I remember the African-American gentleman (bar-back?) lurking around the "dressing room" and always somewhere in the background doing who-knows-what. What was his name again?
I remember Mo behind the bar and her white-ish blonde bangs and warm, weathered smile.
I remember Sheamus, the big bearded guy at the door. Sometimes he seemed like a teddy bear, sometimes not.
I remember playing shows, then getting high (really high), laughing and watching other bands and drinking some more, all to come crashing down by the harsh sobering bright light of Cathy James' (booker/owner/mgr?) office upstairs while she explained why we only made $27.
"17 people, 10 guests, only 2 paid...". Her voice would start to sound like one long blurry word that meant nothing. My head was always in my dream. A place where reality didn't have much impact. If it did I would have quit then and there and not have gone on to see a couple fragments of that dream come true.
I remember getting home around 2:38am and feeling the room spin as I prayed I wouldn't get sick. My ears filled with constant high-pitched ringing.
My dad had opened a french restaurant in Allentown in my early 20's, the height of my Dobb's days, and I agreed, for some reason, to pick-up the baked goods from a baker in Center City and drive them to Allentown in time for the morning rush.
Comprehend this if you can:
I'm 20-something, I'd pass out by around 3am on Friday nights with cotton-mouth and that siren-like drone in my head from the amps and drums and have to wake up early (but almost always late of course), drive downtown from my parent's house in Plymouth Meeting (30 minutes from Philadelphia) pick up about 10 huge boxes of fresh-from-the-oven croissants, put them in his Subaru and drive them (over an hour past Plymouth Meeting) to Allentown.
On the way the following may or may not have happened at different times:
I'd pull over to "shut my eyes" for a "few minutes" only to wake up an hour or so later, mega-late to the restaurant. Hungry and hungover, I'd reach back while I drove to grab a croissant or 2. Or 3.
Or 5 and a half. I didn't know which kind i grabbed until I shoved it in my mouth, lovingly.
The car was filled with the undeniable intoxicating aroma of fresh cherry, apple and chocolate croissants.
Still warm.
My dad was furious with me. Furious. I was late and with only 75% of the merchandise.
I hear "J.C. Dobbs" and I smell it before I see it. It smelled like the 3rd chapter of a rock and roll biography. Mine. And I'm sure, many others.
Dobbs reminds me of whiskey. Too much whiskey, too many nights. It was fun (the drinking) but it ate up a lot of minutes and seconds I wouldn't mind back.
J.C. Dobbs didn't just close as I've just been told, it closed along time ago. It closed when Cathy left. It closed way before they added "legendary" to the name. Talk about "jumping the shark".
It closed when it still was J.C. Dobbs, the place everyone loved to hate and vice versa. But before it closed, it gave me and my many fellow bandmates over the years our "Cavern". It in fact was our "Cavern".
"And you know that can't be bad..."
Scot Sax
Post Script:
Top 5 memories:
1. Seeing and hearing a live band in a small club for the FIRST time when my dad brought me there as a 12 year- old. All jammed up together on that deep but small stage. My favorite kind.
2. Finally packing the place with Wanderlust, after years of playing to an empty to half-filled room.
(We got signed via that show to RCA Records)
3. Seeing Velvet Crush blast 9 million watts of rock and roll there one night, shortly before Wanderlust was formed.
4. Partying and hangin' with my bro and sister-in-law, my constants at all my gigs, in the dressing room.
5. Dennis Rambo, Joey Jones, Mark Getten, Jim Cavanaugh and Rob Bonfiglio
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