The Frangipani Bar was always a fun place to visit and I went regularly, sometimes with Mac but often alone. It was a peaceful oasis after a long hot day at the high school, and I enjoyed drinking a lime squash while watching the action along the waterfront. It was far too hot to walk home to Friendship in the middle of the afternoon, and the Frangi was a perfect place to sit until it was cooler.
The bar was a long, gleaming mahogany affair with rather uncomfortable bar stools. The bartender’s name was Harold, a friendly fellow from Paget Farm whom I became very fond of over the years. There were plenty of relaxing places to sit other than at the bar, and my favorite spot was a deep wooden chair under a palm tree. At that time of day the Frangi was usually quiet and peaceful.
Evenings were a different story, the bar came alive before sunset as sailors came ashore in their dinghies to have a few drinks and swap stories. The Frangi had a convenient wooden dock to which all manner of boats were tied, from wooden sailboats to rubber dinghies with engines.
My favorite nights were the “jammin’” ones, when people would gather to play music as they socialized. There was never a formal announcement as to when these evenings would happen, they were either spontaneous or organized by word of mouth. Whenever I heard “we jammin’ at Frangi tonight” , I would grab my flute and head for the harbor.
Flazo, a young local man, was an incredibly gifted musician. Flazo had never had any type of training but was able to play any instrument handed to him. A lot of the jamming nights revolved around Flazo, he knew how to get the party going simply by picking up a guitar or flute and starting to play. Those living on boats would hear the music drifting over the water and would come ashore to join in, and I spent many enjoyable evenings participating.
One night in particular stands out in my memories of these “jamming” sessions. Several people had been playing instruments that night, a squeeze-box, a saxophone, a few flutes and several guitars. We played until the cushions were removed from under our back-sides, the staff’s gentle way of telling us that they were closing. As people drifted away, I asked Flazo; “Who was the short white guy playing the guitar? He was pretty good!”. Flazo replied, “Some guy off a boat, I ‘tink he say he name Simon. No, wait! He name Paul”.
I had been sitting at the Frangi Bar jamming with Paul Simon. Go Figure!