Or, Last Call at the Tavern

2015. I was on three years probation for my third (and thankfully last) DUI in Ulster County, that should have been a felony, save for a sturdy defense lawyer and 18 months of court appearances. With my charge finally reduced to a misdemeanor (thanks again, Tom Petro Esq) I was required to perform 300 hours of community service, which I gratefully did at the Caring Hands Soup Kitchen, Kingston’s only cafeteria and food pantry serving 150+ hot lunches daily. (Hat tip to another friend, the late Chef Dave Cobey.)

Having no real paying job and renting a $200 room from an alcoholic sometime-heroin user, I spent my afternoons and evenings roaming the town, when I ran into Willy on the street. After he told me he was opening a new pub, I quickly asked him to bring me on board as a music promoter. Little did I know Uncle Willy’s Tavern and Kitchen would turn into a full-time affair for the next three years.

Opening the Tavern wasn’t easy. The previous tenant, a sketchy pizzeria owner, kept Willy hanging for months, breaking his promised move-out date and keeping the lease advance. Finally, after much chest-thumping and head-bumping, the space was in Willy’s name (sort of, read on.)

During one long, well-hydrated afternoon, Willy and I agreed to start things off musically every Friday with ‘Blues Happy Hour’. Our debut headliner was singer/harp master “Big” Joe Fitz and his band The Lo-Fis; I knew Joe from WDST where he had hosted the “Blues Break” show for 25 years. With Joe’s ebullient stage presence and uber-talented band, combined with lip-smacking BBQ from Willy’s longtime cohort, Chef Johnny Lasagne, ‘Friday Blues Happy Hour’ became an overnight success.

Word was soon out that Uncle Willy was back in the live music business, and like Noah’s Ark and Field of Dreams, he built it, and they came. The first wave of area musicians knew Willy from many previous stages, and more importantly (as I quickly learned) brought in scores of local fans. Balladeers, Irish rockers, jazz cats and more bluesmen and blueswomen came out of the woodwork longing for a gig at Willy’s. We scored a coup by bringing out of retirement The B-Boyz, a legendary 7-piece funk/R&B band that back in the day raised many a Kingston roof. In another prescient move, Willy declared a “Never A Cover Charge” policy that, combined with reasonable drink prices and some of Kingston’s prettiest and most able barkeeps (Lisa T Swati, Therese C. the Blonde Ninja, Queen Bea Veronica), soon packed the Pub to capacity every weekend.

By this time I had been promoting live acts for a dozen+ years, compiling an unequivocal e-list of music journalists and online influencers, all who were thrilled to learn that Willy was back in business. On Friday mornings, every newspaper and tip sheet in three counties highlighted our shows, with added emphasis on the early set times. In this way we quickly cornered the weekend’s live music scene, filling the place well before bands at other bars even played their first note.

Uptown Kingston — home to the County courthouse, municipal office complex and several dozen law offices — provided us a flush after-work scene that we tapped (pun intended) right into. Also boosting the neighborhood at that time were two hip (vinyl!) record stores, a couple guitar shops, Debbie Harry’s hair stylist, a majestic costume emporium plus a dozen diners, coffee joints and assorted cheap eateries (Willy’s fave take-out was two dogs with mustard and relish from Dallas Hot Weiners down the block.)

Willy opened the doors sometime between 11am and noon (depending on when he woke up), and the day drinkers were tended by my adopted consigliere, Donnie Spada, another Kingston living legend whom I met when he owned the ‘Remember When’ lounge across the street (boasting the best oldies jukebox in town.) Every weekday after the soup kitchen, I’d sit and work my PR magic at Willy’s, listening to Donnie tell one unforgettable tale after another; of partying politicians, boozy judges, local sports heroes and rock stars, all while keeping up with the barristers who liquid-lunched. Donnie knew every patron, what they drank, (Capt. and Cokes for local music impresario/artist/producer Jimbo Marzano) and when they had to refresh the meter. He and Willy were so well-regarded that parking enforcement officers would stick their heads into the bar and remind the regulars before writing them a ticket.

But back to the music. By now, word was out up and down the Hudson Valley that Willy was doing bang-up business AND paying his musicians, at least enough to cover their bar and food tabs with gas money left over. Bands from NYC to Albany started to call looking for slots, and soon we had an established rotation of super fun and tight groups who would rock, funk and roll to a full house on a regular basis.

This is where and when Willy taught me the golden rule of successfully booking live music. If I scoped out a group I liked and wanted to offer them a night, Willy would query, “Will they bring a crowd? If not, I don’t need ’em!” And he was absolutely right, each and every time. Established bands that sounded awesome on YouTube would play at the bar to crickets if they had no local fan base, and were never asked back. Musicians that Willy knew from the Rosendale Street Fest, whether acoustic acts or a large combo, were always given preference. Friends told friends and Willy’s quickly became the venue of choice for bands and fans alike.

The Tavern at its peak offered live music four nights a week, with solo or duo artists on Thursdays, audition nights on Sunday, and headliners Friday and Saturday. I think it’s safe to say the Pub easily garnered up to 500 nights of live music in the three years we were open, and it would take a whole ‘nother post to list them all, but allow me to name-drop a few; Danny Louis from Gov’t Mule (an Ulster Co. native), blues phenom Dylan Doyle (who was wayyyyy under 21 when Willy gave him his first slot), local rock legend and patriarch Jimmy Eppard, Gabriel (son of Paul) Butterfield, and the list went on and on. Willy even had an epic lunch visit from Tony Lindsay, longtime vocalist for Santana and another Kingston native. After his meal and a walk through our museum of memorabilia, Tony put his arm around Willy and said, “Hey man, you’re the real rock star in this place.” (See photo here.)

Willy and I also worked wonders with Facebook, amassing close to the max of 5,000 friends in his first year open. (Take a minute or five and check out Willy’s FB photos of bands, flyers and lovely ladies who blessed the bar, link here. No wonder Willy’s catch-phrase was ‘Women Rule!’) Beer companies fell over themselves offering us discounts, promotions and premiums, anything to own several of Willy’s coveted taps. Willy never said ‘No’ to a fundraiser or charity event, more often than not bringin in Johnny Lasagne to cook up trays of pasta to feed the hordes. Of course, endless corned beef and cabbage blessed the entire week of St. Patrick’s Day. And every year including 2024, Willy was a fixture of Kingston’s renowned St. Patty’s Day parade, marching alongside the fire trucks and Hibernians, wheeling his beloved King Charles spaniel Libby in a baby carriage until she passed (click on the link for classic photo.)

But when rockers and music and alcohol (and maybe a wee bit of contraband) come together, the high doesn’t always last, and the glow around Willy’s pub did eventually start to fade, not from any real fault of his own. His silent partner, a second generation owner who inherited his late father’s namesake bar nearby, had some foibles of his own, primary among them being MIA most of the time. It didn’t help that Willy eschewed keeping regular receipts, and after a stellar run, like many venues, the fabric of the place began to fray.

When the aforementioned money man pulled out, Willy tried to save the place by taking on a new partner, “Little” Nicky, the nephew of local bet maker George “The Towel.” (Trust me, I don’t make this shit up.) Nicky also fancied himself a true bar maestro, installing himself as “chef” and bringing in some gray-area gaming machines. Willy, now relegated to really just a figurehead, soon lost his passion for the Pub. Instead of sleeping on a chaise in the bar so he could open on time, he would saunter in around 4pm, take his regular stool by the door, and sip Jamo while greeting the regulars as they came in. Within a year, when the new owner’s focus shifted to a social club down Broadway, Uncle Willy’s Tavern turned off the lights and locked the door for good.

This is a hard chapter for me to close, because Willy’s passing opened a floodgate of memories marked by bittersweet tears. After they finally dried up, I came to realize that Willy was blessed with more love and loyalty — from his family, his staff, customers who inevitably became friends, musicians and their fans, other restaurant owners, you get the picture — than anyone I’ve ever known or am likely to know. As I wrote in the previous post, if you knew Uncle Willy, you just. fucking. knew. One thing for sure, is that as you read this, he and John Jameson are more than likely sharing bottomless drams of the Irish in Heaven’s local, with Libby at their feet. All that’s left to say is…

Slainte, Babe.