IMMOKALEE
May 28, 1999

-- Well, it's Saturday night, and the sun's gone way down and I'm sweatin' with writer's block in this funky little cow town. I'm leaning over the Smith-Corona, starring at a half-drunk beer and a red-brown cigarette stain burnt into the warped veneer of the fake mahogany desk where the 12-inch black-and-white RCA TV set with coat-hanger rabbit ears (and the channel selector button gone) sits. The doggone T-key is missing from the typewriter and thin black oil is seeping out the bottom of the unit. I've got the jalousie windows cranked open at the State Road 29 Laundromat Motel and the sounds of yahoos, Mexicans and barking dogs ride the gentle breeze up and down the avenue.

Suddenly, the old 1950s black dial-phone rings. I reach over to the nightstand next to a dog-eared Gideon Bible and a pile of 40 crumbled empty Juicy Fruit gum wrappers. I stick the receiver in my ear and flop down backwards on the rumpled faded pink poincianna floral print bed spread. It's Pete from Sunset Beach on the other end. All excited: "Hey man, now that the new Raiford Starke CD is finally out, we need to have a record release party. Let's have it at Stephen and Ira's and get Big Richard and the Extenders as the main act."

"Wait a doggone minute," I said, "Why not have the Raiford Starke band play, seeing how it is my CD release party?"

Pete got real nasty and sarcastic. His voice changed into the Taco Bell chihuahua: "You want to have one of them wussy CD par-tays with a bunch of stiff-necked Florida folkies in somebody's house where everyone's real quiet and you shamelessly hock your product to your friends and family? Or do you want to have a man's event. Bring in a big star Florida band like Big Richard to draw the people, then step up and show 'em it's Raiford Starke's event."

I smashed the phone down all over the desk. "I got your event right here!" I screamed at the broken handset.

His words, however, kept echoing my ears. I put the torn cheap plastic dust cover over the typewriter. Now I was on the CD release party mission. It didn't take long for the naked light bulb to start flickering over my head. Two dragonflies were mating in a buzz, round and round the 60-watt soft-white General Electric-style generic Wal-Mart bulb. My mind took to racing. I idly paged through the local entertainment rag. Then it hit me: There might be more than one way to skin a cat, but there's only one way to skyn a cat!

I shut off the light, dashed out the motel door and left the dragonflies groaning inside. I drove to my Uncle Johnny Lee's house to borrow his sign painting van. On the way over - and I hate to do these things, officer -- I stopped at the local convalescent home and "borrowed" a wheelchair. By now night had fallen and the neon luminescence of the Seminole gaming palace put a brillcream sheen on everyone's head. Dogs started sniffin'. There's somethin' in the air. I was hyped.

I had read about the new club in town. Bigger and better than any Planet Hollywood, a local place where the touring national acts could perform on their way through town. It was a gigantic rock n' roll blues palace and cigar emporium known as Club Kilmo.

The parking lot was jammed with pick-up trucks and Harleys. The huge 350-light marquee blared "Tonite Only, Lynyrd Skynyrd." The ticket window was closed. Sold Out. The show had already started inside. As the faint murmur of wild screams and "Gimme Three Steps" filtered through Kilmo's walls, I balanced Uncle Johnny's ladder against the big marquee and went to work. Took me barely three minutes to change my life forever. I got out my cell phone and dialed Sunset Beach.

"Pete, ol' buddy, you better bring what's left of those thousand discount produced Starke CDs down to Club Kilmo right now," I screamed. "Cause we're fixin' to sell out."

Pete cursed at me.

Just before he hung up the phone I laid the whole scam on him: "I'm talkin' the Raiford Starke CD release party we talked about earlier today. You said you wanted a big star Florida band, well I got you one, bro. Get those CDs down here, right now!"

Now it was time for Plan 2. I pulled the wheel-chair out of the van and rolled myself up to the entrance. A large bouncer with a Goldberg bald head, a Fred Flintstone voice and hands the size of Oklahoma shook his head: "Sorry crip, we're sold out."

I whipped out my secret weapon - the secret to my admission into everything from donkey shows and barn-raisings to White House State Dinners and window seats at Joe's Stone Crab. I showed the big guy my, ahem, laminated, limited edition, made in America, signed by Betty Mae Jumper, official Seminole Tribune press pass. Big boy smiled with a set of teeth that would send a beaver back to bangin' badgers. He pointed the way inside with a finger bigger'n Tulsa.

The Skynyrd boys were on stage. I rolled right up front where all my chairbound bro's were jiving, rolling and spinning in ecstasy. Right before the encore, I rolled over to a security guard and asked to see the club owner.

"That would be Kilmo," he says and points towards the stage at the bass player. "That's him playing in the band."

"But what happened to Leon Wilkinson, Skynyrd's regular bass player?" I yelled into a large cauliflower situated on the side of the guard's head where his ear was supposed to be.

"It's the law here at Club Kilmo that Kilmo and only Kilmo supplies the bass lines for every major touring act that plays here."

When the song was over I wheeled myself backstage and introduced myself: "Kilmo, my name is Raiford Starke -- president of the local chapter of DAM-U! That's Disabled American Musicians Union. I would just like to inform you that your night club violates several codes set by DAM-U and signed into law by President Clinton this year."

"What are you talking about? We got handicap parking spaces outside . . . "

"Sir," I interrupted haughtily, "the video monitors here aren't close-captioned for the hearing impaired. The restrooms and doorways don't meet the new DAM-U wheelchair accessibility guidelines. By law, I could have you shut down until your club is up to code and require a $20,000 fine for each infraction."

Kilmo's face - an odd commingling of beard, cigar droppings, bloodshot eyes and skin-covered Mount Rushmore issue nasal apparatus, began to quiver.

"Of course," I said, "I could always look the other way if you tell the boys in the band you got a special friend to join them on their encore."

Kilmo smiled: "No trub, Doc," and he whispered in the stage manager's ear.

Skynyrd lead singer Johnny Van Zant stepped up to the microphone. "Ladies and Gentlemen, we've got a very special friend whose gonna play with us on the last song of the evening. Come on out here my man . . . "

A roadie wheeled me out; Gary Rossington's Gibson Les Paul was slung around my shoulder.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I want you to meet a very special friend of mine: Mr. Raiford Starke!" There was a curious, albeit gratuitous, applause. Then Mr. Van Zant opened his arms out to the worshipping crowd and ask, "Now, what song is it you wanna hear?"

The frenzied crowded erupted into a roaring sea of flickering Bic lighters, anticipating the opening chords to "Free Bird," unquestionably the greatest southern rock anthem of all time. That's when I launched into the opening guitar riff to my own anthem to angst: "Stockbroker Took My Girl"

I could hear Skynyrd's drummer screaming behind me, "What the hell does he think he's doin'?"

"I don't know," Van Zant yelled back, "but I think I'd better hand over my microphone 'cause I have a feelin' this boy has somethin' to say . . . "

And so I led the band through one potential Raiford Starke hit after another. " Stockbroker," "Girl From Immokalee," "Jaded Love," "Gator Wrestlin' Nun" - we burned up the entire Raiford Starke CD. With the legendary 'Skynyrd boys backing me up I had that crowd eating out of my hand. I noticed Pete way in the back of the club, selling CDs faster than Mohair Sam running from Good Golly Miss Molly. Pete seemed slack-jawed and pale, as he tried to control the mob ripping into those CD boxes like a wild pack of ravenous hyenas.

The CDs sold out in no time. The crowd was still hungry for more Raiford Starke CDs. I handed the mike back to Van Zant. The crowd let out a deafening chant. "Rai-ford, Rai-ford, Rai-ford, Raaaaai-ford!" That's when I cued Billy Powell, Skynyrd's keyboard player to start the opening chords to "Free Bird." Me and Johnny traded verses and finally harmonized like brothers on the last refrain.

When we kicked into the jammin' party I, uh, made a mistake: I got so excited that I jumped out of my seat and started dancing across the stage. Shocked, Pete jumped up on stage like Benny Hinn and grabbed a microphone: "Ladies and gentlemen, you've just witnessed the power of rock n' roll make this wheelchair-bound man get up and dance! Lets hear it for rock n' roll and Raiford Starke! Can I hear a 'Hail yeah'?"

Yes, indeed some thought it was the miracle, while others became angry and disillusioned at my apparent charade. Jeers began to emanate from the crowd; "He's a fake . . . a charlatan . . . Let's lynch him!" The entire Club Kilmo fell into a state of sheer pandemonium. I grabbed Pete and we fled out the backstage door with 3,000 screaming rednecks stampeding behind us.

We jumped into Pete's car and peeled out of the parking lot. Through the rear view mirror I could see long neck bottles being hurled our way. We drove straight to the motel, right by the flashing neon Club Kilmo marquee. It said, simply: "Tonite Only, Raiford Starke CD Release Party w/ Special Guest, Lynyrd Skynyrd."

The last thing I saw was Kilmo. He was climbing up the ladder with a sawed-off shotgun. "Darn," said Pete, when the marquee exploded into smithereens. "Shoulda got a picture first."

We both thought of the same idea. George Strait is coming to town next week. "Order some more CDs," I said, proudly. "Let's party!"

-- Raiford Starke's first CD 'Speak Me' can be purchased online at Big Cypress Records.

© May 28, 1999, The Seminole Tribune