Billy Beale still loves us, wrote us a letter from prison; benefit show Saturday at RecordBar
I first met Billy Beale back in 2008, when I was a bartender at the Brick. As one of the newest members of the staff, I was scheduled on Wednesdays — open-mic nights. Owner Sheri Parr called it “Anything Goes Open Mic.” I believe she was hoping the stage time would be filled with jugglers, belly dancers, one-man bands and fledgling entertainers who just needed five minutes of precious stage time to get over their hump and hone their craft.
Instead, Wednesday-night slots were often filled by local comedians and a few singer-songwriters, usually playing on beat-up, out-of-tune acoustic guitars. For a short period of time, at least, Billy Beale was one of the regular performers, new to me (but not to the small entourage that seemed to follow him in each week). I was more impressed by Billy’s high tolerance for Crown Royal than his guitar skills. Most of the time, he ordered his bourbon and followed it up with a “Please, just for me, honey?” or an “I love the ladies and I love the Crown!” He stood out in a sea of wannabes, a weathered old man with a seemingly checkered past and a propensity for binge drinking.
