Don't nobody cry when I'm gone/ Have a party instead/ Cause I was cool when I was livin'/ And I'll be damned if I'll be a square when I'm dead.
—"Snake Dancin' Through God's Barnyard"
by David "Rock Bottom" York
Rock Bottom began snake dancin' through God's barnyard a couple of hours before he actually died. It was Thursday night, Sept. 27, just before the end of his last song at Mojo's, in Palm Harbor, when the big bluesman hunched over, dropped his hands and began swinging his meaty arms slowwwwly back and forth as he left the stage. He was crooning the refrain from Nappy Brown's poignant "Bye Bye Baby" and sauntering off into the afterlife. It was waiting for him in a lucky dream, past the thrill on the hill, where God had a mojo workin' before the morning light:
It's hard to believe that you're leavin'/ It's such a part of the game/ It's hard to believe you're leavin'/ It's such a doggone shame/ Bye bye baby, goodbye.
The crowd applauded as the deep-voiced man swang his arms in the stage lights. The Cutaways finished the song, led by brilliant guitarist Tomcat Blake: "I never could figure that move of his out. It was like an elephant or something. He was weird. I loved that guy."
The blues turned black as night at daybreak, soon as the paramedics left Rock's house. Drummer Eric Deggans, who played a few tunes with Rock for the first time that very night, was certain it was a hoax like several the St. Petersburg Times columnist had run down since the terrorist attacks. The Rev. Boneshaker, who rode home with the 53-year-old legend after appearing at Mojo's, heard the news and couldn't make his legs work. National folk icon Roy Book Binder, Rock's brother-in-law, jumped off his tour onto a plane in Atlanta and got real quiet: "We thought he'd be around forever."
The brotherhood sent smoke signals out, and the bluest cloud settled over Scandinavia where Rock Bottom toured extensively for 20 years. In Sweden, bluesman Steve Grahn heard the news as he was booking a November gig for Rock. Norwegian guitar hero Vidar Busk, the surrogate son Rock raised from teenager to adult, took the stage at Rockefeller's in Oslo to command 1,000 people quiet for a few minutes in Rock's honor. "They were rowdy. And then there was deathly silence," said Vidar.
Bottom's Up
The Tampa Bay music scene loses a blues great and great friend with the recent death of Rock Bottom. By Peter B. Gallagher Back in St. Pete, pianist Liz Pennock's scheduled show at the Perch downtown was canceled. "They didn't even bother to call us," said Liz. "I reached for the phone to call Rock. But he's gone. We all called him when we got screwed by the club owners. He would always yell: "This, THIS gives me a reason to LIVE!'"HE ROCKED OUR WORLD: Rock Bottom was well known the world over and helped establish the Tampa Bay area as a haven for blues talent.
Across town, blueswoman Wendy Rich was similarly crapped on by Adam's Mark. "I can hear Rock right now, telling me how to get them at Small Claims Court."
Anne Budris, wife of the late blues guitarist Little Juke, handles the calendar for the Suncoast Blues Society: "I just decided to leave Rock's gigs on the calendar," she said. "Let them fade out in time. We can't just remove them; you know what I mean?"
On tour in Louisville, singer Shana Smith was told about the death of her little dog, Hal, killed by a pack of large dogs. Collapsed in grief, she thought of Rock Bottom and how he doted after his dog Bessie Smith and stray cat Chester Burnett. "Rock was known as a great animal lover. I have a feeling he's up there walking Hal around the block right now. That gives me strength."
The blues community of Tampa Bay was suffering the sort of lonely grief they play and sing about every single day. Our baby done left us. A good man is gone. Singer, songwriter, harp-man extraordinaire, Rock Bottom was one of Tampa Bay's only international arts figures. He would not have wanted tears. "Blues is a learning experience," he used to say. "If you don't live it, you can't give it."
Three days later, a community of stunned friends "gave it up" at an emotional memorial service one neighborhood away from the house he shared with his wife, Maureen, in St. Petersburg.
"He changed the face of music in this community," said Tom White of Skipper's Smokehouse, an agent who had often felt Rock's signature wrath toward club-owners. "He is the Godfather of the blues family."
The great Gulfport harp player, O.B., donned Rock's trademark beret and dark Ray Bans. He lowered his voice. "On behalf of Rock Bottom," he told the mourners. "You're all fired."
How do the blues become a life?
In Rock Bottom's case it began as David Clark York on May 6, 1948; one of three children born to Ruth and Ernest Clark "Duke" York in Indiana's poorest county. His grandfather Gus served in Tampa with Teddy Roosevelt's Rough Riders during the Spanish American War.
The family moved numerous times between Brookville, Ind., and Bradenton until 1965, when David came to Florida for good, to live with sister Sylvia in Tampa. Another sister, Sandra, diagnosed with Down syndrome, died at age 56 in 1990.
The transformation of David to Rock occurred after graduation from Chamberlain High School in 1966, when he heard music by Sonny Boy Williamson and Paul Butterfield and began hanging out with members of the fledgling Allman Brothers Band. He spent much of the late '60s soaking up music in the all-black "juke joints" of the rural Gulf Coast. His later songs told of fights, days in the Manatee County jail and nights hiding from the cops in the swamp.
York tried survival as a retail merchant, working at Kmarts and Kresges. His mother wanted her son to be a preacher. Instead, he formed a musical band called Swamp Gas, stolen from Canned Heat's original name.
"We didn't know how to play at all, but Rock somehow got us a gig. … He had cut lips at the time from learning the harp and the guy teaching me the bass stood in the audience pointing which direction to put my fingers," said Sarasota bassist Michael Downe, later known as Rev. Boneshaker. "When we gave the drummer a solo, he just put his head down on the snare and cried. We got booed out of there by 2,700 surfers."
Undaunted, York never looked back, kept plodding straight ahead — a lifetime trademark that both created irritation and endearment among friends and foes. "He was a thick-headed, bull-headed, stubborn, big brother Santa Claus," says Boneshaker. "We'd throw each other in front of a train for each other. We would fight, kick ass and get back together.
"You got to understand, a part of me no one knows about died with him. There are too many stories. We used to ride around for hours making weird noises with our lips. We had hitchhikers beg us to let them go in the middle of nowhere. It would take half a lifetime to really tell you what this man was all about."
In the early '70s, David York went away for good, replaced by Rock Bottom, harp player for the eclectic Nick Danger and the Heat. "We would break stages. We would do it on purpose," says Boneshaker, the bass player for that band. "We would play the B sides of everything. We did shows in dinosaur suits. We did a prisoner set.
"We dressed Rock all in black, painted his beard white and had him jump out of a big black casket playin' the harp. You won't see that today."
In the late '70s, Rock partnered with boogie-woogie pianist St. Petey Twigs (Kent Smith) and torch singer/washboard player Flo Mingo (Angela Altieri) as the Silver King band. Until the band broke up in 1985, Silver King soared through the downtown St. Petersburg music scene and began touring Europe offering original, social commentary-laced, boogie music with fun and attitude.
The band gained national prominence in 1983, on a live broadcast in Norway, when they dedicated their "My Balls Are Blue From Loving You" to Nancy Reagan, described as "our favorite groupie." The U.S. Ambassador to Norway had to issue a formal apology. "Our rates went way up," said Rock. "It was good business."
Years later, Rock's song about drinking — "Fucked Up" — was banned in Georgia and brought police action against him during live shows. Club owners had to pay the fines and Rock's fame broadened.
The last 16 years of his life, Rock Bottom was a veritable Lord Blue of Tampa Bay. He groomed, equipped, hired (and fired) dozens of musicians and relentlessly pursued venues and jobs for friends from near and far. His support was critical to WMNF, Skipper's and the Suncoast Blues Society in their early days. He took care of the legendary Diamond Teeth Mary, expanding her fame worldwide during the last 10 years of her life. Each summer he returned to Scandinavia; today, there are Rock Bottom harmoniac "copy cats" everywhere, using his exact gear, amps and microphones, swinging their arms like the master.
The anecdotes rain down like showers from the blues thundergods. Singer Rosy Cockburn covered in men's underwear after Rock's request on live radio. Firing drummer "Jungle" Denny McCarthy and leaving him miles from nowhere in the Norway outback. Asking an entire tent full of people, north of the Arctic Circle, to walk outside and urinate to moisten the dry earth so the sound system could ground. "I called him "Putty Butt' once and he fired me right on stage. Then drove me to the airport," said lusty singer Rosy.
Rock and friendly competitor T.C. Carr met in 1974 at a local music store, looking for the same Supro amp. T.C. got there first: "That was the only time I ever beat him at anything. And now he's beat me to the grave."
In 1992, heart trouble led Rock into triple bypass surgery. He married longtime girlfriend, Maureen, and seemed to settle down in their little bungalow on the infamous 17th Street described in many of his tunes. He read Robert Heinlein and Jack Vance science-fiction and began fashioning mixed-media clay and bottle cap "blues scene" artworks. He continued to tour Europe where he was treated — and paid — like a star. He appeared occasionally as Woodlawn Fats, who played only "sleazy bars for low pay" and single-handedly transformed rustic Nick's Seabreeze Lounge on Sunset Beach into a true blues joint.
In early September, Rock took his last European tour — 22 days all over England, Germany and Norway. He planned to return to Finland at the end of this month. Sister Sylvia saw him in St. Petersburg on Tuesday. "I told Rock, "You look tired.' He glared at me with that Rock Bottom look and said, "Of course I'm tired. I just got back from Europe.'" Wednesday he was at Ringside Cafe to watch his protege, Kim Harpo and the Accelerators.
Rock passed his annual stress test Thursday. After the Mojo's show that night, Rock steered his old van full of equipment back home. Just like he and Rev. Bone had done hundreds of times before.
"He got some kind of real sharp pain in his back and started to rub his shoulder. He started erratic driving. I said, "Man, you want to go to the hospital?' But he said he said he would be OK," said Boneshaker. "I stood between him and the house and asked him again "You want me to drive you to the hospital?'
"He gave me that Rock Bottom look and said, "I'm the one who will decide whether I go or not. Leave the stuff in the van. I'll see you Sunday.' So I left. We'd been through this before. You could not make the man do something he did not want to do."
Maureen found him, cold, on the couch Friday morning. There was no autopsy. He was cremated. Cause of death: "It's called "it was his time to go,'" said Book Binder. "Maybe it was his time to go three or four years before, but he held on until he was sure Maureen's disability was in. …"
A tribute, "Rock Bottom's Barnyard Boogie," is scheduled for 2 p.m., Oct. 28 at Skippers — fans have rallied support for his widow, who suffers from Lupus. Vidar Busk, 31 years old now and Norway's top blues star, will be there. "I have to come," he said. "Rock was my musical father. He taught me more than the blues. He taught me how to perform the blues. He taught me how to dress, how to behave, how to behave on the road with other musicians."
Over at the Flamingo Bar on Ninth Street. N., a couple of blocks from Rock's house, someone heard the news and shook his head: "Man, he died in his sleep at 53. That scares me. That could happen to any of us."
Jimmy the bartender leaned over: "Whaddaya scared about? That's the way to do it. Rock doesn't even know it. He's still asleep. He's dreamin' the blues."
This article appears in Oct 11-17, 2001.