Mr. Butch was more famous and more loved than any of us will ever be. We were all merely Mr. Butch's roadies. Who Mr. Butch?

Go here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mr._Butch.

I first met Mr. Butch in September 1982. As I climbed the steps heading out of Boston's Hynes Auditorium "T" station on my first day in town, I heard an horrendous racket coming thru the swinging doors...a wickedly distorted amp and a guitar that sounded like it was alternately being strangled and goosed. Once I got onto the street I spied the source of the caterwauling, Mr. Butch; a tall, shirtless, barefoot black man with dirty dreadlocks, standing in the middle of Mass Ave, portable amp strapped to his back, plugged into an out-of-tune filthy Fender Stratocaster, "shooting" at cars ala Jimi Hendrix in the intro to "Machine Gun." And not just any cars...Mr. Butch was aiming at the luxury vehicles of parents toting their precious eager progeny back to campus for the coming semester. Mr. Butch, ekeing out his own street version of social justice. "Welcome to Boston, motherfuckers," he shouted as he strafed each passing Lincoln and Cadillac.

"Hey man, you okay?" I yelled, trying to be helpful.
"Hell, yes," Mr. Butch replied. "Now go get me a beer, this is some hard-ass work."

Returning from Costello's (the nearest packy) with a Bud tall boy, I found it impossible to get across Mass Ave to the median. It was rush hour, after all. Mr. Butch spied my predicament and rolled his eyes.

"Goddammit man," he roared, "Claim your space!" He stepped into the street, hit a mighty chord, turned his back to the oncoming traffic, dropped to his knees, lifted the guitar over his head, and worked the whammy bar for all he was worth. Traffic came to a screeching halt. "Beer!" he shrieked.

Hustling into the street, I handed Mr. Butch the Bud and frantically dashed back to the curb for safety, while he shotgunned the 16 oz., casually stood up and then strolled over to the median. "Ahhhh," he sighed, upon which he spotted his next target, a long black Chrysler, creeping around the end of Newbury Street.

"Mr. Butch gonna get yo' daughter," he sang in his best Voodoo Chile voice, as the car rolled past, parents and angelic daughters gasping open-mouthed inside. Butch flung the empty beer can, striking the trunk, as the car accelerated toward Cambridge.

Welcome to Boston, motherfucker.