Good Morning Gentle Readers,
It probably isn't news that Billy Powell shoulda kept that appointment with his cardiologist earlier this week. Too bad, because fifty six is way too young to punch the clock.
The Fire Station was never a fire station. Long past its prime, the fifty-something clientele couldn't bear yet another evening alone with Donna Reed reruns. If you got lucky, it was conveniently adjacent to the dilapidated Fire Station Motel. Pretty sure they kept the rusty hook-and-ladder truck when it shed the cocoon and morphed into DJ's, an innovative, cutting edge discotheque, pulsating with energy.
Steve (not Stevie the Spy) raved that DJ's was the coolest place in the OC. (I swear, we never, ever called it that.) Except he couldn't talk any of the hot chiquitas into dancing with him. I had a grudge against Disco, which had pounded coffin nails into the live band scene, but it intrigued me that no chicks would dance with Steve. With that incentive, I let him drag me off one foggy Saturday night.
As we shuffled past the bouncer he handed me a business card good for a free drink. We found a table, called for a beer, and as my eyes adjusted I noticed something peculiar. Took a quick look at the free drink card and then reached over to slap Steve upside the head. The card read.....
Gay All The Way
Long way around the barn to say that John Travolta's mechanical bull Disco'd DJ's almost overnight. They junked the fire truck, ash canned the disco ball, tossed sawdust on the floors, and hired a Southern Fried Hockey Boogie band. The piano player put you in the mind of Lynyrd Skynyrd's Billy Powell with a bowler hat.
I love a good boogie piano and Billy Powell was as good as anybody, except maybe the Killer. This performance was for BBC in 1975. If I had energy I would have turned Billy's sizzling piano solo into a clip (picks up at about 2:40).
Rest in peace, man.
Tip of the glass to JC Bowman