Lyons Avenue in Houston's infamous Fifth Ward: not exactly the kind of place for a relaxing evening stroll or a family outing. In its own charming way, in fact, it makes Compton look like Brentwood. Even back in the early 80's, its weekly murders, rapings, muggings and gang wars had become so commonplace that they barely caused a blip with the local media anymore. Lyons Avenue had become the cities' proverbial redheaded stepchild, virtually out of sight and mind of the pristine and angular Houston skyline, which scowled down at it from just across the freeway.

But Lyons Avenue proved to be a serious drumming boot camp for me back then. Fresh out of Berklee, I had developed some pretty serious chops, but now I needed some grit and grease in my playing. I needed to fatten my feel, to widen my pocket, to slosh in some earthiness and attitude. This simply wasn't going to happen in the watered down, Top 40 environs that I had mostly been playing, where the patrons would bob and weave on the dance floor like Kevin Bacon in "Footloose." No, in short, I needed to spend some time in the same kind of trenches where hard funk and R&B were created and learn what they couldn't teach me at the conservatory. I needed to immerse myself in the sweat and stench of the very culture that gave birth to funk. And there was no better place in town for this than the clubs in the Fifth Ward near Lyons Avenue. So, a husky bassist named Steve, who looked and, for that matter, sang like Smokey Robinson on steroids, took me under his wing and I started playing the circuit.

The trip to the gig was always interesting. Cruising into Lyons Avenue from the freeway was sort of like entering an urban Bermuda Triangle: you knew you were going in, but not if you were coming out! Chunks of concrete and broken glass, all shattered and shimmering, lined the curbs like ice from a hailstorm. Bashed-up cars missing windshields, tires or fenders were plentiful throughout the streets and often wound up in the grassless yards of the rows of battered, wooden houses. Many of these houses had rickety porches where handfuls of ex-con types would openly smoke bud and drink Mad Dog while carrying on over a game of dominoes. Others could be seen through open windows inside their living rooms, huddled around small black & white TVs watching "Monday Night Football" or reruns of "Good Times." I could generally drive by unnoticed by all these guys, but a further assortment of suspect characters hanging outside the many graffiti-stained liquor stores would glare my way as I passed by in my dad's brown Econoline van. "Hey, I'm just visiting!" I would want to tell them, as I kept my right foot firmly on the accelerator.

And there always seemed to be a fire somewhere. You might see a flaming metal garbage can in some vacant lot keeping vigil for wiry old men in long coats, all standing around sipping Ripple from paper bags. Or, you might see a rusted-out Dodge Charger burning on the side of the road with playful young Ethiopian-looking kids, dressed only in shorts, all but roasting marshmallows off of it. Otherwise, there was always the giant torch that blazed atop the foundry by the railroad tracks, shining bright against the grayish-black sky. The distinct smell of sizzling tar from this foundry would continually blanket the neighborhood with a deep, musky funk, adding yet another indispensable element to the signature ambience of Lyons Avenue. If anger had a smell, this was it.

Once I actually made it to the club, though, I felt more than safe. It was like I had some kind of diplomatic immunity to be there, so the beer-stained red carpet would roll out. There would often be a small consortium of locals loitering around the parking lot, many of whom would actually help to load my gear in. I can still see them in their stained white T-shirts or Houston Rockets jerseys, caravanning my drums into the bar, piece by piece, with both arms full and eyes a-squint from the smoke of the dangling filterless Lucky Strikes in their mouths. "You gonna be gettin' down for us tonight, Bobby?" they would say as they extended a sandpaper hand to me. I would stiffly navigate my way through their unique language of handshake variations, as if it were second nature to me. It wasn't. Nonetheless, they always made me feel at home and appreciated in their environment, at least as much as I've ever felt anywhere since.

I remember the wide variety of shitholes we used to play. With the stale, steady reek of cigarettes and beer, the clubs were typically made of paint-chipped wood or weathered brick, beat to hell with worn-down, mismatched tables and chairs on concrete floors. Makeshift décor on the walls might include hand painted signs (often with misspelled words), a few tattered 8 X 10s, Afro-Sheen calendars, blacklight posters and, of course, the crown jewel of nightclub legitimacy: the coveted Schlitz Malt Liquor neon clock. And, there was always some twenty-year-old juke box in the corner with its crackling speakers straining to project the ghetto anthem of the day: George Clinton's "Atomic Dog" (which, with the hypnotic crack of its white noise two-and-four snare, was like a mantra to me at the time). There was also lots of Cameo, Al Green, Lakeside, early EWF, and a little B.B. thrown in for good measure.

But when the gear was set up and it was time to play, the party came to life. The band grooved hard, loud and proud, the alcohol flowed like water from a broken spigot, the haze of cigarette smoke hung in the air like Frisco fog, and the tangy pickled pig's feet twinkled in an oversized mayonnaise jar on the bar near the till. The "audience," sometimes big, sometimes small, would swagger, clap, sing, yell and bop their heads in perfect unison to the groove as a collective Kool burned in one hand and a plastic cup of beer was turned upward to the lips by the other. Despite their living in what I perceived to be as hellish conditions, these folks knew how to party. They knew how to fully enjoy the moment, how to embrace the collective energy in the room at any given time, and how to unabashedly show love and respect to us band guys.

In fact, I can remember many a barn-burning standing ovation after my extended drum solo each night, as the whole place would just fall out. They would leap to their feet, doubling over in exaggerated exuberance like Sammy Davis Jr., howling, laughing, thrusting black power fists toward the ceiling in an almost tribal sort of celebration. As a musician, you could not ask for a more appreciative or enthusiastic audience...a poignant contrast to the "crackers" I usually played for across town who typically viewed the band as a slave-like backdrop to their drinking and womanizing.

Yet another nightly highlight for me was when the hookers and winos would come dancing into the club from the street. And while an irritated proprietor would usually prompt their abrupt exit from the club, I always took their dancing to a beat that I was a propelling as a sign that maybe I was finally getting this groove thing down...that is, until a bloodshot stare from behind the Hammond B-3 reminded me that I needed to lay it down a little thicker or hit the snare a little harder. But then, later in the night, a toothless grin from behind that same B-3 would serve to let me know that, yes, there was hope, and yes, I was groovin', and yes, okay, I could play with them again. (Come to think about it, who else could they have gotten to work for 15 or 20 bucks a night but the long-haired white boy with the black corduroys from across town?)

So I did my time and earned my stripes, and my foray into the Lyons Avenue club scene was to forever infect my playing in a favorable way. The well of personal experience and perspective was now deeper, and I seemed to be able to conjure up, at will, the rawness, the feel and the urgency that those streets and that lifestyle were about...even to this day. I guess the old cliché rang true: you can take the boy out of Lyons Avenue but you can't take Lyons Avenue out of the boy...even if he was just visiting.