Rock & Roll Comes To Polk County

A Historical Essay by Wayne Renardson

America of the fifties, a decade punctuated by solitude and introspection, basked in the aftermath of World War II. Working-class people bought homes and lived comfortably as the post-war glow diminished. Except for an Asian land war in Korea, the Eisenhower years were serene. Disturbing the calm, rock and roll emerged with ferocity just as the post-war generation reached puberty. With an infectious backbeat and rhythm, rock rapidly supplanted what remained of our parents' music. Goodbye Perry Como. Hello Chuck Berry.

In Polk County, as elsewhere, rock was considered a scourge of the devil. White males in particular were not amused when their blonde, cherubic, thirteen year-old daughters gyrated their hips to music played by hot, sweaty, black men. The establishment was determined to rid us of this music, but it was too late. Captivated by the rhythms of Chuck Berry, Little Richard, and Bo Diddly, youngsters picked up instruments and became part of the scene.

There were at that time two legally operated, white live-music venues in Polk County. The Rainbow Club on US 92 catered to a country crowd. Club 92, owned by Jeff Morrell, featured country on Wednesday, and a rock/country mix on Friday and Saturday nights. Morrell was a progressive who cared about the music. He would occasionally host Texas Ray and The Houserockers, a band of black musicians from Tampa whose skillful playing put the white bands to shame. Since Polk was a dry county, liquor sales were illegal and any club selling beer was required to close by midnight.

The Elks club in Florence Villa also featured live music. One evening Grant LaCerte, Herb McCullough, and I, all of us students at Winter Haven High School, stopped in to hear Fats Domino. The people were very friendly, and we were the only white faces in the crowd. Bob Bell's brother "Spider" opened a club near Bartow air base known as The Spider's Web. Our band auditioned for a gig that we lost. I cannot recall how long the club remained alive, though its demise was probably not due to its failure to hire our band :)

I never played the Rainbow, but a local guitar legend named Bobby Joe Barlow did. I suspect Herbert Bohannan may have been part of the band. Barlow was married to a wafer-thin, blonde woman who played drums at the club. I did not meet Barlow until Club 17 opened, and that notorious hotspot quickly became a breeding ground for Polk County's budding rock musicians.

Club 17 was located on Highway 17, a quarter mile toward Lake Alfred from the Rustic Club. Leroy Bassham from Eloise opened it as an after-hours spot to accommodate folks who had not gotten their fair share of alcohol and dancing at Rainbow or Club 92. Bassham licensed the club as a restaurant. He obtained a dancing permit, sold no legal alcohol, and therefore did not have to abide by closing laws.

During the day it was a front, as was his Eloise grocery store. Bassham kept a loaf of bread and a can of beans on the shelf. Grant LaCerte recalled Bassham's colorful personality: "I believe the Croce tune 'Bad, Bad, Leroy Brown' was written for him," he reminisced. "Leroy was about six-foot three, lanky, with long, black, wavy, Bryl-Creamed hair. He was not unpleasant, but you certainly didn't mess with him."

Jimmy Stafford - Mark Johnson - Grant LaCerte

LaCerte started his musical career working with Jimmy Stafford in 1959 when they played a Winter Haven High School sophomore talent show. "Jimmy played guitar, while I was on trumpet," LaCerte said. "The Johnson twins, Mark and Kirk, played drums and saxophone. During the year I taught myself keyboards and later played truck stops with Herbert Bohannan and Wayne Renardson."

In 1958 while hitchhiking near Lake Shipp Heights, where I lived on Prospect Avenue, an older guy named Chuck Brown gave me a ride. He was a guitar player and I told him of my interest in drumming. As we chatted, we discussed forming a band. He knew another guitar player, Herbert Bohannan, who lived in Lake Alfred or maybe Auburndale. We drove to Bohannan's house where I listened to them play their Fender and Gibson guitars. I decided I wanted to be a part of this band and convinced my parents to sign a $300 note to buy a drum kit. I promised to make the payments from my future earnings, and did. The Gretsch kit included a 20+ inch bass, a 14" snare, a 14" x 14" floor tom-tom, and a 14" side tom. It also had a 16" Zildjian ride cymbal, a 16" crash, and a high-hat. Rhythm nirvana.

We rehearsed midweek and played weekend open-air gigs at truck stops on US 27 near Haines City. We would play for whatever came our way, which was usually just tips. There was plenty of alcohol and benzedrine---white-cross bennies were ten for a dollar---to fuel the fire, and for a high school student, this made for a lively scene. We often worked with a craggy old singer named Ray Jackson who claimed he co-wrote "White Lightnin" with George Jones. Jackson would drive the band to Tampa on Sundays where we would set up in a beer joint and play all afternoon for brew, deviled crabs, and tips. Glamorous stuff. I often suspected that Jackson pocketed most of our meager earnings.

The music at these gigs was basic country. Both Brown and Bohannan had been weaned on it, and such artists as Jim Reeves, George Jones, Hank Williams, and Faaron Young ruled the day. We covered "White Lightnin," and "Who Shot Sam," "Four Walls," "Your Cheating Heart," and even some Everly Brothers' harmonies. The band was older than I, and natives of Polk County. Having moved to Winter Haven from Toronto, I did not easily blend with my new surroundings. Listening to Chuck Berry, Little Richard, Bo Diddly, Buddy Holly, and other emerging rockers had opened my ears to different music, and it was this new music ---rock n' roll---that captured my interest, just as blues had earlier.

The blues came to Winter Haven, as it did to most small towns, by way of radio. The main station was WSIR, whose transmitter was located on Lake Howard Drive, though I recall another station at Cypress Gardens. For a history of WSIR, [click here]

The station was low power and after 10 PM went off the air. With that signal gone, youngsters received clear-channel WLAC from Nashville that at night played classic blues musicians. Listeners absorbed the sounds of Lightnin' Hopkins, Jimmy Reed, B.B. King, Howlin' Wolf, and other greats. Rock and roll seemed to be a faster version of the blues, and the rhythmic backbeat that propelled rock soon attracted a large audience. John R., the Nashville DJ, would carry on all night long. He played what we wanted to hear, not what our parents wanted us to hear.

Sadly, one could not purchase the recordings except by mail, since "race records" or music by black artists was simply not available locally. Forbidden fruit.

Our ragtag band was playing a truck stop when I met Ronnie Mills. He lived near Haines City and fronted a band called The Blazers. At some point he asked me to join them as he needed a drummer. "During the summer of 1960, Bud Johnson was playing keyboards and Ronnie Teague was playing trumpet," LaCerte remembered. "Bud joined the Navy and Ronnie left the area. Bud got me an audition with the Blazers and before long, Wayne and I were working together regularly."

"I had just turned sixteen and Wayne was a year older," LaCerte recalled. "The rest of the guys were much older so Wayne and I, being less disciplined, played at their sufferance. We were particularly restless during the obligatory square dance at Club 92. Wayne and I would switch instruments, much to the chagrin of the other band members, but the audience didn't seem to notice any difference. The Blazers were Ronnie Mills' band and he kept us tight. Rehearsals were demanding, not unlike rehearsals with Kent LaVoie."

It was around this time that we visited Club 17 to hear a local band that was generating a monster buzz. I will never forget walking into the place shortly after midnight. Club 17 was a dank, stucco brick building with a lunch counter up front and a large dance floor in back. In short, a dive. It was pitch dark and as I looked onstage, I thought I saw a woman singing. It was James "Junior" Jolly, whose long, stringy hair curled far down his neck. He was belting "Stormy Monday Blues" backed by a crackerjack band. On piano was Bobby Braddock, who went on to fame as a Nashville songwriter. Bobby Joe Barlow played guitar while Arnie Levin, a classmate of Braddock's at Florida Southern, played a set of red-sparkle Slingerland drums. I watched, fascinated, returning many times to listen.

Braddock sat at the piano with one leg tightly crossed over the other. Bent from the waist, he hovered over the keyboard like a man entranced. Barlow usually stood perfectly still, just layin' down smooth guitar licks. At times his eyes would close as if he were asleep. Levin played right on the beat. No fancy licks and fills, no show, just keeping the pulse intact and the groove in the pocket. I later tried to emulate him. If they had a bass player, I cannot remember who it was. What was fascinating was the band appeared to have great freedom to play what they wanted, how they wanted, with no need to cater to any particular crowd. I was in awe of their sound and freedom to play what they liked.

L->R:  Wayne Denmark - Ronnie Mills - Wayne Renardson (drums)- Jimmy Britt - Grant LaCerte

The Blazers were then playing Club 92. The band included Jimmy Britt from Lakeland on upright bass, Wayne Denmark from Dundee on Fender guitar, Mills playing a black Gibson "fretless wonder", and I remained on drums. Both Mills and Denmark used Fender amps. LaCerte joined us on trumpet and occasional piano. McCullough, now a Nashville songwriter, was also playing trumpet (we listened to Miles Davis "Sketches of Spain" and Herb Alpert) in the Winter Haven school band, and we all hung out at the club.

The Blazers were basically Mills' band. He sang in a style echoing Buddy Holly, and we covered such classics as "Rave On" and "Peggy Sue." We also played Chuck Berry's "Oh Carol" and "Johnny B. Goode" and other rockers, along with some country songs with a rock beat. Mills also wrote tunes that we managed to squeeze into our sets.

Around 1959 or '60 we were hired to play Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday nights from nine to midnight at Club 92. The house band at Club 17 was moving on so Bassham hired us to play after hours. We would finish Club 92 by midnight and move to Club 17 where we would play until three or four AM. While musically constrained at Club 92, we faced no such restrictions at Club 17. The audience, already well lubricated, wanted the music loud and fast, with only occasional ballads, and that is what we delivered. It was packed three nights a week. Bassham sold half-pints of Old Mr. Boston vodka for two dollars, and there was plenty of benzedrine to keep folks awake.

This joyous atmosphere had a downside. The volatile combination of beer, vodka, speed, whiskey, and sexual maneuvering often led to fights and the occasional brawl. Bassham hired a couple of bouncers who ruled. I played the club for several years and cannot recall ever feeling seriously threatened, although there was always some drunken soul who thought he could or should play drums. There were also enough Elvis wannabes available to make leaving a guitar unmonitored during a break hazardous to one's musical health.

The police and sheriff's departments would raid the club several nights a month. It would close for the evening, Bassham would post bond, and reopen within a day or so. He viewed raids as a necessary nuisance and part of the cost of doing business.

Club 92 paid each of us $15 a night. Mills may have earned more. In addition, there was free beer, or anything else. A friend used to treat us to pints of pure grain alcohol courtesy of the Florida Citrus Experiment Station in Lake Alfred. We enjoyed playing rock covers, but with LaCerte joining us, we ventured into jazzier tunes since he brought to the band a degree of sophistication. We did a swinging version of "Five Foot Two," and I can remember Grant blowing some great tones on "My Blue Heaven". Wednesday was considered primarily "country night" so we played square dances, though not many. Rock always lurked beneath the surface, waiting to emerge, full-blown, like Athena from the head of Zeus.

Club 17 also paid us $15 each. As a high school student working three nights a week, I was earning $90 a week cash, plus all the mind-altering substances I could handle. I was having the time of my life, but it soon became time to move on. We had cut a couple of records in an Orlando studio but they went nowhere. The producer seemed more enchanted with Mills than the music.

LaCerte reflected on those times: "I have fond memories of Wayne and me cruising in Leroy's late model Impala. It came complete with a bullet hole in the windshield (which he refused to replace) and a large sign on the roof advertising the Blazers at Club 17. The notoriety associated with Club 17 did not endear the Blazers to the youth center scene in Central Florida. We were blackballed but didn't care because we were making a lot more money at the clubs and consuming more interesting refreshments than the punch offered at the youth centers. Sadly, Leroy, along with his noble profession, disappeared when the county went wet."

I played my last gig at Club 92 in May of 1961. The military beckoned so I was history. I have no idea what happened to the band after that time. I do recall visiting Winter Haven during the eighties and stopping by the Rustic club where Mills was playing guitar and singing. I approached and asked him to play the "Blazers Theme" for me. He nearly fell off the stage. We chatted during the break and played catch up. It was the last time I saw him. But somewhere, I have no doubt, the band plays on.

LaCerte continued playing with the Blazers. "The last gig I played with them was graduation night at Winter Haven High School for the Class of '62. Given our reputation, we had to play under an assumed name", he recalled.

LaCerte also worked with Gram Parsons during this time. "In the summer of '62, I played the country club scene with Gram, usually the Tampa Yacht Club," he said. "We covered Kingston Trio songs with Gram and me playing guitar and Doug Wiggins faking guitar and singing great harmony. I only knew eight chords, but that was adequate for our repertoire. The club patrons mistook us for the very popular "Limeliters" since our name for those evenings was "The Lamplighters."

"Needless to say, Gram did nothing to imply we were otherwise and our friendly audience of America's Cup wannabes went home happy. That gig also happened to be my second date with Karen, my wife of 37 years, who married me in spite of not being a Limeliter. That summer I also played several gigs with Kent Lavoie at the Moose Lodge on Havendale Boulevard."

During the fall of 1962 LaCerte left for college in D.C. but remained active. "I played trumpet and piano with a black R&B group in D.C," he continued. "I also played cocktail music at a variety of restaurants and fronted for the Smothers Brothers at the Shoreham." LaCerte connected with a band in Frederick, Maryland, who had summer bookings for Eastern Shore clubs and a potential European tour. "In December the keyboard player and lead guitarist were drafted," said LaCerte. "That gave me an opportunity to fill in. I told the manager about Ronnie Mills. He sent Ronnie a bus ticket for D.C. and a January audition. Since the Blazers had disbanded, Ronnie came to Washington and stayed in my dorm for two months, posing as a student."

Mills got the gig as lead singer and guitarist. "I was ecstatic," LaCerte recalled. "At our first rehearsal, however, the manager informed Ronnie there would be no Buddy Holly music since he did not want to introduce rockabilly to the Eastern Shore. He also insisted that Ronnie get a haircut, which Mills refused to do. We did not get the gig."

"A lovely co-ed fell in love with Ronnie and that kept him in D.C. a little longer. We found two pickup musicians---bass and drums---and played a nearby club, packing the joint until they went broke a month later. That ended the D.C. chapter of the Blazers. Ronnie left in mid-spring and I haven't seen him since. Wayne's and my recollections jive almost completely. Given our then constant state of inebriation, either our recollections are remarkably accurate or equally delusional.

One thing for sure---we played to packed houses at 92, the music was good, and the times were wild."

-- Wayne Renardson

The author is a free-lance writer studying jazz in Nashville. He currently prefers playing bass to drums, although the love of rhythm remains.