Bonnie, the Bassist & the Nod

Sometime in the early aughts, my buddy Bonnie called me up looking for a companion, a chaperone of sorts, to join her at the Cedar for a Shannon Sharon show. Shannon Sharon, an Irish folk fiddler and accordionist, was once member of the Waterboys—an important, 80's era, folk rock band from Edinburgh—and it was the bassist from the Waterboys, now playing with Shannon, that Bonnie had set her sights on.

Here's how I hazily remember that epic evening:

Bonnie was—is, I suppose, even though she's been a Californian, for years—rock royalty in Minneapolis. Club proprietors were her friends, a rock star was her husband and when that marriage ended, other musicians and scenesters were her, um, well, boy toys (girl toys?). Bonnie had doors opened for her in the Minneapolis music world; maybe in many worlds. Wanna hang out with Aerosmith when they're gigging in town? Tag along with Bonnie. Wanna get into the Cedar dressing room after the Shannon Sharon show? Tag along with Bonnie.

Bonnie may dispute this, but I believe I got the chaperone gig since she needed someone who was either gay or could pass for gay. I have a life-long natural disposition for the latter. The plan was simple: 1) Bonnie would seduce the bassist. 2) When Bonnie deemed success a certainty she'd give me the nod. 3) I'd stretch, yawn, say, "oh look at the time" and skedaddle. The bassist wouldn't imagine anything was odd aside, perhaps, from thinking that Bonnie's gay friend was a kooky fucker. What could go wrong?

The plan was set and a meeting place chosen; the 400 Bar, a couple of doors north of the Cedar in the Minneapolis neighborhood know as the West Bank. The now-defunct 400 deserves mention as hallowed ground for Minneapolis music, right alongside the Cedar and other beloved venues. This neighborhood was once the epicenter of Minneapolis folk music with legends like Willie Murphy pounding a battered piano just inside the bar's front window; the thump of his band easily heard on the sidewalk, especially on hot summer nights when the front door was open.

On show night, I rolled into the 400 and found Bonnie already there, hanging out at a window table where Willie's piano used to be. She had a drink, I fetched a drink. She was gussied up, I was gussied up. She was stoked, I was stoked. We threw 'em back, did some catching up and had a lot of laughs. Then, when it was time to head to the Cedar, Bonnie offered me a rare treat. She discretely slid a meticulously folded little packet of coke across the table and said something about it being a

single serving. Off I went to the 400's boy's room and back I came even more stoked. Yes Bonnie! Let's get this party started!

Bonnie and I settled in at the Cedar and Shannon Sharon, her band, and her ex-Waterboys bassist were brilliant. When the show finished I found myself on a Bonnie tag-along, in the Cedar dressing room, smoking pot with Irish folkies; lovely people. Apparently the band was staying in Minneapolis that night, and the Bassist had time for the nightcap that Bonnie suggested. I looked at Bonnie for the nod. No nod. Instead, Bonnie suggested we all head to another bar. So, off to Bunker's we went, I in my car, Bonnie chauffeuring the Bassist.

At Bunker's, in the now trendy, then scary, North Loop, Bassist, Bonnie and I were getting along swimmingly. However, it was becoming clear that seductress Bonnie's wily ways were working. The nod was coming. Just before the nod, generous Bonnie offered me a send-off. Again, she discretely slid a meticulously folded little packet across the bar. However, as I recall, this time she said nothing about serving size.

Off to Bunker's boy's room, and into a stall I went. When I unfolded the packet I thought, hmmm, this seems a lot larger than the 400's single serving. But, truthfully, I don't know these things. I'm just a simple, whiskey-swilling, small-town boy. I snarfed up the whole damn packet's worth.

Back at the bar, I sat down with the idea that I'd finish my drink casually and then scram so that Bonnie's plan could play out. Imagine my sinking feeling when, after a few minutes, Bonnie leaned over and whispered to me, "You got the rest of that?" I couldn't explain myself, Bonnie couldn't believe what I'd done, the Bassist was trying to sort out the odd tension and I was on the verge of fucking up Bonnie's well-laid (so to speak) plan.

Thankfully, Bonnie's rock cred and deep connections paid off. She glanced around Bunker's and saw a guy. A trip to his table and Bonnie had solved the problem. A trip to the ATM and I payed for the problem.The plan was back on track and I said my goodbyes.

I can't (and wouldn't) say how it went for the Bonnie and the Bassist after I left. That's a story for Bonnie to tell. I will tell you this, I returned home full of party attitude and there was no party to be found. My spouse at the time, I'll call her Satan, was sound asleep. Thanks to Bonnie's send off, I had to get some kind of groove on. So, for lack of a kickin' bar scene and a thumping dance floor, I cleaned every surface of the already gleaming kitchen (I'm very tidy). Then I twitched in bed for hours trying hard not to wake Satan.