The Ballad of Johnny Allen: a Bad Muthaf#*(r

It's a legend of stage and screen, by now, but bears repeating lest we ever forget.

Pat and Ben and I had occasion to visit NYC this past weekend. Pathetic, I know, but it has its advantages; the most obvious of which is access to the culture that they just don't get up Storrs way.

Steve Guyger had originally been slated for the 7PM show at Terra Blues. On the way down, Pat announced that Ray Shinnery would appear, instead; which was cool... I'd had the honor of bringing him onto the stage in Bushnell Park for Black Eyed and Blues.

We hatched a stragety (sic) which required Ben and me to enter the club first; while Pat was on the pavement thinkin' about the government (and waiting for Old Man Jackson).

We walked in for the last strums of sound check, and I realized that this was not Ray Shinnery (I'm that astute). Rather than ask, "Who are you?", I opted for the diplomatic introduction; "I'm Chris and this is Ben. We do college radio."

"I'm gonna sit and talk with you guys. I'm Johnny Allen, and I'm a bad muthf#*(r!"

Ben picked up the thread with pretty much the sort of conversation you'd expect to follow such a colorful introduction. I texted Pat. "Come up... now... you're missing this". I was wrong... there was no missing out on this unique individual, as we would spend the next 5 hours either in the audience or just kickin' it with him and with Larry Corban.

Prior to the first set, we learned all sorts of things: about marriage, about music, about what Wynton Marsalis doesn't eat (but Branford does... metaphorically speaking... with his music). I didn't know most of it, before that.

For all intents and purposes, Johnny played that first set for us. There were about 6 other patrons; including an older, distinguished couple from the Midwest (a hunch), who seemed to remember another, more pressing engagement, after their first drink. Things were getting rather "vivid", I guess.

The radio guy in me noticed that he did (very slightly) edit his charmingly outrageous patter while on stage; though I won't dissect it beyond that.

And here's the thing; the normal order of... the one where the "real" set comes later, got turned on its head. The more colorful stories... like the one about "...this Napoleonic, rookie muth- [officer of the law]" who nabbed him for accidentally using his son's Metro card

"I'm not saying he's racist. I'm saying that, had I been wearing a suit and carrying a briefcase, instead of wearing jeans and carrying a guitar... he'd've let me go!"

The more real songs. The more raw performance.
All this came before the "hipsters" filed in for the 10PM show.

At some point I noticed that things were becoming more tame. Maybe it was the simultaneously campy and soulful version of a Marvin Gaye classic. Maybe I noticed the rousing response to the first few bars of "Mr. Jones" (this was Bleecker Street, after all). Johnny, for his part, noticed something else:

"I hear a lot of conversation out there. A lot of sexual tension!"

[Cue: "Let's Get It On".]

Between sets we learned even more about life: that women are best from age 23 (or 24) to 26 (after that y'all apparently get all twisted and crazy), for instance.

Afterwards, we stopped at Arthur's, but it wasn't right for the evening.

Thinking back, we were probably the only ones who responded to his call during "Mojo Workin'" and "I Ain't Drunk (I'm Just Drinkin')". We'd climbed aboard the Johnny Allen express and wouldn't disembark until after midnight, outside The Waverly Restaurant (where that may have actually been Quincy Troupe, three tables over).

If you run into us, now, you may notice that we talk differently. We pepper our everyday utterances with "muthf#*(r" (not that we didn't in the past, mind you). And we laugh when we do it; recalling our newest friend.

We have to get him on the air.