Stray Cat Strut at Tut's – November 1981
For a while it seemed as if the clock had been turned back twenty-five years. Bands like The Rockats and the Stray Cats brought back pompadours, leather jackets, upright basses, and the raw energy of early rock and roll at a time when much of popular music was moving toward synthesizers and New Wave.
I discovered The Rockats first. In March 1981, I saw them open for The Romantics at Southern Illinois University's Shryock Auditorium. The Romantics arrived in matching red leather suits and had the hit records, but it was The Rockats who stole the show. They tore through their set with such energy that by the time the headliners appeared, half the audience seemed exhausted.
A few months later, several friends and I drove into Chicago to see the Stray Cats at Tut's, one of the city's legendary music clubs. Looking back, it was one of those rare opportunities to catch a band right before they became huge. The Stray Cats were already building a following, but they were still playing clubs where you could stand close enough to see every expression on the musicians' faces.
At the time, none of us realized exactly where they were in their career. Years later, I learned that the show took place during their breakthrough American tour in November 1981. Within months they would be international stars. Back then, however, they were still a hungry young band playing a club in Chicago.
We arrived early. Back then, Chicago clubs took their fire marshal occupancy limits seriously. Once the legal capacity was reached, that was it. I had learned that lesson the hard way the year before when I was shut out of Martha and the Muffins show after the club filled up. This time I intended to be inside before the count reached its limit.
When we got there, some kind of private event was still taking place in the main room, so we were directed into an adjoining bar to wait. It turned out to be one of the stranger sights of the evening.
The rockabilly crowd had arrived in full force. Guys wore leather jackets, cuffed jeans, pompadours, and crepe-soled shoes. The women looked as though they had stepped out of a 1950s photograph, with poodle skirts, bright lipstick, and carefully styled hair. In those days, dressing the part was almost as important as the music itself.
Then the doors slid open.
Out walked a group of impeccably dressed Asian businessmen accompanied by their equally elegant wives. They looked as if they had just attended a corporate banquet or diplomatic reception.
For a moment both groups simply stared at one another.
The businessmen looked at us.
We looked at them.
Neither side appeared entirely certain what the other was doing there.
Then they disappeared into the Chicago night while we streamed into the concert hall. To this day, I have no idea what event had been taking place inside. It remains one of those small mysteries that survive only in memory.
Luck was with us that night. We managed to work our way right to the front of the stage.
Before the main attraction came on, an opening band from Carbondale performed. I recognized them immediately. I had seen them play at the Club in Carbondale when they were known as The Bras. It felt oddly comforting to encounter a familiar Southern Illinois band in the middle of Chicago.
Then the lights dimmed.
The Stray Cats took the stage.
Suddenly Brian Setzer was standing only a few feet away from me.
What followed was one of the most energetic performances I have ever witnessed. The band exploded into song and never seemed to let up. Setzer attacked his guitar. Lee Rocker slapped his upright bass like a man trying to break it. Slim Jim Phantom pounded away on his minimalist drum kit. The music felt less like a concert and more like a controlled riot.
The wooden floor beneath us bounced with the crowd. People danced, shouted, sang along, and pushed closer to the stage. Every song seemed faster and louder than the one before it.
For an hour or two, Tut's ceased being a club in Chicago and became a time machine. It was 1956 and 1981 at the same time.
That's the magic of small clubs.
In an arena, you watch a performance.
In a club, you become part of it.
More than forty years later, I still remember standing there, only inches from Brian Setzer, feeling the floor shake beneath my feet while the Stray Cats tore through their set. At the time they were simply another exciting band on the rockabilly scene.
Looking back now, I realize I was lucky enough to catch them at exactly the right moment—just before the rest of the world discovered what many of us in that crowded little club already knew.
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