Most people know I enjoy a cold beer on occasion. Some think that I live on bourbon. Not unlike my youth when most people viewed me under the misconception that I was forever high (I've never particularly cared for smoking weed) the notion that I drink a lot is more myth than actuality.
Back in my younger days, however, if you saw me out and about, I was probably drinking. If I was doing a show, I was drinking. In the studio working on a session, I was probably having a few. If you saw me in a bar, I was definitely on my way to blitzville.
I wouldn't say I had a drinking problem as much as it was a way to deal with boredom, anxiety, and being stuck in a small town in a shitty, bigoted, redneck state. I've never done well with small towns, and I can honestly say that I've never much cared for the state of Ohio. Sure, I have family there that I love, and I have some dear friends there that I also love but...the state as a whole has never been a good fit for my personality. In short, I was self-medicating. Shit happens.
I spent the better part of 20 years of my life in Ohio. I wasn't born there. I never really felt at home there. Everything about the place felt alien to me. Ok, I like some of the food but everything else was just so odd to me. My cousins thought it was hilarious that our family moved there. (The bigger laugh was that theirs moved to Michigan) In my teens, I would frequently sit and watch traffic late at night, jealous that the people in those vehicles were going somewhere, ANYWHERE, else. I tried to leave Ohio a couple of times but always got roped back in.
When I was in school the drinking age was 18 and most places didn't check IDs too closely. By 15, I was definitely a weekend warrior. By 18, a daily drinker. By 21, I'd hopped around from one town to another and eventually ended up in a rather Mayberry-like small town. I was close enough to Canton and Akron that I could find most things I'd want and was only 75 miles from Cleveland, which while not Utopia by any stretch of the imagination, was to me a good place to occasionally escape to. Like a lot of folks at that age, I was looking for my true self. I just knew I wasn't going to find it in a small town in Ohio.
I've always had the ability to make the best of any situation. If I had to compile a list of personal strengths, that would be in the top three. My little personal Mayberry seemed as good a place to start as any. I didn't have any family around and really only had one or two friends at first. I landed a job in a produce warehouse and eventually found work in my chosen field. I was usually a week from being broke but it wasn't totally awful. I had a nice place to live, a decent car, a gorgeous gal, and was working pretty regularly as a musician. The one downside was WAY TOO MANY BARS. My gal enjoyed going out for a few as much as I did, and she was also a bit of a pool shark. Most nights you could find us at our regular watering hole, and I'd usually be drinking with my buddy Jackson while she ran the billiard table. Had I been able to stick to that routine, I would have been fine. But...that's not something I've ever been good at. I get bored, restless, and worst of all, anxious. I have one of those brains that never stops. I'm always thinking of the next thing to do. I like to believe I'm planning for any eventuality but I'm really just anxious and depressed. I'm still that way but I've definitely mellowed with age.
There was an afterhours bar that my bandmates and I would occasionally frequent. The proprietor was, for lack of a better word, a character. In a small town like that, Brad stuck out like a sore thumb. Like I said, Ohio was and still is (in my eyes) a bigoted, redneck place. The locals would probably be aghast at hearing that and any who read this will probably argue the point but it's just how I see it. And Brad was living proof.
The county I was living in was predominantly white...and that's being polite. In the 3-4 years that I lived there; I don't think I ever saw more than a dozen non-white people. There was the Korean family that owned and operated the laundromat I used. There were a few black folks, and maybe a few Asian doctors and their families. Aside from them, it was white suburbia. I'm not saying there's anything wrong with my fellow honkies, but I can honestly say they're not, for the most part, a particularly accepting/inclusive bunch.
Brad's family was Italian. He and his brother both looked typically midwestern Italian. Where Brad differed was his effeminate nature, shaved eyebrows and black Eve Arden eye shadow. Yeah, like I said, he stood out. I'm sure he could have toned himself down for public consumption, but Brad was gonna be Brad, no matter what. He was true to himself and for that, I always respected him. His bar could give some folks a bit of the creeps. Always clean, with a great antique billiard table (complete with transparent balls) it looked like a nice place. Brad, however, was particular about his clientele. He didn't let many women in. Whether he was concerned that they might be offended by the porn that was usually on the TV or he just felt they were competition, I never bothered to ask. I learned early on in life that there are all sorts of people and to each their own. That's still how I see the world and probably always will.
My favorite thing about his bar was the old Wurlitzer, bubble top jukebox! Better still, he had it loaded with great old jazz, blues, and R&B records. These scratchy old discs were the foundation of our friendship. Brad had a memory like a herd of elephants. He never forgot a name, a face, what you drank, and what - if anything, you played on the jukebox. I first met him a couple of years before I moved to the area. A friend and I had met a couple of gals from there and we all went to a concert up in Kent one weekend. After the show we went to Brad's. I wasn't quite ready for the likes of him, but he seemed pleasant enough. We had a few drinks, and eventually took the gals on home. A year or two after I moved to the area, a bandmate and I went there for a 'few more drinks' (after already closing another bar). Brad remembered me by name and very pointedly asked where I'd been and why I hadn't been back in so long. He then handed me a beer, asking "is this still your drink of choice?" I doubt I've ever been particularly memorable, so I'll chalk it up to Brad having a great memory.
Like I said, I drank way too much at the time. I think there was something like 88 bars in the area. That was a lot for an area of maybe 25,000 people. If I worked late or had a gig, I'd stop by Brad's. I'd get my drink on and we'd argue about old jazz songs, who sang them, the year and label they were released on, typical music nerd stuff. One night I was telling him about a BBQ that had opened up on the outskirts of town and asked if he'd been there yet. He reminded me that he didn't drive and would have no way to get there. I simply suggested I'd take him. To say that he was touched by this minor gesture would be an understatement. To a lot of the folks in the area, he was a pariah. He was "weird" and "a fag". I'd heard rumors about some issues with him and other guys. Maybe those guys just didn't realize it was a man they were having sex with until their friend/families found out. Maybe they were all blind Who knows. But the good people of Mayberry North dealt with Brad out of necessity. His family owned a restaurant and he owned a bar and the folks in town enjoyed eating AND drinking. So, if you wanted to drink late, you were going to Brad's. But ONLY if he let you in. You had to ring the doorbell, and he'd check the peephole or crack the door before he decided if you were coming in or not. Like I said, he could give some folks the creeps. I always figured he'd had enough of the locals and their bullshit, so he played it safe.
Safety was generally not much of an issue for Brad. He had 3 Dobermans that had the run of the bar. If you didn't like dogs, you just didn't go there. If the dogs didn't like you, you weren't getting in. It took me a while to get used to having a Doberman resting its head on my leg while I drank. Luckily, I've always liked dogs and dogs usually like me. One of his Dobermans was a miniature, and it would come up to me and run in circles and bark until I picked it up. Brad would usually yell at me to not spoil the dog. I have news for you, they already were spoiled.
Small town life went on as small-town life does. My gal was becoming concerned with the frequency of my drinking. At one point she had initiated a No Whiskey rule. Around this time, I'd taken a job managing a gas station/convenience store and usually worked til 11 or 12, unless I had a gig. I'd usually run to our regular watering hole, close that down, and often go to Brad's for 'a few more'. As the gal was becoming more vocal with her concerns, on one night in July of 1989, I pulled into Brad's parking lot...and just sat there. Maybe she was right. Maybe I was drinking too much. She loved me and cared about me, and I was an ass for making her worry, so I started the car back up and drove home. It was the last time I ever went to Brad's after-hours bar. I remember there were a couple of vehicles in the parking lot. Nothing unusual. Nothing memorable.
My gal was asleep when I got home. She was opening the restaurant she worked at in the morning, which meant she had to be there by 5:30. I crashed out on the couch so as to not wake her. She phoned me about 10 or 11 in the morning and asked if I'd heard about Brad. I wasn't really awake enough to comprehend what exactly she was saying. Something about Brad being dead. I told her I hadn't heard anything about it. I also didn't tell her that I'd stopped there the night before but turned around and came home. I called Brad's home phone but got the answering machine. I left a message...something to the effect of "Hey Brad, what's this rumor I'm hearing that something happened to you? Give me a call!". He didn't call back, so I tried the bar phone. Still no answer. When my gal got home around 1:30 in the afternoon, she brought home the newspaper with the headline Tavern Owner Slain. My heart sank. The article didn't go into great detail, as I recall, just that he had been beaten to death. That evening at work, I ran into one of the local cops that I knew. I was asking him about what happened. He told me he'd heard my phone message and was hoping to talk to me. I told him about stopping there but turning around. He asked if I could remember the vehicles and I gave him the best I could remember. He said he'd be in touch if the cops had any more questions. They never called. Brad was beaten and castrated in his own bar. Like I told the cops, it was unusual that the dogs weren't in the bar...so whoever it was must have been scared by them and convinced Brad to put them in the cellar. It was years before the case was finally closed, no thanks to the cops. The murderer, from what I've been told, was about to get married and after carrying the guilt with him, told his fiancé about it. I hear she turned him in.
To this day, I can't help but think WHAT IF I had stopped in for 'a few more drinks'. Maybe Brad would still be alive. He'd be 80 now. I tried to be a good guy and not worry my gal and my friend ended up murdered. Maybe Brad got touchy feely and the guy wasn't in the mood to put up with it. Maybe he just had it out for Brad. I just can't help but think it probably wouldn't have happened if I'd just got out of the car and gone in and drank. I think about this every year at this time. Every damned year. I don't even need to look at the calendar. It comes in dreams. It'll pop into my head out of nowhere. Then I look up the old headline and see the date...and there it is. And I relive it in my head over and over for a few days. I can honestly say that I miss Brad. He was a kook. He was a character. He could be a bullshitter. He loved his music, he loved his dogs and dammit, he was my friend. He was unapologetically himself and you really gotta respect a person like that. Rest In Peace old friend.
