It's All Right, Ma, I'm Almost Rocking
November 10, 2000

"Do you really have to go now, son?" my dear old arthritic mother, Attica, begged, the tears in her eyes dousing the cigarette danglin' from her mouth corner, her makeup smeared like Tammy Faye on a bad face day, her voice cracklin' worse than my Aunt Yazoo's throat talker. "I'm sorry ma," I said, "but duty calls."

"But you've only been home for 15 minutes."

I know, I know but here I am, Raiford Starke, supposed to spend a whole week with my sweet home mother and suddenly leaving her for reasons of rock and roll. It was Ken Crawfish's fault - the state Music Czar had just called me in desperation, begging me to dump my dear old Ma.

"Blow her off, Raiford," said Crawfish. "I'm talking the Florida State Museum. Bo Diddley here. Dickey Betts. The Lynyrd Skynryrd wives!"

He swore the state needed a guitar player to play in some shin-dig in Tallahassee, honoring all the legendary Florida rockers.

"You'll be playing with the back-up band, T.C. Gar and the Crabs. Here's T.C.'s number. Be at rehearsal tonight," said Crawfish.

"Crawfish! Gar! Are all your friends named after fish?" my mother screamed, when I tried to explain. "Oh , I give up. Go ahead, ungrateful son, but I'm calling Mr. Grouper the attorney and writing you right out of my will!"

Rock and roll is bigger than mothers or money and this could be my shot. So with heavy heart, I left for the airport., jumped on that big Air Starkansaw bird and flew all the way back to Florida. Soon, there I was Raiford Starke shaking hands with The Legend. It was opening night at the Florida State Museum's "Follow That Dream: 50 Years of Rock n' Roll in Florida" exhibit. "Mr. Legend, sir," I said, shaking, "I have always been a big fan of yours ever since I was in a teenager in Starkansaw I saw you playing on Don Kirschner's Rock Concert with that V-shaped guitar . . ."

My friend Sunset Beach Pete told me later that Bo Diddley pulled his hand back and looked at me annoyed. "Son, you don't know diddley," he spat, walking away. I was shocked. Pete explained it to me. "It was Albert King who played the Flying V, Bo Diddley plays the box-shaped guitar!"

Dang me! All these legends are starting to look alike. I ran after The Legend, reached over and grabbed his hand again. " I'm sorry Mr. King. I thought you were . . ." The Legend swung his guitar at me like Mark McGuire but Pete pulled me out of the way. "Man, that dude has a weird style," I commented. Suddenly, a crowd of reporters surrounded The Legend and he started doing the ham-bone and pontificating. "Listen to me now. I'm serious. Drugs are ruining our youth! We got to say 'Kids, don't do it . . . Kids, don't do it!' . . .

All the stars were out at the Museum tonight, paying their civic duty. Sam Moore of Sam and Dave. Benji Brumberg of TK records. Dickey did actually show but the rest of the Allmans were not here. I looked to the left and saw Molly, but no Hatchett. I spied fiddle impressario Vassar Clements. Yessir, ol' Raiford Starke knows his Florida music.

I wandered into the museum exhibit, and came across the Florida band that recorded the first 45 single that Raiford Starke ever owned - "Snoopy and the Red Baron" by that Ocala band, the Royal Guardsmen. I sang the chorus to myself "Ten, twenty, thirty, forty, fifty or more . . . that bloody Red Baron was rollin' up a score . . ."

Unfortunately, no Royal Guardsmen showed up to play this night. I saw The Legend get on stage with the museum back-up band, T C Gar and the Crabs. And lo and behold what did he have strapped on but that rectangular box shaped guitar. He started frammin' . . . chunk a-chunk a-chunk a-chunk chunk . . . and singing: "Bo Diddley Bo Diddley have you heard . . ."

I nearly fell off my chair realizing what a fool I was. I turned to Pete. "You %$#@&!!," I said, "Why didn't you tell me who that was in the first place?!"

Then Bo looked down at me at started singing a country song:

You don't have to call me Muddy Waters/ You don't have to call me Charlie Pride/ You don't have to call me Albert King/ Less you want to be on my fightin' side . . .

Then came the Classics IV doing "Spooky," followed by Dickey Betts and son Duane playing "Southbound" and "Ramblin' Man" then Artimus Pyle and the Skynyrd Wives on "Freebird." Even T.C. Gar did a few of his own songs, like "Snappertime" and "New Dock, New Dock." Ol' Crawfish came running up to me "Go get your guitar and be ready for the next song!" he said urgently.

Finally, fame came a-calling. So was nature . . . I ran to the men's room but I couldn't open the door. I couldn't figure out if it was locked or stuck. Then I heard a voice coming from behind me.

"Stand aside there, good buddy." I turned around to see Dickey Betts. He took a running start and proceeded to ram and kick that dad-gum bathroom door until it finally splintered off the hinges.

He stood there looking rather disturbed with his face and neck all red. I didn't know how to thank him. "Mr. Betts," I said, " you really didn't have to . . ." He just flashed one of those cracker smiles and said, "Buddy, spare it . . . I've broken down a lot of doors in my day. It's kinda fun!"

I came out of the men's room, flew up on the stage and grabbed the first Telecaster I saw . . . but the show was over.

Crawfish came up to me. "Raiford I'm sorry man. I guess it wasn't in the cards tonight." I looked down in despair when an attractive middle aged woman approached me. "Excuse me," she said, "Would you mind signing my program? I'm one of the Skynyrd Wives." "B-b-but I didn't play," I said.

"That's alright," she said, knowingly. "I know you're somebody."

Damn straight. I grabbed a-hold of her pen and signed : I almost played, Raiford Starke. T.C. Gar walked by at that very moment: "Hey Raiford, sorry you didn't get to play. But, hey, man, you still got to sign an autograph. Cool!"

And with that, me and Pete decided to ditch this shin-dig and go beyond the outskirts of town, somewhere between Tallahassee and Starkansaw to a little ol' juke joint and bar-b'cue pit called Dave's CC Lounge --where the meat melts off the ribs and the REAL legends are born . . .

-- Raiford Starke is a Ft. Lauderdale based bluesman. Part two of his column will be published soon as Dave books him at his CC Club.

© November 10, 2000, The Seminole Tribune