By Tom Poland, A Southern Writer
TomPoland.net
Mom never darkened the door of a juke joint, but that didn’t stop her from rendering a harsh judgment. “The only people who go to juke joints are drunks and floozies.”
I have a hunch where her belief came from. Early in her marriage, Mom caught Dad slipping out to shoot pool and drink a few beers with the boys. I heard some ladies were there too. Thus were the seeds of dissension sowed, and something else. Mom’s disdain for such places fueled a strong curiosity in me about juke joints and dive bars. They seemed like fun places.
Driving the back roads, I come across places where many a nightspot gave up its ghost. These forsaken hotspots make me scratch my head. They’re most always in the middle of nowhere. Case in point, the Dynamic Nite Life Bar & Lounge on Highway 321 near Blackstock, South Carolina.
I was making my way to Charlotte along the back roads, when the weedy old night spot came into view. I felt compelled to photograph it. As I did, I remembered a story a friend told me. He was lost back in the days before cell phones made us slaves to technology. He spied a pay phone at a country store and pulled over to get his bearings. About that time the driver of an 18-wheeler pulled in and got out of his rig. Over his diesel’s rattling, he shouted a question to my friend.
“Hey buddy, do you know of any go-go clubs ‘round here?”
Translation: where’s the nearest juke joint.
Back when glittering Wurlitzers, Seeburgs, and Rock-Olas played 45 RPM records the Gullah language gave them a colorful nickname, jukebox, which comes from the words “juga,” “joog,” or “juk,” which mean disorderly or wicked behavior. Glued to the word “joint” it gave us juke joints. “Wicked behavior. See? I told you so.” That’s what Mom would have said.
Another juke joint story. I had flown into Atlanta from Winnipeg, Manitoba. A friend picked me up and we were taking backroads from Atlanta to Columbia. Fueled by a few cold ones and feeling a tad rowdy we stopped at a rumpled convenience store to refuel. Wearing suits and ties, we looked right sporty. Up the hill a ways pick ‘em up trucks were randomly parked at a country juke joint. The place was hopping.
“That place up the hill . . . we might check it out,” we told the proprietor.
He leaned over the glass case and looked us up and down. After a considerable pause, he leaned back and drawled, “I ’spect you fellas better keep on moving.”
That we did.
Dive bars and juke joints. Mention them and some folks conjure up gambling, brass knuckles, and knives. Others praise the hamburgers, cold beer, and line dancing. Like ’em or hate ’em, juke joints and dives serve a purpose for many—a place to unwind, socialize, and occasionally get some exercise. If not dancing, perchance fighting.
Those Lynyrd Skynyrd fellas knew what they were singing about in Gimme Three Steps. We were smart to keep moving back then. A few years later two outsiders got shot to death there. Never doubt a mother’s wisdom. Mom never darkened the door of a juke joint but she sure knew what she was talking about. And dad’s pool-shooting, beer-sipping days? They didn’t last long. In fact, they came to a screeching halt, and that was the end of his juke joint days.
Photo: Not so dynamic anymore, another hotspot sits cold and empty.
