garbage bins I had ever seen, being just shy of dumpsters, each of which were overflowing with empty liquor bottles, and surrounding the bins on the ground were piles of empty bottles as well. Each bin was next to a sewer grating on the ground and as one guard searched and found bottles of booze, the other emptied the bottles into the sewer. Outside of a liquor store, I had never seen so many liquor bottles in one place.
The guards were finding bottles of all sizes on people, from the mini bottles found on an airplane or mini-bar, to pints, fifths and even half gallons were amassed on the ground. Bottles were found in bags, boots, jackets, up shirt sleeves, down the fronts and backs of people's pants, and even in some women's bras. I stood on line laughing to myself as I saw the searches always yielding some kind of bottle, and even saw the guards acting weird and aggressive to those they did not find any bottles on as if the ones without liquor were doing something wrong. And for the record, I was NOT carrying any liquor, nor did I have any inclination to even think of bringing a bottle of booze to the show. Billy, on the other hand, did bring a couple of miniatures, and somehow they were overlooked by the thorough stadium staff.
So, we eventually make it inside and get to our seats. I immediately notice that on the wall behind the stage, on a huge banner, I can see that the show is sponsored by Jim Beam. For anyone unaware, Jim Beam is a brand of bourbon. And from the looks of what I saw outside the stadium, I definitely understood why the liquor company was doing the sponsoring.
As we thought, the seats we were able to get were great. We were almost dead center, and only 26 rows from the front of the stage. The crowd seemed calm enough, no different from any of the many other shows I had been to, so I was not concerned about anything upon walking in there. I did notice, though, that there was an unusually high presence of security in the forms of staff provided by the concert hall, security provided by Hank, jr's camp, local Birmingham police, Alabama State Police, and also county sheriff's deputies. There were, basically, police everywhere, and all I can say about this is that there were more at this show than any other I had ever attended, at least, on the inside of the arena. I didn't think much of it other than I said to my friends that I could not believe the amount of scumbag jerk-offs for security in there because I figured it was a huge waste of money.
So after waiting for nearly an hour, the lights dimmed, but only slightly. I was kind of annoyed that the lights were barely dimmed and not being lowered to enhance the presence of the musicians on the stage. The crowd came alive with clapping, and hooting, and hollering. People were whistling and cheering and screaming at the tops of their lungs. I sat back and watched as the arena came alive with, what I thought was, raw energy. I did notice, though, that the lights did not go down all the way like most arena, or I should say, all of the arena shows I had been to and I wondered why that was the case. Well, after a few minutes, I saw why the lights were kept up. The security force, of police, staff, deputies, local, and state police were moving through the crowd, restricting behavior, and pestering and removing patrons for the most minor of infractions, like cigarette smoking, minor scuffles, and if people were standing on their seats, and of course, if the security caught anyone with illegally smuggled in liquor.
Merle Haggard, the bearded, scruffy, musical bard was the opening act and he was great. The stage was pulsating with his down-home country music, and the people attending were loving what he was doing as was I and my two friends were digging the groove he was creating. I noticed that the security guards were continually harassing the concert-goers as much as they could, but many of the guests were still going behind the backs of the security by sneaking drinks from bottles that were smuggled in. I just figured, that this was normal being that the show was sponsored by a whiskey maker, and I also figured that the crowd was used to drinking mass quantities as well. After forty-five minutes, or so, Merle finished his set and announced that his wife, Jessie Colter was going to come up onto the stage to do a few numbers. She was famous for about 5 minutes in the late seventies on the pop and country charts for a hit single called "I'm Not Lisa". Well, she did her five songs and then got off the stage and then the lights came up for the intermission while the stagehands were readying the stage for the Hank show coming up. During that time I saw some fights breaking out in the arena, but nothing out of the ordinary that I could see.
After 15 minutes, the stage was set up, and then there was some music being pumped in through the speaker system that got a little louder, which seemed to be the cue that Hank, jr. was about to start. It was only then that I saw things change in a way I had never seen before. The first lights were being dimmed in the audience, and I saw that all of the security so rampant, so hands on, so much everywhere, and so much "in-your-face" were all disappearing from view in the arena. I saw that every single guard, deputy and cop went away, almost like a reverse "cockroach effect". And by "cockroach effect" I mean that in an infested house the cockroaches scatter to the walls when the lights come on. In the case of this show, the guards and police scattered away as if the dark was their enemy, and apparently it very well may have been. At this point the lights were completely turned off and the arena was pitch black, and not an employee of the arena was anywhere to be found.
As the first notes of music was played by the band, Hank jr. appeared on the stage in full regalia as the stage lights lit him like a bright shining star. He was dressed to the nines in a big trademark cowboy hat, a brown suit, high heeled cowboy boots, a bolo tie, a big almost Elvis Presley/professional wrestling belt around his waist, and of course also his trademark beard and sunglasses. (As an aside, Williams developed his trademark image because he was severely injured while climbing Ajax Mountain in Missoula, Montana in August of 1975. The accident shattered every bone within his face and exposed his brain to open air. It would eventually take nine major surgeries to put his face back together again. His recovery took two years. In order to hide the numerous scars, Williams adopted the look that would become his trademark: a thick, full beard, cowboy hat, and dark sunglasses.) He also held a full bottle of Jim Beam in his hand and proceeded to open it and took a large slug from the bottle before he sang the first words of his first song of the night. Simultaneously, I noticed, in the audience, fights started to break out in almost every section of the arena. I looked around 360 degrees and saw that all-out rough house fists fights were happening everywhere I looked, but now there was not a security guard, staff member, or police officer to found. I noticed that there was not even an usher anywhere in the audience, and then realized that the show was now a no-holds barred slug-fest. After the end of the 1st song Hank took another big gulp from his bottle of Beam. The next song started and Hank was in all his glory as he sang, and by the end of that song, he broke an acoustic guitar on one of the amps on the stage to the delight of the audience. By that point, there were so many fights everywhere in the arena, that it was difficult for myself and two friends to avoid being hit or having to get involved in a fight. All we wanted to do was watch the show and enjoy the music. I was anxious just hoping that we did not have to fight or anything like that as I have never been a guy that was a fighter. I'm an adventurer and a lover, not a fighter. So the show went on and so did the fights. Men and women of all ages were fighting in all corners of the place. I saw bloodied and battered men of all ages being carried out by people and fights raged on everywhere. I never saw that many fights in a concert before, not in a punk show or anywhere else. I was shocked at what I was witnessing, and Hank, jr never stopped playing. As a matter of fact, every song or two he either broke another instrument on the stage and he smashed at least six microphones by the end of the show.
As Hank sang songs, smashed mics and instruments, and the concert wore on, and his bottled of Jim was being emptied into his gullet, Hank also began to shed parts of his wardobe. First, he took off his bolo tie after one of his equipment damaging fits. After a couple of more songs the jacket was gone and he soon was taking his boots off as he approached the halfway point of emptying the bottle of whiskey. The fights continued ceaselessly in the audience and "Bocephus" wowed the riotous concert-goers with hits like "All My Rowdy Friends", "Whiskey Bent and Hellbound", "Family Tradition", "Man of Steel", and many others as he shed his shirt and cowboy hat as well.
It was about an hour and forty minutes into the show that Bocephus and destroyed a bass, five of six microphones, two guitars, a piano, and he was now down to just wearing just his pants and sunglasses as even his socks were now tossed away, that he sat on the edge of the stage, right in the middle, with his legs dangling off as he chugged nearly the rest of the bottle of bourbon, that he began to talk to the audience as if every person in the place was a personal friend. He was sweaty, out of breath, drunk, and had the appearance of a wild man as he talked about his music, and then talked about how all of the people in the place were all brothers. And then, like a magic wand hand been passed over the rioting crowd, I saw another shocking sight as I gazed over the audience. In all directions, in all the raging fights that had broken out, amidst ruddy and bloodied combatants, people were hugging each other in all parts of the concert hall. Guys, who had just a few minutes before, and in some cases for almost two hours, who had been battling as if there was a war going on, were now making up with those who were their enemies only a short while earlier. Hank talked, the crowd listened, and peace had become the next wave of mystical energy generated by the son of the great Hank Williams. Hank, jr. then stood up and started the song "A Country Boy Can Survive" as the audience gave him a standing ovation, and he finished out the song, and the show, by throwing and destroying the drum kit across the stage. The audience that had been a riotous, warring group of thousands were now satisfied as they humbly shook hands, hugged, clapped, and left the place tattered, bloodied, beaten, and fulfilled. I never saw anything so bizarre in all my days and now 21 years later, in 2008, I can honestly say I never saw anything like it ever again.
***
{mosimage} T.P. McWhorter was born Talbot Porter McWhorter in Jefferson City Missouri on July 23rd, 1941. He was born the fourth of seven children including two brothers and four sisters. McWhorter's father, Leopold, the first born son of Scottish immigrants, was a railroad man who travelled up and down Missouri train lines making repairs and handled upkeep for the lines throughout the state.
Leopold fought in WWI as a foot soldier for the United States from the beginning of the war to sometime in 1917. It was during that time he developed the skill of engineering to become a railroad technician. By the time T.P. was born, Leopold was not home much and McWhorter's mother mostly raised T.P. and rest of the the family and took care of their small farm. McWhorter's mother, Katerina, was born in the Ukraine and met Leopold after WWI in Philadelphia in 1925 when Leopold was working for the railroad there. Besides running the small farm where they raised a couple of cattle, chickens and some sheep for family food, Katerina worked as a washer woman who was brought the clothes of the local upper class residents of Jefferson City. She was well-loved around the town, and Leopold was the most respected train technician that ever worked on the line. Both died tragically during a weekend vacation when their climbing harness rope snapped while the two were shackled together on the sheer face of a small mountain in Colorado. They fell nearly a thousand feet before they hit the ground.
It was T.P.'s oldest sister, Griselda, who became the head of the family after news of the parents' demise reached the farm by telegram. T.P. was emotionally crushed at not being able to say goodbye to his mother whom he was always close to. He developed obsessive compulsive behavior including repetitive handwashing remeniscent of Howard Hughes, and the paranoid agoraphobic behavior that confined Jim Backus to his home for years. Writing became T.P.'s world where he lost himself in pages of unending fantasy. T.P.'s stories of imaginary worlds, characters that were riddled with obsessions and addictions, dominated the boy's life for seven years before he was forced from his home when Griselda sold the family farm out of selfishness to spend money on fancy clothes and shoes.
After the farm was sold, T.P. and his two brothers moved into a small house. His brothers supported him as he still remained an agoraphobic obsessive hand-washer, and soon developed other paranoid delusional behaviors that included a great fear of transforming into anything other than who he was already, which is symptomatic of the hand-washing compulsion, and also a hatred for odd numbers. It was only when his brother Utgrad came home drunk one night and fell asleep smoking and the house caught fire that snapped T.P. back to reality after he saved Utgrad and his other brother Remo from their imminent deaths. Like being splashed with water while in a daze, the fire was a wake-up call to T.P. and he immediately lost all of his compulsions as he embraced life to the fullest and became an adventurer, traveller, and writer. For the last several years, T.P. has been living on the island of Malta writing short stories and doing archeological digs trying to uncover the link between the Maltese people and the mythical island of Atlantis.
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CreatedThursday, June 26, 2008
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Last modifiedWednesday, November 06, 2013
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