For a brief shining year a while back I ran a music venue in Atlanta, The Royal Peacock. The building had been built in the 1920s, opening as Top Hat Club in 1938. Rechristened The Royal Peacock in the 1940s, it became a legendary club for music. Cab Calloway and Louis Armstrong played there, as did Ray Charles, Little Richard, and Marvin Gaye. Into the 1960s, it was the place to see and be seen by Auburn Avenue Atlanta royalty, everyone from Muhammad Ali to Martin Luther King, Jr., whose church was just up the street.
The club had fallen on hard times when we moved in, but all the original bones were there. The red upholstered booths, the Moorish design touches, the long hand-carved corner bar. The history was palpable.
We cleaned it up, added some high quality sound and lighting, stocked the bar, and started booking bands.
Everyone we could afford played there. And it was a mix, kind of like America. Classic R&B artists from the ’50s like Bobby “Blue” Bland, Jerry Butler, and Little Milton played alongside War, Indigo Girls, and Black Crowes. All the Athens bands of the day, Guadalcanal Diary, Love Tractor, B-52s.
One night as blues guitar legend Buddy Guy performed his signature guitar wailing walk out through the audience, he made a quick stop at the bar, where I happened to be stationed. The band paused, holding one long note, and he leaned my way.
“Bartender, give me a cognac.”
I obliged, and he downed three fingers of France’s best in one swallow. Impressive. Like his guitar playing.
Billy Preston needed a ride and I picked him up at the Hilton in my Jeep. Top-down, graying afro flowing in the summer breeze, the Beatles keyboardist was the consummate gentleman, soft-spoken and gracious.
The Temptations David Ruffin wasn’t quite ready to leave one night and we kept the bar open until the wee morning hours while he regaled us with stories of Motown, and the nightmare recording of the sublime “My Girl.” Only forty-nine at the time, he passed away a few months later.
James Brown appeared one afternoon as I was checking in stock. We walked around the club and the memories flowed.
“Little brother now look here. You don’t remember none of this. But we played The Peacock in 1959 and it was still segregated then, you know. The black folks were all down front, boogying, and the white folks stood in the back and did that white folks dance, like, nodding their heads up and down.” He chuckled, and so did I.
I still dance like that.
The Royal Peacock was a labor of love for us. We all – staff, musicians, anybody around – ate barbecue together, drank together, sound checked, and gathered again for the evening shows. All done on the fly, paycheck to paycheck, show to show. Everyone welcome.
Awesome! Great reading! Thanks James!
Of ALL the clubs we frequented in ATL, The Royal Peacock was my very favorite. Thx for reminding us “Mature” rockers of those wonderful, carefree daze! AND the rich history that came before we made it our playground. That was a lifetime ago but some of the fondest memories of all that stay with me even now, some vivid, some a little blurry.😀 SS
Scottie, A very clear memory is one of you singing onstage with War! You are so right, so many fond memories! A special time in my life, special friends.
From one mature rocker to another. I remember looking across the overpacked, overbooked crowd the night of the War show and seeing you up there on the stage singing at the mike, centerstage. And thinking, well if anybody can do it, Scott is the man for the job! Crazy fun DAZE indeed!!
Ah, the Royal Peacock.
What I remember of it.
Jim,
Your writing amazes me. Keep ‘em comin’, bro.
Mark, nice to hear from you , bro. Doing my best!