Geno

I am sorry to say that I bring bad tidings this week: Geno Haggerty, trombonist/singer/jugist/bon vivant of the famed Provincetown Jug Band, died last Thursday (March 28th) at the age of 64, as a result of complications that set in after an operation was performed to un-block the arteries supplying blood to his legs. It’s easy to speculate that he would’ve appreciated the ironic timing of his departure, just prior to one holiday celebrating a resurrection (Easter) and another celebrating general silliness (April Fool’s Day), and lending nice symmetry to a life that began on Halloween in 1937.

Among others, he was close to his sister, Janet Duggan (whom he called “Jazz”), who took care of him once his legs failed about a year ago, following heart surgery. (His last performance with the Jug Band was at the Portugese Festival in P’town in June of 2001.) She says that shortly before he died, after a long period when he was literally too sick to talk, he suddenly yanked the ventilator device out of his lung and, apropos of nothing in particular, delivered a loud, spirited version of “God Bless America.” She says that he always whistled at birds and talked to foxes (and that they responded in kind) -and that he was always patriotic.

Geno was not so much a musician’s musician as a person’s person -or maybe a legend’s legend, part rascal, part philosopher. I did not know him well (though we met on a few occasions), but I was always in awe of (perhaps only one of) his central accomplishment(s), which was a long-standing gig the Jug Band used to do at the Surf Club in Provincetown, where Geno played seven nights a week every summer for about twenty-five years (1967 through 1992, according to bandmate Tim Dickey.) Seven nights a week! Are you kidding? No one does that -that’s insane! Tim estimates that Geno -a founding member -must’ve played the Surf Club about 4500 times (including the weekends he did through the rest of the nineties.) If you got frequent flyer miles for playing there, Geno could’ve wintered on Jupiter. And this was not a dainty 2-short-sets-and- home-by-10 kind of gig, either -this was sock out the hits for three, four, five fatso noisy sets a night, every night for months at a time -no nights off! In effect, this made this the Ben Hur of all summer resort gigs. I don’t know how they did it, and I sort of have the feeling that without Geno, they wouldn’t have.

In addition to his musical talents, Geno was the master of ceremonies, a task which he relished and at which he excelled. Under his stewardship, the band reveled in corny by-play and boisterous singalongs, further enhanced by a ceiling covered wall to wall with silly hats, ready to be employed at a moment’s notice by band and patrons alike -a tradition that sadly passed a few years ago when the club was boringly remodeled.

Other prominent PJB members under those hats from time to time were guitarist Joe Bones, bassist Ed Sheriden, and keyboardist Dan Moore. The latter estimates that he “broke more piano strings playing the Big Bopper’s “Chantilly Lace” with Geno than any other song with anyone.” Sheriden says that Haggerty “said the things others would barely admit to thinking, and lived a life that stood as an inspiration to windmill chasers of all ages.”

The band had (and has) many fans, from far and wide, some of whom were rabid enough to try to keep up with their ridiculous schedule. One such fan, Dick Dorr of Wellfleet, related the following: “Weird things just seemed to befall Geno, and he appeared to embrace every one of them -good and bad -as a possible source of material for his "rap" on stage. After he fell and smashed his knee at the Truro Dump Dance a few years ago, I volunteered to take him to the hospital. In his typically gruff affectation of independent indestructibility, he stated that he just wanted to go home. ‘The two of us reached the house on Standish Street in Provincetown where he’d rented a couple of rooms, and realized we'd have to negotiate about 75 feet of back yard to reach his door. Now, Geno was a load -far too much for me to carry; and he wasn't even in shape to hop on one foot. Spying four picnic benches in the yard, he said, "String those together and watch." ‘Soon the four benches were placed end-to-end, in serpentine fashion among the gardens and trash barrels. Geno straddled the last one and proceeded to hitch his body along until he reached the next one, etc. When he'd finish with one bench, I'd run around and place it at the front of the lineup until we reached his door and he could struggle inside. ‘The most vibrant recollection of this episode was that, as Geno careened along the benches, he alternated between loud groans and equally loud laughter. "Boy, this'll be good for 15 minutes at the Surf Club," he croaked during one laughing spasm. I mean, this guy was really hurting; it later turned out the knee had been badly fractured. Yet, his immediate instinct was to translate the situation into a funny vignette that he could later use to entertain.”

There will be a celebration of his life in the form of a memorial service/party at the Surf Club this Sunday, April 7th.

Yup -we’ll miss him.

Failing to Speak English; Further Apologies

Ole! Zee ko-lumn, eet ees: bay-gueennnn!

Ah ‘ave, af-tour much’a suhcheen ud da soo, day-cidead to wrii now, wid dis fonnay ack-a-cent, toe see ip it g’wan bay fezzibell on dey fu-choar wan day, or knut. Eeeeeet’s a new soun’ for may, an’ now for da ko-loam azswill! Wallll? Waduyu tinnnn?

Ok, ok, I’ll stop. Let’s go back to regular English (yawn), and also of course apologizing for whatever I wrote last week (I certainly hope none of you were seriously injured); in particular for my saying that local hoodlum “seven-string” guitarist Fred Fried played every Wednesday at the Penquin Grill in Hyannis -WHICH HE DOESN’T, as he was so kind to remind me recently.

(Bear in mind that Fred seems to be the kind of guy who doesn’t even bother trying to hide the fact that he’s simply using more than the regulation amount of strings, that he is clearly over his allotment. Sure, he sounds great - who wouldn’t? The guy’s clearly using at least one extra string -and that’s just the one you can see!)

So, anyway, what I’m trying to say is, I don’t trust him as far as I can throw him; but according to him, he doesn’t play at the Penquin Grill on Wednesday, he plays there on Friday. Friday. OK? I apparently got that wrong. It’s Friday. I didn’t mean nothin’.

Actually, I have to admit that Fred was really nice on the phone. He even seemed a little contrite about ...using the extra strings (well, only one, technically, but over the years he’s probably changed it hundreds of times, maybe even ...well, no, probably not.) He said he’d consider going down to six again for a certain amount of time, and asked if I thought I might be able to let up on him.

And I thought to myself, you know, Fred’s actually trying to be nice here. He’s actually offering to try to make up for the way he’s behaved. And then my blood started to boil....as if he ever could make up for all those years of cheatin’! All those years of -of too many strings!

I lost it. I just had a complete mental breakdown right then and there. I screamed (and I was in a hardware store at the time on my stupid cell phone) “you can never make up for this, Fred! Never!!!” And I tore out of there as fast as I could considering it was my first day on the scooter, crying and shaking and just so upset! But then I gathered myself together and went home.

Certainly, this hadn’t been my dream phone call; but in the days to come, there would be many phone calls such as this. Still, I know that I can never change Fred Fried, for he is as wild as lightning and as free as the wind. That is why they call him, Fred Freed! But still, I ask of him that he use only five strings for the next couple of decades or so, because only then can he average out.

Anyway, it’s Fred Fried, Penquin Grill, [underlined]Friday[end] (not Wednesday.) But let us talk of happier tidings.

My Friend Judy Laster up in Falmouth has been doing all kinds of interesting film programs up there for the Woods Hole Film Festival, and she sent me a program for this week’s presentation of the Best Shorts of the Boston Underground Film Festival, and it sounds very interesting and includes an Acadeny Award winner or two. Best day to go would be Saturday, March 16 at the Redfield Auditorium in Wood’s Hole, for that is the very day when it occurs! Promptly at 7:30? -who knows? Ms. Laster is very nice, but she’s not the type of woman to be a slave to her career. Just hold your horses.

Mrs. Kelp, by the why (if you’ve never seen her; and if you have, tell me, where? WHERE?! WHERE DID YOU SEE HER? YOU’RE A LIAR!!) is still extraordinarily attractive, and always happy to remind me that I know nothing, and that all of my opinions are less than snowflakes upon the salt of time. That she doesn’t need me, but if she did it would only be to bring more champagne. I like her. The woman intrigues me.

I’ve found a new kind of wine I like! Details next week, when I can read again. (Short ko-lumn ahhh knuhh. Cue picture of Fred.)