“BROADSIDE” OF BOSTON
FOLK MUSIC AND COFFEEHOUSE NEWS
The decade or two after World War II can be seen as a relatively simple time. In New England, and particularly in Boston, you could be defined by the media that you paid attention to, none of which involved firing up a computer. Out in the few remaining agrarian districts, people “took” publications like “The American Agriculturist” and the “Weekly Market Bulletin,” while those on working waterfronts subscribed to the “National Fisherman.” In Boston, if you were a Republican of the middle classes, you read the “Boston Herald Traveler,” which came out, in those pre-internet days, in both morning and evening editions. As did the “Boston Post” and the “Boston Globe,” the latter read by liberals, Democrats, and many persons connected to academia and medicine. In the Negro community, as Roxbury and West Medford were then called, the “Pittsburgh Courier” and the “Chicago Defender” were the sources of national news of “the race.” If you were from the working, white ethnic classes, you read the “Record-American,” particularly if you played the ponies and the race results at Suffolk Downs were more important to you than the adventures of the Dow-Jones industrials. If you were a Roman Catholic, you read the weekly “Pilot;” if you considered yourself part of the rational intelligentsia, you read the “Christian Science Monitor.” If you were a juvenile with a growing sense of the absurd, you hid “Mad” magazine in your book bag. If you were a young folk music enthusiast in the mid-course of the 1960’s, you not only read Broadside, you believed in it as well.
Unlike places like New York and San Francisco, there does not seem to have been much of a bohemian literary scene in Beantown; no City Lights, no Washington Square-type scene on the Common, and certainly no alternative press. In a general sense, socio-political activism was the purview of isolated liberal religious congregations: Jewish synagogues in Newton; Negro churches in Roxbury, and WASP-y Unitarians in Cambridge. In retrospect, what did begin to form together were groups that were drawn to what for want of a better term (then and now) was called “folk music.”
The vigorous hybrid known as American folk music began its storied history back in the 1600’s, as Native American, European and African peoples began to join cultural tectonic plates in a process that is still settling in. New England folk music echoed in wigwam intervales, tar-stained wharves, logging camps, farmhouses, churches, dance halls and taverns, and percolated along for a few centuries until it was overwhelmed by the Industrial Revolution and the rise of formal performance art. It remained dormant during the 19th century for about four generations in whistle-stops, congregations, coves, and backwaters, until its “discovery” by Victorian era scholars and romantics like Francis James Child, Fanny Hardy Eckstrom, and Helen Harkness Flanders. By the 1940’s, revivalist Yankee musicians like Ralph Page and Ted Sanella were organizing contradances and folk festivals around Boston. Ne’er-do-well academic types like the denizens of Old Joe Clark’s in Cambridge and renegade members of the Appalachian Mountain Club and other outing organizations began pledging allegiance to folk music some years before a banjo was ever tuned in Washington Square, and a generation before musician’s “safe houses” sprang up on Ashbury Street. By the late 1940’s, there were established Country Dance Societies in Boston and Cambridge holding weekly gatherings, with what, in retrospect, was an astonishingly wide membership of individuals and families learning various European, African, and old-fashioned New England American folk dances. For many, folk music was a participant sport, and appreciation was best shown by grabbing a partner and dancing along to the muse of caller and fiddle rather than sitting on folding chairs and politely applauding a “performer.”
During the same period, a Boston Folk Song Society was formed, gathering at the Huntington Avenue YMCA. Some enterprising individuals began researching and mimeographing copies of folk song lyrics so that people could sing along with pieces like “Kum Ba Yah” and “Michael Row The Boat Ashore” that might later be taught, by counsellors like Tony Saletan and Jack Sloanaker, to children at summer camps in the hinterlands of Maine, New Hampshire, Vermont, the Berkshires, and Cape Cod.
Something was happening here, and we are still figuring out what it was. Sometime in the mid ’50’s, likely under the guidance of Manny Greenhill, a set of concerts or “hootenannies” began to be held at the “Y” and at places like the Hotel Commodore off Cambridge Common. Soon thereafter, a crop of coffeehouses, some new, some pre-existing, began to mix live folk music performances in with the conversation, chess games, abstract paintings, and multi-colored candles stuck carefully in empty Mateus bottles that melded to create “atmosphere.” A small-scale northern bohemia began to emerge that celebrated a common affection for folk music.
Given Boston’s then three-hundred-year-old foundation in academia, it was not surprising that some of the enthusiasm for “folk music” drew interest in scholarly sources, and that long-time folk music practitioners, folklorists, and teachers were called in to lecture as well as to play recordings and/or perform. Arlington-born New Hampshire contra dance leader Dudley Laufman trekked down regularly with a group of musicians to perform at the Huntington Avenue YMCA; folklorist and New Bedford native Paul Clayton began anthologizing traditional whaling songs long before anyone took much notice of that sort of thing. Then, as national interest in various iterations of “folk music” boomed, Manny Greenhill brought in well-known artists such as Josh White, Pete Seeger, Odetta, Flatt and Scruggs, Mahalia Jackson, and Frank Hamilton to the Boston “Y”, as well as more local talent like Rolf Cahn and Molly Scott. In 1959, a ninety-cent admission was charged.
Prominent among the academics who visited Boston in the late 1950’s was Dr. Harry Oster, a native of Cambridge who, after service in World War II had embarked upon a remarkable career as a folklorist. During field studies in Louisiana, he recorded Robert Pete Williams, Roosevelt Charles, Hogman Maxey, and other singers. At an early appearance at the Boston Folk Music Society, Dr. Oster played a number of recordings of these men, performances of such emotional intensity and artistic integrity that they made a deep and abiding impression on all in attendance, among whom was David Wilson, a former MIT student and Air Force reservist originally from Lexington. David remembers that his life was changed immeasurably by the music he heard; he came a folk music activist in short order, and eventually would come to pay a role in the Boston folk scene that was roughly akin to the part that had been played on those same streets by Samuel Adams during the Revolution.
A rapidly growing cadre of young people who had been raised and conditioned in the prosperous wake of World War II found themselves deeply drawn to musical expressions that were the antithesis of everything that they had grown up in the modern middle class. Rock n roll, when it first bore fruit, had not strayed all that far from its disparate sources in blues, bluegrass, ragtime, country, and a host of other traditional styles. To hear the music of Fats Domino, Elvis Presley, Carl Perkins, Little Richard, Buddy Holly, and the Everly Brothers in those days was to be pulled into the dynamics of what were, at the outset, at least, young singers playing old tunes rhythmically on acoustic guitars. But there was only so much you could do at a record hop, so when traditional rural American music came to the attention of people of high school and college age, a lot of them were attracted, and then transformed, by a connection to roots, to rhythm, and to the catchall, ill-defined state of being referred to as “ramblin’.” The blues and honky-tonk music were a lot more compelling soundtracks to the rising tide of adolescent hormones than was the pop fluff of the day. A number of young people looked down into the looming jaws of middle class techno-consumerism at a sixty-odd year sentence of middle class adulthood to be served in office and in kitchen, and they did not like what they saw.
It is hard to exaggerate how radically different this folk music circle was from the societal norms of the 1950’s, and, in consequence, how incredibly attractive it was. Years of study at high school and university were no match for the magnetic pull of musical electives like African-based work songs, medieval ballads, Delta blues, Appalachian songs, sea chanties, bluegrass, and dozens of other strains of American traditional music. Source materials were found in unlikely places–dusty field studies, disused texts from the 1880’s or1920’s, collections of brittle, scratchy 78 rpm records, and low-run reissues on obscure, short-lived labels. These artifacts became talismans for reflection, discussion, and what in jazz circles would have been called jam sessions. Through the magic of old records, diligent practice, and a glass or two of cheap wine, young folkies could make the journey from recluse to extrovert in less time than it takes to say “nobody knows you when you’re down and out.”
The Boston/Cambridge folk scene started out as the isolated purview of Boston’s incipient music enthusiasts (Greenhill, Wilson, Tony Saletan, Irene Kossoy, Rolf Cahn, Eric and Helen Von Schmidt, Betsy Minot, Jackie Washington, Jim Kweskin, among others) but soon it spread across a Boston/Cambridge landscape that connected Brandeis, Boston University, and Charles Street on one side of the river, and MIT and Harvard Square on the other. From a variety of backgrounds, motivations, and aspirations, came local singers like Paul Basler, Buzz Marten, Dick Zaffron, and the brothers John and Paul Nagy, and others, to play in places like The Turk’s Head, the Yana, the Unicorn, the Golden Vanity and the Salamander in Boston, and Tulla’s Coffee Grinder and the Club 47 Mount Auburn in Cambridge.
College students and non-students of college age full of idealistic thoughts and artistic impulses gravitated towards the new coffeehouses to share in the heady yet daunting experience of trying to create an alternative culture on the fly. It was as if the collective task at hand was to treat the Charles River as if it was Huck Finn’s Mississippi, with a whole generation of folkies lighting out for the territories on rafts made up of old blues, ballads, and songs. “There was music in the cafes at night and revolution in the air,” was how Bob Dylan later described it in the 1970’s; four decades afterwards, he recalled “For three or four years all I listened to were folk standards. I went to sleep singing folk songs. I sang them everywhere, clubs, parties, bars, coffeehouses, fields, festivals. And I met other singers along the way who did the same thing and we just learned songs from each other. I could learn one song and sing it next in an hour if I’d heard it just once.”
Some of the youthful performers were earnest but inexpert, others developed distinctive styles and a profound grasp of a broad variety of indigenous American folk music traditions. Singers like Peter Childs, Mitch Greenhill, Debbie Green, and her Boston University classmate, Joan Baez all began making the coffee house rounds in Boston and Cambridge. Overcoming stage fright and unmasking a not inconsiderable ambition, Baez channeled her stunning musical gifts into the mastery of a repertoire that relied heavily at first on borrowed arrangements from her fellow Boston folkies. Her singing would gain national, then international attention as, in the same time period, coffeehouses and folk clubs started springing up like minor league baseball parks all across the land.
A new wave of folk music enthusiasts began to try their hands at actually performing in public. Harvard radio host Tom Rush, Canadian summer camp counselor Bonnie Dobson, Massachusetts General Hospital orderly Geoff Muldaur, gospel singer Sylvia Mars, Jim Rooney, Bill Keith, Bob Siggins, and the various active, some-time, almost, or former Harvard and MIT students who made up the Charles River Valley Boys all began to learn their chops at coffeehouses, school auditoriums, hootenannies, and small “folk festivals” throughout eastern Massachusetts, Nantucket, and nearby parts of Maine and New Hampshire. In a remarkably short amount of time, some of them became quite good at what they were doing.
In basic terms, what was happening was the rapid creation of a “scene” that was, by its nature and the forces of the times, transforming itself into a “movement.” No one felt this any deeper than did David Wilson, and he quickly saw the need for rapid and coherent communication regarding folk music in general and the Boston/Cambridge folk scene in particular. On a practical level, it was important to have a central information source regarding the schedules of various performers and performance venues in the area. In March of 1962, at almost exactly the same time that other “Broadside” folk music papers were first being printed by Sis Cunningham in Greenwich Village and Ed Pearl in Los Angeles, Wilson and a group of stalwart volunteers began the publication of a Boston folk music magazine they called Broadside. From the outset, the paper set out to accomplish one core goal: to be a clearinghouse for information regarding performers, performances, and schedules throughout the region, embracing not only coffeehouses but also concerts, festivals, radio, and television appearances.
Eventually, Broadside would cover as many as two dozen coffeehouses that came into operation in the New England region. Over time the Club 47 on Mt. Auburn Street off Harvard Square and the Unicorn on Boylston Street in Boston gained the most recognition; the “47,” under the leadership of Betsy Siggins and Jim Rooney, is recognized today as having been the center of a particularly rich and influential creative community in its day. Yet what became the full-fledged Boston/Cambridge scene could not have existed without a host of smaller clubs, such as the Turk’s Head, the Orleans, the Loft, and the Yana in Boston, the King’s Rook in Ipswich, the Mooncusser out on Nantucket, and the Silver Vanity in Worcester. Radio shows such as Harvard’s “Balladeer,” David Wilson’s “Ramblin’ Around,” Robert J. Lurtsema’s “Folk City,” and Jefferson Kaye’s “Hootenanny,” among many others, drew large and loyal listeners among college students and “folkies.” In what was likely unique television programming at the time, WGBH-TV in Boston began producing a show called “Folk Music USA” which broadest folk music performers doing their coffeehouse sets over a major educational channel on prime time. At a point where non-conformists were largely ignored by the media (and with the McCarthy blacklist and northern Jim Crow still in effect), “Folk Music USA” televised live performances by Pete Seeger, Sonny Terry and Brownie McGhee, Dave Van Ronk, Phil Ochs, Bonnie Dobson, the Charles River Valley Boys, Jackie Washington, Tom Rush, Keith and Rooney, Buffy St.-Marie, the Lilly Brothers, Leonda, Ed Freeman, the New Lost City Ramblers, the Holy Modal Rounders, Jim Kweskin and the Jug Band, and many others.
It is worth remembering that there was no model for an “alternative” media at the time, and that the local and regional press largely ignored the folk music scene. When these sources did pay attention, it was often to lampoon the artsy “beard and sandals crowd” as harmless deviants, best kept in line by hassles from the licensing board and the random application of muscle by cops on the beat. The explosion of progressive thinking fueled by the civil rights and peace movements was to a great degree missed or misinterpreted by the national media. In that context, the influence of a publication like the Broadside was enormous. While circulation seems to have topped out at about 5,000, it is likely that the average issue was read by many people looking for coffeehouse schedules, concert information, and record reviews.
“Simple songs of freedom,” shared among friends, were the warp and woof of the folk movement, at parties and in coffeehouses, and eventually in concerts and at festivals. The tangible coins of the folk realm were precious music recordings. In the early 1960’s, folk musicians functioned on an economic level akin to sharecroppers; a good salary for a night’s work of live performance was around $15. For the vast majority of young folksingers, making a recording was practically impossible. While cumbersome reel-to-reel tape machines were available, they were not very portable, or, for that matter, very affordable. In reality, a recording contract from a major label like Columbia, Vanguard, or Elektra, or a minor one like Prestige, Folk Lyric, or Tradition, was about the only way a folk performer could hope to avoid the necessity of creating a goulash of day jobs as a waitress, guitar teacher, hospital orderly, or small-time pot dealer to make even the simplest of ends meet.
For those who made the recording cut (Baez, Rush, Washington, Dobson, Muldaur, Kweskin) a review in a publication like Broadside would herald the release of a new album, and could help motivate the reader to spring $3.98 to buy the disc and bring it home. In the decades before cassettes, CD’s and MP3 players made it possible to create and circulate copies, 33 1/3 rpm records were, in consumer terms, static and non-reproducible specimens. Broadside record reviews were the way in which Bostonians kept in touch not only with what was going on in Greenwich Village and Newport, but also with the recorded work of performers from Minneapolis, Denver, and San Francisco and the hinterlands. Even among those who made records, some outstanding work failed to result in acclaim: Kathy and Carol, Eric Von Schmidt, Dayle Stanley, Sylvia Mars, and the singers of The Golden Ring were among many examples. Forty years before the internet, the coffeehouse schedules (“And Coffee Too”) in Broadside were the only way for lesser-known performers to get the word out that they were appearing at a given time and place. It should be remembered that for every singer who actually got a record album produced, there were dozens who could only be heard in person. The music of some remarkable performers of the folk era exists today only in the memory of those who were fortunate enough to hear them play on the streets of Boston and Cambridge in the 1960’s, and possibly in the kind of long forgotten amateur tape recordings now being actively sought out, preserved, and archived by Folk New England.
Broadside played a considerable educational role, since many of its readers were quite young, and almost all had been brought up within the narrow frames of reference of post-war white suburbia. The basic mythology of folk-song lore was suddenly accessible: Child ballads, spirituals, old-timey music, blues, bluegrass, “topical” songs, and other categories were defined, contextualized, and explored in ways that allowed the reader to experience a whole American musical inheritance, and to develop her or his tastes and interests in a natural and individualized manner. Figures as disparate as, for example, Jean Ritchie, Son House, Mimi and Richard Farina, and Phil Ochs were treated as important parts of a whole. Proficiency in a variety of folk idioms was pursued like a collection of merit badges; the idea of a segregation of folk styles would come much later when “the music press” began to speculate about and to interpret events and frames of reference about which it may have lacked any real basis in experience.
The debate regarding the relative worthiness of “ethnic” versus “commercial” folk music was a constant subject of discussion, and thus, if nothing else, an accurate reflection of the times. Artistic tolerance was a clear goal that, while nearly always kept in theoretical sight, was not always achieved, partly because of in-group dynamics, perhaps, and partly because of a deep and abiding distrust of anything that smacked of middle-class values.
Broadside provided some of the only accurate access that many young white people in Boston could have regarding the street level progress of the American Civil Rights movement. As late as the mid-1960’s, the mainstream press was still making regular references to “the Negro problem,” or “racial strife” rather than to coverage of national standards regarding liberty and tolerance. “Are Negroes Moving Too Fast?” was a headline regularly seen in northern newspapers and magazines read by the educated classes. Folk music publications like Broadside lent reality-based perspective and opened doors into the Civil Rights Movement for young students from suburbia who began to bear witness at civil rights rallies and to attend the Boston Freedom Folk Festivals of the mid-1960’s.
Access to this archive at Folk New England provides the reader with a serial look at the life and times of the publication and of the folk music movement between the years 1962 and 1970. Editor Wilson took pains to avoid “tilting” in favor of any of the many coffeehouses on the scene; when asked to manage the Cafe Yana he handed Broadside editorial responsibilities to his associates, Lynn Musgrave, Jill Henderson or Sandi Mandeville. The layout of the magazine was attractive; in fact, it was far more graphically and aesthetically “presentable” than many of the underground publications that followed in the late 1960’s. Photographers Rick Sullo, Peter Stafford, Julie Snow, Don West, and Ed Freeman, among others, all set a clear, crisp, and compelling tone.
Over the course of the period, regular columnists included editor David Wilson’s “Ramblin’ ‘Round,” Casey Anderson’s “Folk Scenes New York,”, Ed Freeman’s “Notes From A Variant Stanza Collector,” Peter Stampfel’s “Holy Modal Blither,” Robert J. Lurtsema’s “On The Scene,” Jan Chartier’s “Coffeehouse Theatre,” and others. Music columns were contributed by Pete Seeger, Phil Ochs, Tom Paxton, Len Chandler, Eric Anderson, Dayle Stanley, Mark Spoelstra, Fred Hellerman, and Paul Simon. These and additional contributors submitted regular record and concert reviews, as well as articles on folk festivals and other musical gatherings.
The Broadside only existed through the dedication of its almost exclusively volunteer staff, a list of which is included elsewhere on this website. Anyone who has endured and enjoyed the living entity that is a regular publication can appreciate the degree of hard work and equanimity necessary to meet publishing standards and deadlines. The only comparable experience might be that of managing a coffeehouse or a folk festival. Today, many of the volunteers who made possible the publication of the magazine remain in touch through the Broadside Facebook page, which is also a fine source of new developments in the world of folk music as well as remembrances of the 1960’s in Boston and Cambridge.
The magazine, like the folk music movement, was anything but a static entity, and readers of this archive will be able to follow the journey from 1962 through late 1967 here as an evolutionary experience (archival plans for later issues are being developed). Local community changed to regional movement and then on to national phenomenon, even as it morphed from acoustic to electric and from specialist to eclectic. The latter years of the period became deeply effected by complications attendant to the civil rights movement, the disastrous escalation of the war in Vietnam, the growing influence of a wide array of psychedelic drugs, and a general inertia that occurred in the wake of assassination, excess, distraction, and oppression. Folk music itself seemed to move from community coherence to personal introspection as traditional music was supplanted, in many cases, by the work of singer-songwriters. As Phil Ochs had predicted, the chords of fame tended, like a poorly mixed sound system, to produce more distortion than clarity, and a certain amount of latter day interpretation has continued in that vein.
The passage of five decades can tend to obscure one simple and very important fact: that the soul of the folk revival was the magic that happened when an unheralded performer sang heartfelt traditional songs to a guileless and hopeful audience of her or his peers. At the time, the concept of “celebrities” or “personalities” was a lot more in line with nightclub performers than folk musicians. Even when those of us who lived back in that day concentrate our recollections solely on figures who went on to, as they say, fortune and fame, we are overlooking the scores of other artists and experiences that drew all of us to the folk movement in the first place. It was a time when it actually felt pretty good to be a complete unknown; when being a rolling stone was, like, the whole idea.
When the old music was new again, blooming like wild mountain thyme and ringing like the bell of freedom from the Boars’ Head in Kennebunkport to the Boars’ Head in San Carlos, a kind of magic spread across the land that we truly believed was made for you and me. It rang on nights when Ray Pong and Carl Watanabe played folk songs, Leonda and Paul McNeil sang the blues at the Turk’s Head, Geoff Gutcheon pounded barrelhouse piano at the Orleans, Dayle Stanley sang her compositions at the Unicorn, Ed Freeman played Elizabethan ballads on a guitar that he had tuned to sound like a harpsichord, Bonnie Dobson sang love songs like a swallow, and Peter Childs set down his guitar to discuss the war in Vietnam over espresso with a couple of Army recruits between sets at the Orleans. It flowed on when John Hurt or Bukka White walked into the Yana as if the living Beethoven had walked out of a cab on Mass. Ave. and out onto the stage of Symphony Hall. It laughed out loud on evenings when the Jug Band or the Charles River Valley Boys’ gig at the Club 47 spilled over into an all-nighter at Betsy Siggins’ or Nancy Sweezy’s or Dave Wilson’s or at Eric and Helen Von Schmidt’s. And it soared on nights when, still pumped up after a masterful concert at Jordan Hall, Jackie Washington played on Bob Lurtsema’s radio show on WCRB long, long past midnight, real good, for free. Now you can read all about it in the archived issues of Broadside.
The basic motivation of the folk music revival was simply to do wholeheartedly whatever could be done through the medium of traditional music to help make a better world. This conviction is, I think, clearly reflected in the pages of the archive of Broadsides presented herein. Those of us who lived in those times know that we will leave a distinctly unfinished revolution behind us, to be sure, but we pass along the legacy of a youthful commitment to change in the interests of a just and a redemptive future for humanity. We cannot be sure that we lightened the burdens of the challenges ahead, but we can hope that, in our time, we helped light a candle for those who will carry them on the long way forward.
Thomas S. Curren is a farmer, historian, musician, and conservationist. He grew up near Boston in the 1950’s and 1960’s during the folk boom, and studied guitar under the tutelage of Broadside columnist Ed Freeman. Retired from the Pew Charitable Trusts and the author of four history books, he lives with his wife, folklorist Kathy Neustadt, in South Danbury New Hampshire. “Sing Me Back Home,” his history of American folk music, from which this article has been adapted and excerpted, is being prepared for publication.
c 2015 by Thomas S. Curren. All rights, printed and electronic, reserved; used by permission by Folk New England, accompanying the Broadside Archive. Not to be otherwise reproduced without written permission of the author.
Our thanks go to all those who made their copies of the Broadside available: David Wilson, Jim Kweskin, Rick Sullo, Meredy Amyx and Tom Curren, and to the anonymous donors whose donations provided funding for the scanning and posting of these issues. Special thanks as well go to Jim Kweskin, who has donated a entire set of Broadsides to Folk New England as a permanent study archive. All issues posed through the generosity of David Wilson, c renewed 2015, all rights reserved.
SOME NEW ENGLAND AREA COFFEEHOUSES
With approximate earliest known dates of operation
A Work In Progress!
Cholmondeley–413 South Street, Waltham on Brandeis campus (1960)
Golden Vanity Coffeehouse–on Boston University campus (1960)
Salamander Coffee House–Huntington Avenue (1961)
The Ballad Room–near Copley Square (1960)
Tulla’s Coffee Grinder– 30 Dunster Street, Cambridge- November, 1956
The Jolly Beaver–Cambridge
Unicorn Coffee House–825 Boylston Street, Boston (1961) –
The Green Frog–Kenmore Square- opened and closed in ’62
Cafe Yana–in Boston at Beacon St, then 50 Brookline Ave, Kenmore Sq.
The Rose–122 Salem Street, Boston (1964)
The Orleans–13 Charles Street, Boston (c. 64- c.’68 “Sword In The Stone”)
Turk’s Head–71 1/2 Charles St, Boston.(“Boston’s Oldest Coffeehouse”)
The Loft–upstairs at 54 Charles, Boston. (c. 63)
The Odyssey–corner of Cambridge and Hancock Boston.
The Club 47–47 Mt. Auburn, Cambridge– later 47 Palmer St. (1958)
The Hillbilly Ranch–Stuart Street, Boston
Moondial–53 Berkley St. Boston (1966)
This Is It–near Symphony Hall (1968)
King’s Rook –4 South Main St., Ipswich Mass. (by ’63)
King’s Rook–12 State St., Marblehead, Mass.(by ’63)
Ballad & Banjo–Hyannis, Mass. (1962)
Mooncusser–Circuit Ave. Oak Bluffs, Martha’s Vineyard (1964-67)
Unicorn II–Martha’s Vineyard, Mass. (1963)
Boars’ Head–US Route 1, Maine Kennebunk Center Me.(1964)
The White Whale–Beverly, Mass.
Pesky Serpent–612 1/2 Page Blvd. Springfield, Mass.(1966)
Silver Vanity–640 Main St. Worcester Mass. (’63)
The Saladin–Amherst, Mass.
One-Eyed Jack’s- Manchester NH