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Beardstown, Bodyguards & Born to be Wild

The Source

It was the only time we ever hired a bodyguard. He cost us five bucks a night. Back in my wild and wicked days I was a member of a rock band called The Maddics. We threw our motley little combo together in my sophomore year of high school and the gig continued well through my college years. “Louie, Louie. . oh baby, we gotta go!” “Hang on Sloopy, Sloopy Hang on!” “There is a House in New Orleans, they call The Rising Sun.” You get the idea. That was our era. The Beatles were tearing things up in England while the Maddics were setting Pike, Adams, Morgan and Brown counties afire. . . . uh, sort of. I guess we tried to keep a lower profile than the Fab Four. In those late-sixties days there was a dance in nearly every town on nearly every weekend. School gymnasiums, American Legion Halls, KC Halls, college cafeterias all become venues for The Maddics and their band of teenyboppers. “I’m gonna cry. . . 96 tears!” “Hey there, Little Red Riding Hood!” “I can’t get no . . . Satisfaction.” Hey, we rocked the place, okay? And in most towns we’d arrive an hour early, set up our gear, play for three hours, then unpack and head home. It got to be delightfully routine and we actually made a bit of money for five guys who weren’t sure what they were doing. I began as the band’s bass guitar player then taught my friend Rich to play the thing while I bought my first electric organ. If we played far enough away from home where no one knew us, I’d put on dark glasses and they’d lead me out onto the stage as I felt my way to my keyboard. Tasteless, I know, but besides being young we were also a bit stupid. But in one town we had to change our routine. Whenever we’d play Beardstown we hired a bodyguard. Jerry Morath was a wild-haired, wiry kid who had the world’s biggest grin and who could whip just about anything on two legs. I’ve never seen such a pleasant guy who was able to knock out so many teeth if called upon, and he became our go-to man, our protector, our enforcer, our bodyguard. All he had to do was stand around and act tough. The Beardstown of those days was not the sweet little town that today nuzzles its way up against a curve in the Illinois River. If you weren’t from Beardstown then it was best not to hang around too long after the sun went down. When we’d play Beardstown a gang of toughs would make a semi-circle around the band, their arms crossed, watching us to play and daring us to. . . well, I don’t know. Unfortunately the Maddics would have to hang around until around 11 p.m. on Saturday nights when we’d haul our equipment up the narrow stairway to the dance hall located above the bowling alley. We said that we needed Jerry to protect our equipment from the local thugs, but if truth were known I suspect that we were more concerned with our own necks than the necks of our guitars. If one of the locals gave us even an errant stare Jerry would cross his arms and gently put his muscled body between the crowd and us. And in all those days of playing the various Beardstown venues we never had one bit of trouble thanks to Jerry and a good Lord who protects stray dogs and immature teenage musicians. That was then. This is now. In the past thirty or so years I’ve played for weddings in funerals in Beardstown, giving up “Wipeout!” for “The Old Rugged Cross,” I’ve done plays in their awe-inspiring Opera House, dinner theatre in their restaurants, dances at the Elks Club, spoken to their community clubs, signed books in their beautiful new library, and just generally enjoyed this town immensely. It’s advances in inter-cultural living alone set it apart from any other community in our area, but I’ve got to wonder. . . More than once I’ve stood before a crowd of Beardstownians to introduce a play, give a speech, or play a number on the piano, and I’ll scan the crowd. I know. . . I just know that some of these people. . . that old fellow over their on his walker, the guy with the cane by the door, the sweet little old fellow sitting happily by his bride of fifty years. . . some of these people were surely among those who would scare the heck out of me as I stood behind my Farfisa electric organ banging out “Sittin’ on the Dock of the Bay.” Surely one of these sweet little old gals who brought the cookies to tonight’s entertainment were fifty years ago standing beside my blue hatchback Ford Mustang daring me to open the door and load up my equipment. And I must admit that there have been nights when my memory has overcome my good sense as I sat down to play the organ at the Sager Funeral Home and I’d think to myself, “Jerry? Jerry, where are you?”