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with a floodlight up top. "This must be the place,” I thought.
When approaching the double sliding shed doors, 1 started to hear some strings tuning up. We entered onto thick, worn wooden floorboards.
The first thing that I noticed was a Texaco oil can, on the floor. Small as it was, it was the center of the rough circle of players and listeners. Throughout the night, the guys would spit long caramel colored strings of saliva into the can. When their tobacco was all chewed out, they would spit out the big wads from their cheeks and shovel some more leaf in. Occasionally a cigarette butt would smoke in the can, but it would quickly be extinguished by saliva.
The shed had parts and pieces of mechanical devices scattered about. There was an old, beat up refrigerator for the beer, a mini-bike and its guts on the floor, and, everywhere, metal pieces that were unfamiliar to me. The comers of the room were filled with scattered metal objects, making the room more of a circle.
All the instruments, that hadn’t been tuned, were tuned to a guy named Ted’s guitar. Ted Kuch was printed on his leather guitar strap that hung around his strong shoulders. He was a heavy set, middle-aged fellow, with an expressive, beef red face and a big belly. With his back to a long board desk, piled with even more junk, beer cans and a bottle of apricot flavored brandy, Ted seemed to be one of the leading players of the evening.
He began an introduction to a song on his guitar and then just strummed as the other musicians got settled into the music. Sitting on a stool, he glanced around at some of the other musicians. He gave a satisfied smile to the banjo player on his right, who grinned back by squinting his eyes. This was Ronnie Poe.
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