The five-night sans-culotte revolt of '74

by Jack Neely

The original Sam & Andy's closed nine months ago after a half-century as a deli-and-beer legend. But while that unique building with its three distinctly different entrances remained, some of us nursed the hope that we might swing in those old doors again somehow.

Still, as I see the old building come down, I can't help recalling a time before I ever shoved my way in there, when there was a huge bull statue on top, and there were lots of people up there on that roof, a half-dozen of them riding the bull, all of them naked.

I didn't see it myself, though I'd heard something was likely to happen. I read about it later in Time magazine and said dang.

It was one of several things in early '74 you'd miss if you couldn't get a driver's license till June. One was 29-cent gasoline. By February, it had already doubled, 56.9. I was sure that by the time I was 16, it would be at least a dollar, and I wouldn't be able to drive anywhere.

The other thing you'd miss was the most charming riot in Knoxville history. It started on a Thursday afternoon, balmy for February, when a young man leapt from a green Volkswagen, wearing exactly shoes and socks, ran past the Music building, and vanished. That evening, at least eight other unclad undergrads dashed around UT dormitories. In the Presidential Court, witnesses chanted "Streak! Streak! Streak!"

"It sure beats anything I ever saw," said one UT police sergeant. He shouldn't have spoken so soon. The next four nights would outstrip anything he saw Thursday.

Friday evening, East Tennessee individualists added personal touches. One ran nude out of Reese Hall, hopped on a bicycle, and took a few laps around the volleyball court. A laconic witness remarked, "Well, I reckon motorcycles are next," and, of course, they were: later that evening, in fact, four motorcyclists wearing only helmets. Bearing a torch, the symbol of his alma mater, one man jogged through Presidential Court as four others formed a nude honor guard around him.

Saturday night it broke beyond campus. Improvizing on the torch motif, one man wearing a hat, tie, and sunglasses carried a huge sparkler down the 1800 block of Cumberland in front of Sam & Andy's. Most streakers were male. However, one Cumberland bar offered a "bag of beer" to the first nude female to enter. Shortly after the announcement hit the radio waves, they had a winner. (Details, unfortunately, are scarce.)

As the crowd grew, police blocked off Cumberland between 17th and 19th Streets and generally tolerated the unthonged throng, arresting only two. Isolated instances of streaking erupted in other parts of town that night. On Washington Pike in northeast Knoxville, a woman complained that suburban streakers were "upsetting my dog."

But it was all just a prelude. Sunday night, Humble Pie, Spooky Tooth, and Montrose were playing on the same bill at the Coliseum—several of my pals were going, but I couldn't afford the $5 ticket. I sat at home feeling sorry for myself. I felt a little better when I found out what they were missing, even though I was missing it, too.

That night, the Cumberland crowd formed a "human tunnel" through which the nude ran, even women, one riding her boyfriend's back. Another couple streaked hand-in-hand. There was little interest in doing what had already been done; one wore a gas mask, one a tuxedo coat. The crowd outgrew the sidewalks, scaled buildings on both sides of Cumberland, and had cross-street contests to see which side could "bare more bottoms." If Knoxville added anything to the national fad, it was that rooftop perspective.

Monday night was the nudest of all, when 5,000 people, the clothed and the unclothed, gathered on Cumberland. "Streaking" no longer described it; many were just hanging around, "streaking in place," as one quipped. Nude men stood on top of buildings and beat their chests; nude women belly-danced. Amateur rodeo riders tried to see how many could ride the Sam & Andy's bull nude at once—six was the record. On top of the old Vol Market nearby, two couples reportedly demonstrated actual public copulation.

"Demonstrators" as the News-Sentinel called them, broke a clothing-store window—a symbol, perhaps, of the oppressively clothed Establishment. Its alarm rang for hours, an annoying soundtrack to a lovely evening turning ugly. Awnings collapsed under the weight of the revelers, air-conditioners were damaged, beer bottles smashed. A few vicious rooftop fights broke out. Sam & Andy's hired guards to clear their roof. By the light of the next day, streaking-related damage was estimated in the tens of thousands.

Dr. Charles Reynolds, professor of religious studies, apparently spoke for UT's administration when he said, "The fun has been had... My advice is, don't spoil the fun of the past few nights by getting popped [1974 hipster slang for "arrested"]. Show restraint in the days ahead and keep your good memories."

Police Chief Joe Fowler had seen enough, too. He posted 200 officers on Cumberland Tuesday night, with orders to arrest. Perhaps more influentially, colder weather returned. Knoxvillians sighed and looked for their clothes. Some were cheered by rumors that Walter Cronkite had called Knoxville the "streaking capital of America"; and, the next week, the new issue of Time arrived.

In their inevitable feature on streaking, Timea gave us a prominent review: "In Knoxville, Tenn., vowing they would not be 'outstripped by any state,' scores of University of Tennessee students raced nude down Cumberland Avenue, even taking to the roofs to sit atop a second-story billboard and astride an ornamental bull."

For years, the lofty bull remained, a hole in his flank where some nude cowboy had spurred him too vigorously. It vanished sometime in the '80s. Now even Sam & Andy's three-hearted building has fallen, transformed into one of those good memories we'll keep.