You Know What’s Crazy? I’ll tell you what’s Crazy.™
The good will that washed over me Wednesday night.
As you Crazy readers undoubtedly know, Uncle Daddy lost just about everything he owns in a fire that happened during the Nashville floods.
His bomb shelter of a house broiled his possessions like a fondue pot, then when the concrete and brick walls would not combust, the house choked off the flame’s oxygen and said: ENOUGH.
The fire died, but the damage was done.
His dad’s photos with Elvis; his golden emmy’s, his mom’s couch.
All of it burned up like so much rolled newspaper in the fireplace.
Uncle Daddy’s friends came in with shovels and brooms and cleaned up the ashes.
But sweeping up ashes and putting charcoal appliances at the curb doesn’t replace a refrigerator, or a table.
That takes money.
So how do you raise money?
A fire benefit!
The idea flowed from my pores like sweat from Shaquille O’Neal at the foul line.
And so it began. I called my main man, Erik Blue.
“Blue, can you and the boyz rock it for Uncle D?”
“We’re in my my brother.”
One call, one interrogative and Bam, we got ourselves a free band.
Next call to Big Joe. “Joe Joe, you know a venue that would let us…”
“done.”
I didn’t even get that question out of my mouth and it was in motion.
I know how to work a tip bucket, but we needed to sex this motha up, I thought to myself.
What’s the next best thing to sex? Why a Silent Auction of course.
But I don’t know how to do that.
I just happen to be upstairs when I learn that L.B. did a silent auction and made $500 bucks for a friend.
“Hey L.B., if we get you some merchandise, can you run Uncle Daddy’s silent auction.”
She never said a word. Her smile was like a sunny day that said take off your shoes and run in the grass. It was done.
In 5 minutes the Uncle Daddy fire benefit was alive.
A cop buddy of mine who works with the Tennessee Titans came through big time.
He brought autographed footballs from QB Vince Young and NFL rushing leader, Chris Johnson. He brought size 17 signed cleats from Center, Kevin Mawae.
The day of the event, I pulled a picture of two local anchors off the wall. The picture had been hanging there for a decade.
“What the hell,” I thought to myself.
I got on the phone and called every single contact I had.
Uncle Daddy benefit. Be there! Wednesday! Pass the bucket! Band is gonna rock it!
The excitement level was amping up.
Finally the day arrived.
I entered the pub and I was suddenly overwhelmed with the daunting task before me.
There were signs on the front door that said “Flood Relief.”
I got a little sick feeling. Could we really do this. I didn’t see many faces I knew.
By 7pm, Erik Blue is leaning against the bar with his arms folded
“What up dog?,” I say pointing to my watch.
I sense a fire burning in the lead singer’s belly. His face remains stoic.
“they won’t get the microphones.”
“Who won’t get the microphones?”
He points to the bar tender mixing a margarita.
“That guy is your sound man? A bartender who would rather mix drinks than set up the sound board?”
Blue rolls his eyes. “I’m trying to be cool, man.”
I swallow hard and move through the building. I start seeing a flood of familiar faces showing up. The sheriff of Sumner County drove 50 miles just to personally hand us a check.
The police chief of Brentwood stopped by to personally shake Uncle Daddy’s hand.
The main anchor of the abc affiliate in Nashville was there for a couple of hours, bidding on her own ancient photograph that I stole off the wall.
Uncle Daddy was making the rounds, tears welling in his eyes and love filling his shoe box sized heart.
He must have hugged me 3 times while the band was setting up.
“this is great,” he said fighting back tears.
Suddenly, I hear the speakers popping.
“check, one two, check. one two.”
Blue is up on the stage and Bomb Squad is behind him ready to unleash an array of blues and funk and rock and roll that hasn’t reverberated off this beer hall’s walls for years.
Big Joe takes the microphone.
“Can I have your attention?”
The bar quiets only slightly.
Big Joe doesn’t care, his voice is large and he is two beers into a soliloquy.
“Uncle Daddy is a great guy. His house burned while he was working a 29 hour day covering this flood that ravaged our city.”
Then he introduces me as Uncle Daddy’s gay lover.
I don’t like public speaking and it shows.
“Uncle Daddy was out helping others in their tragedy, now we’re going to help him during his.”
I see a cute bar maid gesturing with her fist in front of her chest and moving her fist to her mouth.
It looks a little erotic, and I’m not exactly sure what she is trying to say.
“Hold the mic near your mouth,” Big Joe yells from the periphery.
Did i mention that I don’t publicly speak.
I decide that I’m slowing this event down.
“Look there is a tip jar making the rounds and a silent auction upstairs. I want to thank Erik Blue and the Bomb Squad for donating their musical talents.”
I put the mic down. Nobody booed but I think that is only because it was a benefit.
Erik Blue suddenly took over the joint.
The band explodes like a Thoroughbred bursting from the gate.
The Guitarist hits a chord so dirty you needed to wash your mouth with soap.
Then the bass player with the neon blue lights blinking on his axe rips a power note so pronounced, I saw people checking their fillings at the bar.
The drummer blasted the skins like an F -14 breaking the sound barrier.
Then keyboard player, Erik Blue ran those magic fingers that Swedish chicks on vacation pay a lot of money for, over the ivories.
BAM
The vibe changed like a car thunder clap on a spring morning.
Girls who looked bored, started gyrating in their seats.
Men at the bar, started swaying, nodding their heads, over come by the rythm.
The music was so dirty, so raw, It was like I was in the wild west and needed a shot of Wild Turkey to wash the dust out of my throat.
Erik Blue took control. The bar was his. White and black and young and old.
Uncle Daddy tipped back an adult beverage and wiped a tear from his eye.
The band rocked it for 2 straight hours. The money bucket made it around the bar more times than Rosie O’Donnell visits a free buffet.
By the end of the night, the 5 gallon pickle jar with the huge DONATE label was 3/4 filled.
You could see ones and tens and twenties and even hundreds through the opaque glass.
I knew we had done well, and we did. We raised 1000’s of dollars for Uncle Daddy.
The kindness from everyone was overwhelming and what makes Middle Tennessee a wonderful place to live.
As Erik Blue began packing up his gear, young men came up to him stating, “man nobody has rocked this place like you guys. When you started to play, I just couldn’t stop moving.”
I think Erik Blue was pleased. I know I was.
And by the way; what was the biggest item at the auction? The Vince Young football? The Todd Helton autographed baseball bat? Nope! The ten year old photo of the two anchors from 1980. It went for a mind altering $350.00
Now that is beautifully crazy.