FIELD TRIPThe Gulfport Casino is like the coolest Elks Lodge ever. It sits stately at land's end, vibrating with the residual energy of a thousand varied social gatherings. The stairs leading up to its front doors and relatively small, glass-cased marquee lend the building a slight Protestant worship-house feel. The Church of the Charity Benefit Show. The First National Congregation of Swing Nite.Perhaps a dozen folks mingle, smoking, on the Casino's covered patio. Several of them appear to be of an age higher than an ardent smoker might be expected to achieve; my heart soars. Then it sputters, thuds and demands more nicotine.
Tonight, the Casino is host to a birthday party for wonderfully eccentric entertainer Abbott Vaughn Meader, the man whose impressions of John F. Kennedy briefly entranced the nation at large, and whose mainstream fame died with the young President in 1963. Since then, Meader has remained a sort of hip-boomer cult icon. His 1962 album The First Family is considered one of the greatest comedy records of all time. Articles and websites regarding him continue to pop up sporadically — Entertainment Weekly ran a profile on Meader just last week, to coincide with this event — and rumor has it that the rights to his life story have been optioned more than once. He's also continued to perform when feeling his oats, turning in raucous sets combining music, comedy and storytelling. Since settling in Gulfport five years ago, he's even had a couple of residencies at local watering hole H.T. Kane's.
Meader and his gracious wife, Sheila, greet guests at the door, chatting amiably and making everyone feel at home. While wheelchair-bound and recuperating from a period of ill health, Meader nonetheless seems in high spirits, talkative and honestly blown away that so many have come to wish him a happy birthday. He turned 67 on Thursday, March 20, but set the party for a Monday to accommodate the schedules of some of his favorite bands.
"Plus, I got the hall cheaper," he adds with a grin.
The Casino's main hall looks like an earth-toned basketball court augmented by funky old chandeliers and a disco ball. Foldaway lunchroom tables cover most of the floor in a herringbone pattern, leaving room in front of the indoor bandshell for dancing.
Several of the amazingly diverse crowd of 200 or so are availing themselves of the dancefloor, while the Snake Oil Medicine Show from Boone, N.C., cranks out an organic blend of bluegrass, folk and homegrown 1920s jazz. The throng's age range careens from prepubescence to pre-World War II, and though there's a marked emphasis on the arty and hippiefied (ponytails and facial hair flow like Cristal at one of P. Diddy's East Hampton soirees), the overall variety of humanity is staggering.
There are kids in their nice clothes, as in "put on your nice clothes, Timmy, we're going to a special party." There are Parrotheads in Hawaiian shirts, in honor of Jimmy Buffett collaborator Tim Krekel's performance. There are the earth mothers and fathers who follow Snake Oil Medicine Show around. There are thick, jovial senior citizens in snap-brim caps and, honest to God, leisure suits. A couple of 9-year-olds close-dance awkwardly in front of the stage; she's at least a head-and-a-half taller than he is.
Scoping this is like covering the society pages for a paper aimed at cool retirees and published by the Rainbow Coalition.
Sheila Meader flutters from group to group, an endearing combination of den mother and cruise director. She sits beside me at the back of the room, asks if I'm having a good time. She points out acclaimed photojournalist Burk Uzzle, who shot one of Life magazine's most enduring covers and is famous for his annual documentation of Daytona Bike Week, and urges me to strike up a conversation with him. (Unfortunately, Mr. Uzzle departs while I'm hitting the flask in the bathroom, and I miss the opportunity.) Then she departs to make another lap around the party.
The dancefloor loses a few adults when the folky Mad Tea Party takes the stage, but gains several rambunctious children who've reached a point when sitting still is not an option. They chase one another across the open space, dragging, tossing and avoiding crepe paper.
A couple of fairly buzzed young ladies wander over and chat for a bit. They work at H.T. Kane's, the bar/restaurant across the street where Meader has performed several times. Both know him — everybody here knows him personally, it seems — and talk about him cracking up the house at the bar, and having him and his wife over for dinner. They both evince that singular mixture of awe and cheerful indulgence for the performer that is always reserved for babies and your favorite slightly skewed older relation.
Singer/songwriter Tim Krekel takes the stage, and the floor once again fills up with uninhibited folks indulging in some of the world's cutest bad white-people dancing. Krekel sings Meader's praises between virtually every song, and leads the crowd through that version of "Happy Birthday" that always induces visions of swaying and arm linkage.
Soon after, the man of the hour positions himself outside on the patio, so he can have a smoke and a friendly word with everyone who wants one on the way out. Everybody does. They're just drawn to him.
"He's just such an interesting guy," says John Lyon, a former New York resident and friend of Meader's. "He's lived, like, 30 lives in the space of 67 years."
Scott Harrell can be reached at 813-248-8888, ext. 109, or e-mail him at scott.harrell@weeklyplanet.com.
This article appears in Apr 2-8, 2003.
