PS:MM 2

1971. Mom and I moved to Panama City Beach to live with my future stepfather, Pat Sweeney. It must have been summer, because along with the move came two new friends: Kim and Alex. Children about my age, from Pat's first marriage. My future step-siblings who, I'd learn soon enough, came down from Birmingham to spend summers with their father. And so, lucky timing: summer!
And good times, that summer was. The three of us tumbling through the sugar-white sand, playing Cowboys and Indians, Cops & Robbers, shrieking up and down the dunes, you name it. Fun fun fun!
Pat—and I would call him that until he and Mom had been married for a couple years—was in a band. That was his job. I remember one of his band mates was also named Philip. To a five-year old named Philip, that was something.

Kim, Alex, Mom, and Me, ca 1972

I don't think I ever knew what Mr. Philip played (or if he sang), but I do remember that he was balding, and I remember having a vague sense that it'd have been so much better if this old guy also named Philip wasn't losing his hair (or, could it be I though it meant I'd be bald at that age? Hmm...).

But Mr. Philip and the rest of the band would soon become but a memory for me. Mom, Pat, and I soon moved to Fort Walton Beach,where Pat joined the Maurice Cole Trio.

MAURICE COLE TRIO

The trio's leader and namesake was a sight to behold: Maurice Cole was a very large, heavy-set albino man (taller than 6'3" Pat) with weird eyes, bright orange hair—pretty sure he dyed it that way—and an oddly-colored pair of glasses.
And what a monster on the electric organ!

Due to that exceptional talent, his boisterous and friendly demeanor, and a natural sense for showmanship, Cole worked for Lowrey Organ as traveling spokesperson, clinician, and salesman. In addition to running a trio, that is.
Cole knew music inside and out, and was a jaw-dropping technician. One technique that comes to mind is his lightning-fast staccato chord tapping; he could lay down some double-stroke or paradiddle patterns, alternating between keyboards (and/or octaves), and to the untrained ear it'd probably seem like the work of a well-programmed machine.
Hiring Pat Sweeney was probably an easy decision for Maurice—a gifted singer who'd add another dimension to Maurice's otherwise romping sets. Known to do spot-on covers of Perry Como, Frank Sinatra, Engelbert Humperdinck, and the like, Sweeney also did a perfect Louis Armstrong in "What a Wonderful World," excellently covered 'Torch' songs mostly associated with women, and was in a general sense just a more versatile and serious (read: better) vocalist than Cole.
But when Maurice Cole found Sweeney, he was not primarily looking for a singer—he was actually looking for a drummer. A versatile, and rhythmically and physically capable drummer.
As Dad would find out during their first meeting, Cole didn't want someone to just keep the beat; he wanted someone who could tear things up. His hire would have to be an excellent drummer. And that, my stepfather was.
I've heard Dad tell many times of Maurice Cole conveying his expectations. Typically, Dad'll remind whomever he's recounting the story, a band's new drummer is told to just keep it simple. "Don't upstage anybody or drown someone else out with yer unwanted soloing, riffs, fills, or rolls. Just keep the beat, maintain a steady tempo, and don't jump in front of anyone."

Christmas 1972 - Pat accompanies little Philip, jamming on his first set!

But Maurice Cole was different—this was a gigging musician covering contemporary pop while embracing a jazzy and complex approach. Maurice told Pat to do as much as he possibly could. As much as he saw fit, within good taste of course, because—Maurice felt—the busier, the better.
And Dad happily complied.
The trio—Maurice, Dad, and saxophonist "Tater" Danke*—burned the roof down, several nights a week, at the Seagull Lounge, and some months later at the Ramada—or maybe it was the Sheraton—a short hop further east down the island.
At least one recording exists of the super trio in action, thankfully: a New Year's Eve party the trio played in North Carolina.
In September of '72 my mom and Pat married, at Maurice Cole's house of all places (he and Tater both lived in Destin—in those days, a genuine village).

Maurice Cole and his Dachshund, "Colonel Klink.' Gotta love the blue tape holding his sofa together.

Far from conventional southern religious types, Mom and Dad were young, music scene types. Much like Cole—not young, but everything else.
And he did them right: the wedding ceremony was a raucous affair. Large crowd, loud music, plenty of food and drinks . . . you get the idea.
But, things change, and I don't know the details, but by early 1973 we again moved west. For Mom and Dad it was a return to their birthplace: Pensacola. (Not mine—not even the same state! You'll never guess where I was hatched).
We bought a house on Water St (the one you'd know), where I spent just about all of the rest of my childhood.
An 1100 sq ft off grade brick house, in the Bayou Grove subdivision. Dad left the MC trio, but would remain friends and gigging with Maurice Cole and Tater Danke for years.

PAPA JOE AND THE REST

For his full-time job Dad would now seek something a little closer to home than Fort Walton Beach. Enter Papa Joe and the Rest, a cover band of Top 40/contemporary stuff who were doing something right—the band was the mainstay at the downtown Sheraton Inn for at least three years. It was probably the longest Dad stayed with any one band.
PJaR were led by 'Papa' Joe Crosby, a soft-spoken pianist/organist from Georgia who'd assembled his band in Valdosta in the 1960s, and in 70ish moved it to Florida (Dusty, the bass player, followed him).

120 Water St, shortly after Hurricane Frederic in 1979

I knew the band well. I mean, as much as a grade school kid could know such an entity. Many of my childhood memories occurred, in some form or fashion, around the band. The Halloween when all the members (all men) cross-dressed before playing their first set (I believe they played that way all night long). The fallout when the members were irate for being underpaid for an extracurricular (i.e. not @ the Sheraton) gig; in particular, watching one of the members rip in half the ($20, I think?) bill he'd been paid for the gig. Mike, the short trumpet player who replaced Jerry (and who would leave when Jerry later returned), whose son—I'd guess five or six yrs old at the time—had zero reaction whatsoever when his dad spanked him . . . HARD.

Photo shoot for the album, at the old L&N Railroad Depot (now the Grand Hotel)

In 1974 the band recorded an album, "The Many Moods of Papa Joe and the Rest," releasing it in 75. The record showcased their versatility in styles and musicianship (all sang in at least one song). It was a huge deal, and in fact on one tune my Mom's tambourine playing can be heard (she's uncredited — Mom was robbed!). A few years ago I found an obscure website with a review of the record, and sent him the link. Dad's response is still there - as are others'.

I'm still a little embarrassed by was my initial reaction to who sang which tunes on The Many Moods of. You'll notice both sides begin with a good old, Rock and Roll hit. "Vehicle," by the Ides of March starts the album, and its second side starts with a bang, with Jim Croce's "Leroy Brown." To my mind (i.e., in the opinion of a nine year old kid), these were clearly the coolest songs on the album! But - who was it that sang on them? Dusty! Not Dad!

WHAT? The best singer in the band didn't sing on either of the cool, R&R tunes? What kind of horse manure is this?

My actual reaction was probably not so rude as I'm caricaturing it, all these 43ish years later, but it was no secret my faves were Dusty's songs. Dad and Mom would kid me about it; obviously no harm done. Not to mention the fact Dad, the Pat Sweeney himself, sang on three songs on the album, a claim no one else could make. As I remember it, singing the album's songs were:

• Dusty—Vehicle, Leroy Brown
• Papa Joe—If It Don't Work Out, So Afraid of Losing You
• Dad—Love Story, Anybody Know What Time It Is, Color My World
• Bobby—Natural Man, Mama Don't Dance
• Jerry—Most Beautiful Girl

And, Dad did all the cool background voices in "Mama Don't Dance" ('Rock and Roll,' 'Outta the car, long hair!')

My pristine copy of Papa Joe and the Rest's The Many Moods of

It's funny you asked if I have any copies of the album lying around because, when it was new, boxes and boxes of copies of the album, sealed up and ready to go, were packed away in our hallway closet. I mean, these things would literally fall off the shelves if you opened that closet too hastily. But now? I have one. One very ratty, scratchy copy of it. Shame on me!

Alas, all good things come to an end. Sometime in 76 Dad's time with PJaR ended. Right about the time of the Bicentennial celebration, I recall (actor Leif Erickson was filming something downtown, and Dad played trombone in the production. Yes, he also plays trombone!).

And so, once again, Dad would have to find another band in need of a drummer/singer.

BRANDY

So... in the summer of '76 Dad joined a band named Brandy, who called the new three-story 'Holidome' on Navarre Beach home (in a couple years the Holidome would be used for scenes in the making of Jaws 2).

Brandy were the main act in the Holidome's third floor night club, and in addition to cover tunes they did quite a bit of their own stuff. This was toward the end of summer (Kim and Alex had already gone back to Birmingham) and with no school I spent a good amount of time at/in the Holidome while Dad was transitioning to his new band.

If he was going to the hotel for some reason other than work (plenty of rehearsing when you get a new member, I imagine), I'd ride along. Hang out on the beach! Swim in the gulf! Orpool! play around in the hotel's nifty, quasi-indoor pool! And the Holidome had its own movie theater, in which it'd run old classics in the afternoon. Dad would be working/rehearsing/whatever'ing with the band, give me ticket fare, and off to the movies I'd go. Saw the Three Stooges for the first time, fell in love with the Marx Brothers, and on one very lucky afternoon watched Nosferatu! Twice!

Shortly before Dad joined the band Brandy had released its own album with former drummer Bobby Taylor. I remember this name, even though (I don't think) I ever saw or met Mr. Taylor, because of that photo on the back of the album —

Bobby Taylor, soon to be replaced, is the nly member not looking at the camera. "Pay attention, Bobby! This is precisely why you're about to lose your job."

It's a photo of the three members of the band, and while Taylor looked nothing like my stepdad, to someone who didn't know Dad well, guitarist Jack Templeman did.

Well, Navarre isn't exactly right around the corner from Bayou Grove, and so my friends had no idea who the other people in my dad's band were. And so, after correcting a couple friends who'd mistakenly look at the album and say things like, "hey - wow, there's your stepdad!" (pointing to Templeman), I decided the easiest response would be lying by omission—just let 'em think my dad is on TWO albums, published within a year of one another! (Some of my childhood friends weren't very bright.)

But . . . not for too long.

The trio did record a single/B side with Dad. Seven inch vinyl. I recall it having a much cooler label than the PJaR or Holidome one, though can't actually visualize it right now. Sadly, unlike the Many Moods... boxes of plastic-wrapped vinyl falling out of the hallway closet, there weren't a bunch of copies of the 7" Brandy record floating around. I think Dad had a dozen or so, and probably gave them away. That is, all but one (I hope). I don't have a copy of it. Never have. Would love to drop those two tunes into my digital library.

PRIME NUMBERS AND THE SEAFOOD JUNCTION

It may have been a convenience thing—the drive to Barrancas & Main (under 2 miles) vs. driving all the way to Navarre (30 miles)—or something else, but by Spring 1977 Dad had left Brandy, and was playing for a trio at the Seafood Junction, a club/lounge occupying two old train cars at the intersection of... well, Barrancas & Main.

"Three's Company," the group, consisted of Sandy Spivey on sax/bass guitar, John Hall on keys, and Dad.

By year's end two female singers had joined the band, which became "Three's Company, Two's a Crowd." And when summer rolled around that year, it was back to a trio, except Spivey (I think) was out. Maybe. Best of all—now known as the Pat Sweeney Trio.

A 9-TO-5 KIND OF GUY

Mom and Dad's first son, Daniel had entered this world in 76, and in 1978 Casey came along. And, I think, Dad decided, for a family man, full-time banding just wasn't the way to go. In fact, I believe the Seafood Junction stuff was part time, so that he could attempt to transition into a more "nine to five" profession.

Though I haven't yet mentioned it, Dad had his B.S. from USM. I guess seeing toddler Daniel running around, and wee Casey crawling up and down the hallway, made him reevaluate his priorities (that, or Mom finally got through).

At some point in 1977 or 1978, Dad worked for the Port of Pensacola, and, I think, had started to substitute teach. By the time 1980 rolled around, Dad had left the full-time band scene for good. Taught public school for the next 30+ years. He did, however, play gigs most weekends, even after morphing into "9 to 5 job" man. And summers were opportunities for other musical ventures.

Like recording. Recording his own bands' stuff, recording others' material as well. Had a TEAC reel-to-reel, an excellent machine, some equally fine mics w/other hi-qual gear.

Contracted master/audition-type recordings for a couple local bands, including an Earth, Wind and Fire sound-alike band of seven or eight African American dudes in the Milton area (out in the sticks! I went on that job, and was amazed by the drummer's tower of shiny stands, cymbals, and drums - it was the next best thing to touching Alex Van Halen's four bass drum set!).

2009, at a family gathering in Gulf Breeze.  That's Daniel's son, Benjamin, helping "Pappy" steady his snare drum.

Dad spent the next 3+ decades playing many weekends everywhere between Mobile and Panama City, and surely beyond. Jazz, contemporary, country pop, Christian bands, weddings . . . the list goes on.

But one evening, after finishing a gig, he just decided he was done. Time to retire that thing, too. Got done playing and instead of packing up his drums, he left them behind (and someone got themselves a nice Pearl set that night). Drove home, and—the hackneyed narrative goes—never looked back.

He still characterizes his revelation that night as something that "just hit me. It was the strangest thing." None of us questioned his impulse, his instincts.

He'd never done wrong by us (and it was about time he give himself a break from it all. I don't know how he did it all those years.