Saloon Singers

Our neighbor, David McConnell, and I shared an interest in guitar playing and folk music. We soon agreed to sing and play together and maybe do something in public, should the occasion arise. To my surprise, thanks to McConnell, the occasion soon arose.

One of Sunnyview’s parents, Jeff Rich, ran a local Italian restaurant and bar. The restaurant and bar were on the main floor of a hotel and so, when approached by McConnell, Rich agreed to anything that might draw patrons into the bar.

I wasn’t so certain that all this was going to work out well because it had been at least four years, maybe longer, since I had taken guitar in hand and actually tried to entertain someone. But after the first few bars of music, everything was fine for me. I could remember the words, the chords, and manage to finish up at the same time as McConnell. What more could he ask?

Most of our audience were tourists for in those days you could put together six weeks in Spain cheaper than you could stay home. On Friday nights we rowed Michael ashore, sympathized with Tom Dooley, and cast longing looks at our empty tips jar.

Sometimes, to rest our voices, we would have a wine at the bar while one of Rich’s waiters put on a show. He was slim and dark haired, wore his shirt open to the navel and his pants were so tight I think he sprayed them on. He could have used his shoes as a mirror to pluck his eyebrows. He only knew the chord of E major, but he stomped his feet and wiggled his hips, shook his hair, spun the guitar like a top. And. My God, how the man got tips. The little old American ladies loved him.

One American lady, while admiring the waiter, chose to compliment me on my language. “You soitny speak good English. Wheredja loin?”

(I’m overstating her accent here. She definitely did not talk like one of the Three Stooges, but there were strong traces of New Jersey in her speech. She was fun to listen to.)

“Well, ma’am, I’m an American.”

“No, ya not. I’m from New Joisy, and I know an American when I hear one. Now where yah from?”

It hit me that this lady didn’t come all the way to Spain from New Jersey to meet Americans. She could have done that at her local McDonalds. So I confessed. “You got me, ma’am. I’m a Gallego. I come from Galicia.”

“Well, you soitny speak good English.” She was totally happy having met a native Spaniard, and such a talented one at that.