The Roadhouse Band.
Rolf heads to Forestville and Gets an earful of Ralph Bryan
I was sitting around the house on a Friday night, the family gone, I had Magic Sam turned up, and a bottle of San Giovese open. Suddenly I said the hell with it and climbed into my old truck and headed out for live music and Budweiser. I drove across the mountains and across the northern end of the Santa Rosa Plain to the head of the lower Russian River and Forestville on the hill.
In the stunning sunlight and heat of High Summer it's beer time about 4:00 or 4:30. Over the years in the North Bay I learned the spots. The Forestville Bar is a cool dark spot to rest the eyes and wet the throat. In stops there I'd noticed that the place was bigger than the old narrow bar used to be, they'd taken over the garage space next door. But I'd never gone there at night for music. The Dance area was always dark and I'd never paid it a lot of attention. That changed last night.
I walked into the bar and the lights were on way more than I'd seen it before. And I was transported to a zone of memory and myth. Across North America (and probably Australia too) are the roadhouses. The Forestville Bar is home improvement center imitation wood grain paneling with the tasteful half round strip at the panel join eight feet up and the stained celotex panel drop ceiling. The floor is covered with a hideous thick red floral carpet (you just know they got a deal on it). The excellent dance floor is WalMart imitation parquet panels edged with Heavy metal strip properly laid. The décor is exclusively beer company mirrors. I loved it. I was directly connected to jukes and honkytonks continent wide. Johnny B. Goode played here. Budweiser is on tap.
Ralph Bryan looks like old leather. He was dressed in a rumpled black suit with a blue dress shirt and a thin black tie and a well-washed baseball cap. A thin medium sized guy he hunches over his Telecaster looking unassuming. Then he takes a solo and my god what a player! Albert King, Albert Collins, Roy Buchanan and Roadhouse blues played by Merle Haggard doesn't do his playing justice ('Writing about music is like dancing about architecture'). The guy simply wails and cranks, and he sings in the voice of the mellow turtle all kinds of wry songs he's written. I remember one about "Rat Blues" I sat there with my mouth open. Mo 'da Bluestraveller' tried to get me to dance more but I was entranced with Ralph. Steve Judkins on harp, whose gig this was (Steve Judkins Band), the very experienced Don Bassey on bass and veteran Gary Silva on drums seemed to feel the same as I did. They kept looking at Ralph during his solos and feeding him. They had those little smiles. A small drum set, a Fender Precision bass, 30 and 50 watt amps and the portable PA. It was simultaneous roadhouse myth and reality.
All across the world in every area there are the great musicians who didn't become famous-and should have. There are even songs about them. Music hounds and blues lovers all know how this is. Add Ralph Bryan to the list. Our local treasure. I'll follow him around now.
If you're reading this I know you weren't there, 'cause there was only about 25 of us there the whole night, even the pool table had empty times. But all 25 of us were standing there with our mouths open, staring at Ralph. I died and went to roadhouse heaven. And Ralph Bryan was playing there.