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By Joe Garrett '70  Big Mama Thornton was 6-foot-2, weighed 300 pounds, and she was poking me in the chest. "I told you I don't want no damn check from the damn University. I told you I wanted cash." We were in a room next to Pauley Ballroom, and I had just given out paychecks to the performers at the Berkeley Blues Festival. I'd brought in about a dozen blues singers and musicians from around the country. Everyone had enjoyed performing immensely, and now the musicians were partying it up after the concert--swapping stories, drinking, and enjoying the afterglow of a successful show. Everyone in the room was having a good time, with one exception--Big Mama Thornton. She was huge, she was angry, and she kept poking me in the chest. I had gotten into this predicament because in the spring of 1970 I was director of SUPERB, the student entertainment organization--possibly the world's best job. The University administration at that time was worried about more important things than student entertainment so, amid ongoing riots and Governor Reagan's war on Cal, the school let me do pretty much whatever I wanted. Willie Mae Thornton--Big Mama--was one of the headliners of the Blues Festival. I had picked her up at her sister's house in West Oakland before the show, and she had been in a great mood as we drove to the campus. Big Mama's performance nearly lifted the roof off the Student Union Building. And when she closed the show with her famous "You ain't nothin' but a hound dog," two thousand students jumped to their feet and roared. After complaining that Elvis Presley had stolen the song from her, she belted out her classic with a fury. As the song came to an end, she slowed the tempo way down, fell to her knees, and moaned in a low growl, "...and you ain't no friend of mine." The place erupted, and Willie Mae Thornton strode off the stage.  Five minutes later she was backing me into the corner, and she would not stop poking me. "Look, Mama," I told her, "I asked the University, and they refuse to pay cash. If it's really that important to you, I'll meet you at your sister's Monday, and we can go to the bank together to cash your check." The idea of not getting cash right away infuriated her, and the poking turned into a huge shove on my shoulder. With all her size and power, she spun me half way around. Just as I whirled back, she blind-sided me with a huge roundhouse punch. My 140 pounds were no match for her 300, and I went down quickly. I tried to get up, but my best friend Barry Schneider '70 leaned over with a warning: "Stay down or she'll hit you again. She's really angry." Just as I got up to a very wobbly knee, her sister pulled her away. I tasted blood running into my mouth. And then I started laughing. And I couldn't stop. Big Mama had calmed down a bit, and she demanded to know what was so damn funny. "Are you kidding? I have all your albums, I listen to your music all the time, you're just about my favorite singer--and you go and sucker-punch me? That's what's so funny, Willie Mae. I just can't believe you did that!" She started to leave the room, shaking her head. "Man, you are one crazy-ass college boy." And she left. Big Mama was one of many incredible performers who came to campus that year. When I told the Student Adviser that I wanted to bring Captain Kangaroo to Cal, he stared at me, shaking his head. "Where do you come up with these ideas, Garrett?" he asked, but then agreed: "Okay...just don't lose any money." The only idea that was vetoed was my attempt to bring Buffalo Bob (and Howdy Doody) to campus. But that was simply a matter of the fee being too high. I put on speakers (including Bill Graham, Bishop Pike, Herb Caen, and former Governor Pat Brown), showed films, and produced concerts with people like Buffy St. Marie, Lightnin' Hopkins, Mimi Farina, Chuck Berry, and Joni Mitchell. I even had dinner with the last two. Chuck Berry read a newspaper throughout the meal and completely ignored me. Joni Mitchell was talkative, but she was so nervous about performing that she didn't eat a thing. I met all sorts of memorable people. And yet the most memorable moment of all was arguing with Big Mama Thornton. And then having her sucker-punch me. |
 Joe Garrett
is president of Sequoia National Bank in San Francisco.
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