Just down the block, walking distance from me in Arlington, Virginia, there is a nighttime establishment called Dr. Dremos, a dive billiards bar and micro brewery formed out of a former auto dealership and repair shop. Unfortunately, the place is now a mere shadow of its former self. At one time not so long ago, Dremos was Bardo Rodeo, the hottest nightclub in the Washington, DC area, packed to the rafters with 20, 30 and 40-something suit coats, tie-dyeds and pierced-naveled longhaireds, butches and way-way-over-dooeds. Up to 800 people on any given Friday night would imbibe some hopped concoction out of its 100-plus taps, an exotic menagerie of malted barley variations that they claimed to be the largest selection on the East Coast.
So what happened? Bill Stuart Jr., creator of Bardo Rodeo (and
before it Roratonga Rodeo and Amdo Rodeo -- none of which had anything
to do with rodeos), packed up his huge brew pub establishment and moved
it to the outer burbs and left his father, Bill Stuart Sr., aka Dr. Dremo,
to tend the bar. Dr. Dremo seems an apt description for the
older Stuart, who is a gray-haired, gray-bearded amiable fellow, but often
seems rather spacy, as if as if he lit up a few too many bowls in his younger
days. Anyway, although the older Stuart still has the pinache
to pull off comment-compelling atmospherics and award winning microbrews,
for some reason, Dr. Dremos is attracting only a tiny percentage of what
Bardo Rodeo once attracted. Some weekend nights, I go down
there and it's so
quiet that I can hear a pin drop. The place is often nearly empty
these days.
But, that's not what I intended to write about.
So, anyway, there I am, eating my vegetarian chili at Dr. Dremos, totally
alone -- a bizarre situation considering that this was once one of the
most hopping and hip places around town. In front of me are three
musicians, one of whom undoubtedly ranks as the most talented guitar player
I have ever witnessed firsthand. He goes by the name of Bushmaster,
but his actual name is Gary D. Brown, which coincidentally is the name
of one of my longtime best buddies (also a talented guitar player), but
that would be another story. Anyway, this guy Bushmaster reminds
me of a modern day Mozart playing blues guitar. He can play the most
extraordinarily complicated licks at great length while standing tippy
tow on one foot stepping up on a chair or table with the guitar tilted
upside down and
behind his head. He demonstrates this feat along with an assortment
of other little gimmicks such as picking and strumming the guitar using
forks and knifes on an ear-bending Jimi Hendrix riff while
simultaneously planting a lengthy and luscious kiss on his wife's lips.
His guitar gymnastics and acrobatics continue seamlessly, flying through
the air with the greatest of ease, as if mastery of his craft is just an
involuntary reflex involving no thought whatsoever. And his
voice is damned good
too!
As it turned out, at times throughout the evening, his wife (or significant
other) was the only other person besides myself in the audience, and after
about 45 minutes, even she left the room, leaving me
by my lonesome as the sole applauder. Bushmaster's accompanying
musicians, a bass player and drummer, are competent musicians as well,
but Bushmaster seemed to have just met them both and was breaking them
in to his repertoire. I applauded enthusiastically at the end of
each jaw-dropping performance, and Bushmaster and his band appreciated
my attentiveness and repeatedly acknowledged my appreciation, but the situation
seemed odd indeed, not least of which because of the three-to-one musician-to-audience
ratio. The question came to mind, what is a guy like this doing in
a place like this? Bushmaster's appearance was publicized in more
than one local newspaper. Where is everybody? Why doesn't the
whole world already know about this wunderkind talent?
I watched, listened and applauded for a couple of hours until my ears
could no longer stand the relentless reverberation of excessively amplified
energy bouncing from within much too small constraints. There was
no charge for my attending, but I bought a CD and also stuffed a $10
tip in the bowl -- puny compensation relative to my enjoyment for the
evening, but something of a meaningful acknowledgment coming from a cheapskate
like me. Unfortunately, the CD doesn't capture the magic of
Bushmaster's on-stage performance. Still, who knows what's down the
road for this guy? Perhaps he is going somewhere, and his
name will be on the lips of a lot more folks than just a guy like me in
an East Coast dive bar.
Deano
(Just as an note to my friend Gary. I asked Bushmaster and found
out that the D. in Gary D. Brown is Duane rather than David).