Among the most special people in the lives of musicians are those who provide us a place to play—and pay us for it. Owning a club and keeping it open is challenging, among the most challenging of professions. Getting a new club off the ground then keeping it going requires a round-the-clock commitment. In addition to all the things required of a restaurant, the food and drink and staffing, there’s booking the musicians that people will pay to see. Customers are fickle; what’s in today can be out tomorrow.
I learned today of the passing of an owner of the famous Flora-Bama, so famous as to be mentioned not only in travelogues but to host scenes in many a novel, including my own The Musician, and featured in many a song, most famously Kenny Chesney’s 2014 song titled “Flora-Bama.” The Flora-Bama, so called because of its position on the border of the two states, the parking lot in one, the club in the other, was opened in 1978 by Joe Gilchrist, who oversaw the club first as sole owner then over the years took on partners as the Flora-Bama grew exponentially in size as well as fame. Joe passed away in 2022. Today I learned that his longest-time partner, Pat McClellan, has passed away.
Joe was the musicians’ club owner. He loved the music and typically was in the crowd in the main bar at the end of each evening, sipping a Coors and crowing to anyone fortunate enough to share his table about how good the players were, often when a more critical listener might not categorize them as such. That care and feeding was a big part, to my mind, of the Flora-Bama achieving the status it did over the years. Everybody, mostly country singers and singer-songwriters, but even those of us who never wrote or played a country song, wanted to play for Joe—and if you needed a place to stay on those nights you were booked at the Flora-Bama, Joe might even put you up, sometimes at his house.
My partner at the time and I were one of the first groups to play the Flora-Bama. We were working for Joe at a hotel lounge in Pensacola when he announced he was gong to buy a beach dive bar, which was somewhat in disrepair having recently suffered through another Gulf Coast hurricane. I remember walking in and seeing a piano half buried in sand. But where Joe was going, we were going—and when years later I asked Joe if I could bring my six piece jazz-funk band from New Orleans, he was as accommodating as had we been one of the Nashville headliners that often graced the Flora-Bama stage.
Of course, not all club owners appreciate their musicians as much as Joe did. But even when they consider us a necessary evil, we are grateful to them for giving us a place to do what we love most: play for the people.