Blues for a Legend

The musicians streamed into Babe’s and Ricky’s Inn in South-Central Los Angeles over the weekend to say goodbye the best way they knew how.

One by one, they greeted the woman affectionately called “Mama” with a big hug and took their turns on the stage to pay tribute to the last blues club on Central Avenue.

At her table, Laura Mae Gross, the 75-year-old owner, had the eviction notice ordering her to vacate the club she has operated for more than three decades.

She had to be out by today.

“They call it stormy Monday, but Tuesday’s just as bad. Wednesday’s worse and Thursday’s oh so sad,” singer Mickey Champion belted out in the club.

Through the blaring music, Gross spoke of the end of an era. There was a time when people from all over the city ventured down to Central Avenue’s after-hour joints, hotels, theaters and ballrooms to hear greats such as Count Basie, Duke Ellington and Billie Holiday.

On occasion, she said, they even frequented her little hole-in-the-wall bar, which played host to the likes of B.B. King, Bobby “Blue” Bland and John Lee Hooker. “People love the music,” she said.

Over the years, the club has maintained a strong integrated following of blues enthusiasts from throughout the city. But that has not been enough to sustain the business as upscale locales opened on the Sunset Strip and Universal’s CityWalk, where King himself has a club.

“Since the riots, they don’t seem to want to come out like they use to,” Gross said.

The first signs of financial trouble came about two years ago when the American Society of Composers, Authors and Publishers attached the club’s bank account for failing to pay $9,000 in back royalties. Songwriters Jerry Leiber and Mike Stoller paid the back dues and agreed to make future payments.

Then an increase in her rent last year--from $500 to $1,500 a month--put the club in another world of trouble. The eviction was ordered last week and, as the word spread, Gross’ regulars returned for the last doses of music Saturday and Sunday night. Gross told them she hopes to find another location.

“My doctor says, ‘If you retire, you die. You miss hearing the music and that is it for you,’ ” she said.

Gross is the first to admit she was never a financial whiz. But she ran the music side of things with an iron fist, ordering anyone off the stage who was not prepared to entertain.

“This ain’t no amateur night,” the strong Mississippi woman would shout.

No question, Babe’s and Ricky’s was a throwback, a place where the bar served only beer and soda, and where customers on Monday night--even in 1996--paid a $2 cover charge that included a fried chicken dinner prepared and served by Gross.

The customers sat at a long bar, several booths and even around the pool table to watch the acts on the small wooden platform stage.

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It was the tradition of good music that Leiber and Stoller sought to preserve when they agreed to pay Gross’ back royalties. After soaking up the sounds of Central Avenue in their youth, the pair went on to make their own music history with songs such as “Jailhouse Rock,” recorded by Elvis Presley; “There Goes My Baby” and “On Broadway” by the Drifters; “Spanish Harlem” and “Stand by Me” by Ben E. King, and “Poison Ivy” and “Charlie Brown” by the Coasters.

“We thought it was important to preserve that history,” Stoller said in a telephone interview.

Those dropping by to celebrate the club’s final hours Saturday night did so out of that respect.

Jesse Moore, 86, put down his beer and took the floor for one final dance as the band played Z.Z. Hill’s “Down Home Blues.”

“I remember this place before Central Avenue was Central Avenue, when it was just Japanese gardens along here,” Moore said, recalling days more than 50 years ago. “A bit of the city is gone, but there are other places.”

Charlie Wicken, a 41-year-old gas company crew leader, said: “It was always like pulling teeth to get people to come out here, but then when they came you could never get them to leave.”

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Guitarist Bobby Bryan, an educational coordinator for Cal State Northridge who grew up in South-Central, shared the closing moments with his 6-month-old daughter.

“This has been home for me. I’ve learned here, and it has been a springboard for me to go out and see the country,” he said.

Michael Corcoran, a 24-year-old USC graduate and guitarist who has performed at the club for two years, said its closing might force him to form his own group.

“All I really care about is the music,” said Corcoran, who is a real estate agent by day. “The music gives me purpose. It gives me direction.”

Singer Mickey Champion said the closing should not be a time of mourning, but of celebration. In the lyrics of her song “Stormy Monday”--one of the last tunes of the evening--she told the audience that hope was on the horizon.

“The eagle flies on Friday/Saturday I go out to play/Sunday I go to church/and I kneel on my knees and pray.”

The last customers left. The musicians, the barmaid and waitress filed out the door.

Gross was alone. A mattress, blanket, sheets and a pillow were laid across the pool table. It is here she slept on most nights when the bar was open late.

“It’s safer than trying to go home, and besides, we have been ripped off too many times,” she said. “I guess I won’t have to do this much any more.”