BACK IN THE DAY,  I frequented  open mics at a seedy bar on Western called Shutterbugs. The photography theme of Shutterbugs was kind of loose. There were photos on the wall. I think the owner took most of them. I have an interest in good photography, but I can’t remember any of those. Kind of says it all.

They didn’t have paid acts in there very often. But for whatever reason, a lot of people would get up and play. Some of them were pretty good. It was more of a roadhouse than a coffeehouse, though. The Beatniks were long gone. Shutterbugs was more of a Beernik hangout.  Whiskey and vodka were flowing too.   

I guess I needed the aggravation at that point in my life, or maybe just the beer. On a slow night, I could play a couple sets and the bartender would buy me a drink. You know, it was an audience. That’s  another kind of addictive, beer like thing some of us need. What can I tell you?

Some nights a lot of people showed up to play. I think maybe the local songwriters group had a formal deal going there briefly. That was pretty good too. You got to hang with a lot of good musicians and laugh at the bad ones. Maybe, they were laughing at me too. Doesn’t matter. It was cool.

Shutterbugs did have their regular clientele, who were pretty rowdy. A  group of guys in there were always “fixing” the sound. If they liked what you were playing, four or five of them might get up on stage and sing along. Sometimes, they even knew the words and whatnot.  

There was a lot of aggravated drunk talk, but I don’t remember any actual fist fights going on. The cops did a walk through about every night, though. When they showed up, the owner would stroll down a couple doors to Sipango until it blew over. All the guys who’d been yelling their heads off got real quiet and took seats in dark corners. The under-aged drinkers (they didn’t card the girls real close) might step out for a smoke.

I was on stage on one of these occasions. I was, perhaps, crooning some kind of sensitive, singer/songwriter crap, like I do. There was an older lady sitting at a table up front in a denim skirt, chintzy  blouse and colorful western vest. Cowgirl boots I think.  She was holding a small accordion on her lap. She’d been sitting there, quietly smiling away at me, for quite a while.

When the cops walked past, she looked up and scowled. I’ve always wondered what she said to them. It was like one sentence to The Man, and they hauled her out of there in cuffs.  I never saw her again. I hope they didn’t trash her accordion. Good times.

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