On Tuesdays in the late 1980s, there was a jam night at the Central, a bar on Sunset, where the Viper Room now sits. I’d start out at the Rainbow for a few drinks and walk up the street, maybe stop along the way if there was a show at the Whisky or go into Gill Montie’s Sunset Strip Tattoo Shop for friendly conversation. There was usually someone in there I knew getting inked. Gill is one of the original biker tattooists and was a character up on the Strip in the 1980s. I’d leave my car behind the Roxy with the key under the floor mat; I knew the valet guys there, so if I didn’t make it back by 2:00 A.M. to pick up the car, they’d just leave it, and I’d just pay them next time. We lived at the top of Doheny Drive, so even after a little partying, I could sneak back up the hill, driving very slowly, only having to go one short block along Sunset. For the true enthusiast, there is a route that will take you all the way from Bel-Air to Laurel Canyon where you only have to drive on Sunset twice for a total of three blocks. It takes a long time and is very winding and easy to get lost on, but it can be done, depending on how much you’ve been drinking and how well you know the turf. At this point in life, I recommend a cab.
The Central looked pretty much the same as the Viper Room does now. The stage, bar, and tables are in the same places. There’s only so much that can be done with a bar. Over the years, different owners or promoters may come and go and change the name and décor, but these places along Sunset were carved out long ago. These spaces can’t change too much, and besides a coat of paint once in a while, most clubs are the same as they ever were.
The Central was a cool spot. It had been called the Melody Room in the 1950s, and original West Coast jazz musicians played and hung out there. The one-of-a-kind, ultrahip Chuck E. Weiss and the Goddamn Liars played there every Monday night, and it was a staple LA rock-and-roll event for ten years. We all went to that. At some point, Johnny Depp famously took the place over. There is an excellent documentary simply titled The Sunset Strip (which I was proudly a producer on), that gives a whole history on all the joints and legend of the Strip. There’s a section of the film where I interview a few original members of Mickey Cohen’s mob and associates and friends. One friend, gentleman Joe DeCarlo, was Sonny and Cher’s first manager. He wasn’t muscle; he seemed more business minded, but he certainly knew everyone in Chicago and LA. He was one of the first cats with a vision to bring entertainment to Las Vegas. He and I got along very well. I went to visit with him in his condo in Beverly Hills, and we got sandwiches from Greenblatt’s Deli on Sunset. I also interviewed Anton Giordano Hosney, who was a member from Chicago who came to LA in the 1940s to keep an eye on the rackets here. He was with Mickey when he was shot by a member of a rival gang in front of Sherry’s Restaurant—which became Gazzarri’s, which became Billboard Live, which became the Key Club and is now One Oak, where there was a shooting recently at an awards ceremony.
Full circle—you gotta love the Sunset Strip. There’s another scene in the documentary where Sex Pistol and true pal Steve Jones and I talk about the shenanigans along the Strip in the 1980s while sitting in my old bar the Cat Club.
So there was a nice little jam at the Central on Tuesdays. Al Kooper used to come, Jeff Baxter, and even Tom Petty a few times. There was a house band comprised of all working LA cats, and a bunch of friends and other musicians would come by and jam on rock and blues standards. This was in the days before these jam nights were en vogue, and some nights there would be only musicians hanging out. This night, I don’t exactly remember who was there, but I’m sure it was good. At 2:00 A.M., Bill, the owner/bartender, locked the door, and I stayed a little while after hours, talking and drinking with whoever was there.
I walked back down the street heading to the parking lot behind the Roxy to retrieve my car, taking deep breaths and chewing gum. I had a system. As I was approaching, I saw a really big guy trying to get into On the Rox. He was ringing the bell and pulling really hard on the door handle. No one was answering, and he was banging and yelling to be let in. It was not my place, but it was my hangout, and I felt some loyalty, so I quickened my pace a little to reach the guy to tell him to knock it off and go home, that the place was closed. I never felt threatened up there and didn’t think too much of the fact that even from half a block away, this was a mountain of a man. The street was hushed, quiet at 3:00 A.M., and this guy was making a raucous racket. If a West Hollywood sheriff had driven by, he definitely would have stopped and checked this guy out, which would have also blown my routine plan of getting my car from the back and going home without a fuss.
Boom, bang, bang, boom on the steel door. “I’m the Candy Man! I’m the Candy Man! Let me in!”
I approached, slowly and calmly—there were, still are, and always will be nuts up on Sunset. So I gently said, “Hey, man, what’s up? The place is closed.”
Bang, bang on the door again. “I’m the Candy Man! Open up!”
At that point, I realized that this was the actor John Candy. He was truly a big guy; he had to be three hundred pounds. He was a gifted actor and comedian. I had seen quite a few of his films and TV shows. He stopped banging and gave me a bleary stare. He was holding a Big Gulp cup and rocking back and forth on his heels. If this guy bit the dust, I couldn’t catch him—no way I could hold him up.
“Who are you? I’m the Candy Man!”
“Hey, buddy, I recognize you from your movies. My name is Slim Jim; I play with the Stray Cats. I know them here; the place is closed. We gotta go. Do you have a ride? Maybe we can hail a cab,” I suggested. The street was empty, but a cab went by now and again.
He eyed me warily. “I know them. Which one are you, the drummer?”
I nodded. A big, meaty handshake and bear hug followed. “Call me Candy Man. I’m the Candy Man. Let’s have a drink!”
He plopped down on the step and pulled me along with him. He pulled a pint of Bacardi’s rum from his inside coat pocket. He took the lid off the Big Gulp soda cup and poured half of it out on the sidewalk. He refilled it with the rum and swirled it around. He took a good sip and passed it to me. I took my swig and passed it back to the Candy Man. Maybe it was Coca-Cola, maybe it was Dr Pepper or some other redneck soda, I don’t know, but it was half-filled with demon rum and went down smoothly enough. We sat on the step in front of On the Rox for twenty minutes, passing this Big Gulp rum and Coke back and forth, the Candy Man pulling out the pint and topping it off until the bottle ran dry. He had his arm around me, and we were like two old hobo drinking buddies, chatting away about nothing. When the cup was soggy and empty, it was time to go home. By this time, I was properly wasted.
“I gotta split, Candy Man. You shouldn’t hang out here, either. Want me to call a cab?” I asked. There was a pay phone in front of the Rainbow. I would’ve waited with him. I struggled to help him to his feet.
“No, you go, kid,” he answered, and he staggered off down the street. A few stumbling, zigzag steps, later, he lifted his head to the sky and again started bellowing, “I’m the Candy Man! I’m the Candy Man!” to the deserted street, lampposts, traffic lights, and sidewalk.
I headed to the back of the club to get my car. The key was under the mat. I started her up, made sure the lights were turned on, and eased out of the parking lot, making a right onto Sunset, looking both ways about five times. I was driving a 1985 Corvette with illegal mufflers and straight pipes, so it was really loud, anyway. The coast was clear—there was no sign of the cops or the Candy Man. I took the first right turn on Wetherly Drive, cut over to Doheny, and putted along slowly toward the top of the hill.