Wilson Pickett, the wicked picket, Pick it Wilson died today. That man had one of the finest, throatiest, grittiest set of pipes ever. Mr. Funky Broadway, In The Midnight hour, Mustang Sally, Engine Number 9. Philly, Memphis, Muscle Shoals, New York City. He was the illusive man of The Commitments, who never made it to the club to see the band. He was the slickest of the slickest of times, the late 60s early 70s .The ultimate player, processed and suited up. And I set up a tape deck for him. I met Wilson Pickett once as a kid, about 16-17 years old. I was a soul music fan for sure, WILD AM was always on the car radio as I tooled around Boston in my mothers Plymouth sport fury. Actually burnt out a few of my mother’s cars. Boy what a time for r & b the early 70s were. I worked in a record store called Soundscope Records, co-owned by a man who would become a business partner to me in New York about 10 years later, the infamous Morris Levy. (Well that’s for later). Well the wicked one was in town for one of his legendary Sugar Shack gigs. The Sugar shack was THE place for black music in Boston in the 60s and the 70s. Everybody played there, from the Ojays to The Bluenotes to Millie Jackson, etc. The other live hot spots were The Jazz Workshop and Paul’s Mall, both places would become regular hangs for me since Soundscope and Levy’s other Record Chain, Strawberries, were hooked in there some how. Back to Wilson…Well Mr. Pickett needed a reel-to-reel tape deck to listen to something (never really knew what, probably some Memphis demos) at his hotel suite. He was staying in the pent house suite of the Exeter Hotel on Boylston st, right next door to the Paul’s Mall/Jazz Workshop complex. My job was to bring the deck in, set it up, gone. Didn’t figure Wilson would be standing there when I got off the elevator to let me in. Picture it, 17-year-old ripped jeans wearing hippie kid (me) walking into the ph with this sharkskin suit wearing, baddest dude around (he had quite a rep) carrying a tape deck that I wasn’t even sure was working. Dig, turn the corner into the grand suite, pool table in the center (I’ve been in lots of hotel room since, and ive only seen a pool table in one other, Chris Blackwell’s at the Marin hotel in Miami and he owns the place!), a bar and 3 ladies who looked like they were ready for evening work and it was only 3 in the afternoon. My throat tightened up a bit. Bottle of whiskey on the bar, some glasses filled with rocks. “Hey kid, set it up over here!” Wilson ordered, pointing to the back bar. The ladies giggled. I probably looked a bit nervous. I wish I could remember what tape I put on the machine, but I obviously handled it with much care. Threading the tape with sweaty hands was the least of my worries. Figuring out the antiquated stereo the hotel had was the most. “Hey kid, you wanna drink?” Wilson queried with some look of what could be considered mock concern. “Um, well, ah okay”, it went something like that. And whiskey on the rocks it was, no mixer in site. And still no music. Well, in a dream state I hooked up the deck, got some music playing and quickly planned my escape. Before we could exchange our thank you, Wilson pushed a few balls around the pool table with a whack, thud. “hey kid, you play pool? you wanna play?” he drawled, as he reached inside his shark skin suit coat pocket, pulling out some sort of gun, a revolver, and smacking it onto the bar top. My heart dropped to my belly., I loved pool, my grandfather had first taken me to the local poolhall when I was five, proudly introducing me to his boys, but playing Wilson Pickett? Panic must have painted my face like a white pickett fence. At this point I mumbled something about double parking, a traffic ticket and left Wilson, his ladies and his bemused thank yiou and my five dollar tip in the dust.