The RUMPROLLERS at Their Peak

THIS IS THE STORY, NOT FROM THE HORSE'S MOUTH, BUT FROM THAT OF THE SINGER, OF THE NEW YORK CITY BAND OF THE 80s, THE RUMPROLLERS

Once upon a time, there was, in the deepest most perilous neighborhood of sinful bacchanalians this city has ever seen, a drinking establishment of working stiff and New York City's finest patrons, whose owner for some strange love of this band's founder (who obviously then could persuade the devil to accept a band of Jesus's ugliest angels for a peaceful little luncheon) gave him permission to turn the Nancy Whiskey Pub in New York City into the ultimate home of one of the swingiest bands to ever lay eyes on sheets of musical composition. Every third Saturday was Rumproller Night. It lasted for two years--then the founder suddenly flew off to Spain (just like Artie Shaw left his Lincoln Hotel in NYC band and flew off to Mexico leaving Tony Pastor in charge) and though the band continued playing at Nancy Whiskey for another year or so, one day, the owner, Billy, said, "That's it...no more Rumprollers...besides, I never liked their kind of music anyway." After Billy kicked the band out, it drifted around town, totally out of its element to places like an uptown bar called Augie's, a tiny place run by a bunch of Colombians, they claimed, and we know how Colombians make their best livings. The roof began leaking on poor Luis Baulso's (the congo player) head and the singer was so sick he was on the verge of throwing up...and it was an awful gig, though a typical Rumproller gig, with the band still as uncontrolable and unpredictable as the day it was born. The last gig the Rumprollers ever did was at the Civic Center Temple in lower Manhattan, February 1st, 1991. Gone was the "good times" at Nancy Whiskey, left far behind in the fogs of time, though still a fine little band, playing for a bunch of over-the-hill Jewish folks celebrating some beneficial event they had just concluded.

The singer got acquainted with this mess of blues first by going out pub crawling with his friend, the writer, Mike Roddy, hanging out up in Soho, starting at Walker's, where the singer later worked New Year's Eve gigs for seven years, then stumbling up West Broadway until we got a bar called the Galway Inn, no more akin to an inn than the singer was to Nat "King" Cole--his mother's maiden name was Cole, however. The night was open, we were horny, as always, prowling looking for women, but intent upon gaining the nirvana state called "drunkeness" through the priests of Bacchus should we not score some snatch. The golden pussy our object d'art, the intent of our crusades, vagina our chalace. We went into the Galway, a dive, but with a tiled bathroom area fit for a grand bus station. We sat there drinking our asses off when I happened to notice a handdrawn sign that said, March something or the other, at 9 pm until..., Mark Holen and the Rumprollers would be appearing there. "I know that son of a bitch," I chortled from out of a foam of beer froth. "God-damn," I continued in my best "sailor" language, "how could that bastard start a band without notifying me. I will have to be here." And I was. It was a friend of mine's birthday, Brenda Hinxson, since moved to Charlotte, North Carolina, where she is happy as hell--and I say that stoically since Brenda is a fine black chick born and bred in Harlem, USA. One would have thought Brenda would have been eaten alive by the "new" south, but hell she made it down there and actually likes it. But this night it was Brenda's birthday and I put it upon myself to show her a hell of a good time. Why not the Rumprollers, I thought.

Brenda and I got to this seedy joint at around 10 pm and the Rumprollers were already jumping into their shit and at a mighty, uncontained, untamed pace, I might add. There was a bale of musicians there, each playing his own raggity best. The singer was Ketchie Cartwright, Rich Oppenheim's wife, the alto saxophone player with the group. Even the Big Bunny was there, playing his harmless guitar, alongside of my old pal, Jesse Cohen, keyboardist Doug Jordon, who I didn't even know at the time, and bassist Gerhard Schlanzky, who I had met when he came to Number 5 White Street from Michigan to take my place living there. I had been holed up at Mark Holen's place we called "the Ranch" for about a month. Always a gaggle of musicians either living there or coming by all day and night to jam or drink or smoke or check out the babes. There were always babes. Ketchie, the Harriton twins Laurie and Lynnie, Bret Cartwright's latest flame, or later Kurt Weiss' bevy of known chicks, or babes from all over the world, including a sociologist from Madrid and a shiatsu practitioner from France.