Where Have All The Flowers Gone?

It was cold. We schlepped from the West Fourth Street subway station. The boys had guitar cases.
We got to the club. It had been around forever. It was smaller than I thought it would be. The brick wall was stained with nicotine. The tables and chairs rough and worn. It smelled like a bar, stale beer and booze and pine cleaning fluid. It was my first gig as a singer in a band. I ran my hand over the brick wall, trying to feel all the music that had been sung in front of it.
"Hey blondie it's time for your sound check!"
I stepped up to the mike.
"What's it going to be?"
"Let's try "Flowers..."




I remember being too young to get into this place for so many years. I would stand by the door and peek in until a bouncer shooed me away.
The place was mythic and magic. The very first record album I bought with my own money, maybe for $1.99, had a picture of this place, with the band standing in front the famous brick wall.


The band on the album cover was compelling.
Especially the woman. The girl singer. Beautiful in a European way, like Bridgette Bardot, or some Swedish model. High cheekbones, stick straight blond hair with the best bangs ever. My own hair was bedeviled by 1000 cow licks, so those bangs were amazing to me. And her voice. Clear and distinct. No one sounded like her. She soared over the other two guys in the group.
Mary Travers, of Peter, Paul, and Mary, Mary of the clear soaring voice, Mary of the amazing blonde hair, passed away. She was 72. Read more HERE