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Brackins
Blues, smoke and parking right downtown, in Maryville
by Clint Casey
Downtown Maryville greets me with parking—plentiful free parking on either side of Broadway. I find a large lot across the street from the Palace Theater, dark at this time of night, and follow the faint sound of music coming from Brackins Blues Bar.
Since it opened in May 2002, Brackins has been delivering the finest in blues music since, hosting live bands of the local and national persuasion on most nights of the week. Owner Mark Brackins opened the place with no experience, little knowledge of the area, and no intention of opening a blues club.
“This is the first time [we’ve run a bar]. We chose Maryville, ‘cause I was riding my Harley with my wife [co-owner Linda Brackins] through town one day and liked the area,” he says. “We were just going to open up a bar, and it turned into a blues bar. But we do like the blues.”
I pay the $5 cover for Motor City Josh. It’s a nominal fee for a guy who is, so I’m told, a big name guitar player on the blues circuit. Regardless of the quality, Josh is loud enough to demand attention. I feel out of place about anywhere, and it must show on my face because a mildly intoxicated fortyish woman grabs me by the forearm. “It’ll be alright,” she says. I tell her, I know; I’ll be fine. Her concerned expression slacks a bit when she says, “Yeah. I’m just fuckin’ with you. Know why? ‘Cause I can.”
I find my way to the bar and order a drink. Three bucks for a beer is again a modest fee; many theme bars tend to gouge customers at the bar. Disheveled and a bit intimidated, I hand the bartender a pair of $20s and a $1 for my beer. He laughs, hands me the two larger bills and says, “I’ll trade you for a pair of ones.” Bartenders who wouldn’t take advantage of an unsuspecting irregular customer are rare, and I feel a bit more at ease.
It’s Thursday, and the place is standing room only and full of normal, friendly people—no pretentious hipsters or obnoxious college kids cutting their drinking teeth on the lookout for a one-night stand. The folks here either have no idea or forgot tomorrow is Friday; chances are they simply don’t care. At best guess, the crowd’s age ranges from 25 to 60 and everyone in between. They all like their cigarettes.
Mark Brackins is pleased with the primarily local crowd and with Maryville in general. “It’s a great area,” he says. “Tons of parking down here, and the police get along with everybody. In the two and a half years that we’ve been here, we haven’t had any problems. We haven’t had so much as one fist thrown,”
The club is modestly decorated, with disparate music memorabilia along its walls—a poster in the men’s room of Miles Davis, a Whitney Houston backstage pass, signed pictures of acts who’ve played the club: Bob Margolin, Tinsley Ellis, Tab Benoit, Savoy Brown, John Lee Hooker, Jr. A large barrier divides the bar area from the stage section. An area adjacent to the bar is a recreation room that offers a pair of dartboards, the obligatory Golden Tee game, and a free popcorn machine. The room’s saving grace is the opportunity it provides for escape from its rather smoky neighbor. But tonight that room is completely empty. The crowd is absorbed by the music blaring from the stage.
Motor City Josh is in the middle of a bluesy solo, a woman steps to the front of the stage, catches the guitarist off guard, and the band segues into twangabilly rock. A rendition “Shortnin’ Bread” morphs into the theme from Green Acres and whips the crowd into a frenzy. An older couple clogs in front of the stage. From the decidedly country medley, Josh and his band jump immediately headfirst into a cover of Funkadelic’s “Get Off Your Ass and Jam,” before returning to the blues.
When the band takes a setbreak, a few audience members rush to the stage to shake a hand and ask for a signature. Motor City Josh may or not be a big name in the blues circle. The crowd doesn’t seem to know any better or care much about fame either way. They just like what they hear and will be back to hear some other band, big name or small, sometime soon.
July 22, 2004 • Vol. 14, No. 30
© 2004 Metro Pulse
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