Post by Ron VanLandingham on Jan 19, 2007 21:45:01 GMT -5
rickyberkey2 said:
Barn danceBy: SHERRI CONER
Daily Journal staff writer
Article :
March 6-7, 2004
It had such a plain name: Whiteland Barn. Not surprising for a dance hall surrounded by cornfields on a country road. And yet, 40 years later, mention of Whiteland Barn stirs sweet memories for early rock n roll lovers.
Every Sunday evening, bobby-socks-wearing girls like Mary Ann Powell of Whiteland dressed in sweaters, full skirts and oxfords to enjoy an evening of dance music at the barn. Some girls rode to this Whiteland legacy with their boyfriends in souped-up GTOs,
Mustangs, Impalas and even a few Corvettes. Powell drove a two-tone green 1954 Ford. "There were a bunch of us that just loved to dance," Powell says. "A favorite dance at the time, she says, was The Stroll."
Big names performed on the elevated stage upstairs in the barn beside a 90-by-60-foot hardwood dance floor. "When Jerry Lee Lewis appeared there in 1961", Powell was in the audience. "He really didn't sit and play the piano, Powell says of Lewis. "He jumped and moved around and kinda climbed all over the piano." Mike McCart of Greenwood was also in the audience that evening when Lewis pounded "Great Balls of Fire" on the ivories.
"He'd take his right leg and stomp on the piano keys while he was playing it at the same time, "McCart said. "Nobody else could excite the crowd like he did."
On another occasion, McCart drove his red 1966 Ford Fairlane 500 to Whiteland to see Fats Domino croon his famous "Blueberry Hill." Linda Wirey of Franklin "begged and begged and begged to get to go" when The Kingsmen
appeared at the barn in 1968, Wirey's senior year of high school.
Wirey and her friend Karen Threlkeld won their parents over so they could dance to a live version of "Louie, Louie." Neil Sedaka, Dionne Warwick, Bo Diddley, The Drifters and even a young, pre-fame Johnny Cougar later known as John Mellencamp performed in this barn in the middle of nowhere.
Don Hohlt, 69, of Indianapolis was the man behind the music and dance mania. "The first night we opened, in 1958, we charged 75 cents. We had 72 boys and three girls,"Hohlt says with a laugh. "I'll never forget it if I live to be 100."
This two-story, flat-roof barn on the Hohlt family farm did not start out as a hot spot for rock 'n' roll, Hohlt says. For a few years before World War II, Hohlt's father hosted square dances in the barn. Whiskey bootleggers hung around outside the entrance. "But when the war broke out, gas was rationed," Hohlt says. And that was the end of square dances."
A few years later, Hohlt's father tried another business venture. This time, he turned the barn into a bingo hall. "They'd have 900 to 1,000 ladies in there playing bingo," Hohlt says. "Then they were raided one night. And that was the end of bingo." When Hohlt returned from serving in Korea in 1957, his father's health was failing. Family finances were dwindling. In desperation, Hohlt and his mother unsuccessfully reopened the barn for square dances.
"Here's where the luck came in," Holt says. "Somebody suggested teen dances." So Hohlt contacted a top DJ for the era, Bouncin' Bob Baker at WIBC. Hohlt paid Baker $50 to spin 45s " single-song records " at the barn. Hohlt also invited area bands to perform. Keith Phillips, then a resident of Edinburgh, and his band Keetie and the Kats became frequent performers at the barn. Every week, Phillips drove his fire-engine-red, five-window custom 1931 Ford coupe to Whiteland. Band members initially wore white and black corduroy shirts, hand-stitched by Phillips mother, Gladys Phillips, now 92, who still resides in Edinburgh. "Back then, instrumentals were a big deal," says Phillips, who today resides in Washington state. "A hit didn't have to have words to be a hit." One popular request of the time was an instrumental called "Apache." "It was a must-play every Sunday," Phillips says. "First thing you know, we were having great big crowds," Hohlt says. "Cars would pull up with eight or 10 kids in them." Then came the call from Jerry Lee Lewis' agent in Tennessee. "That's when Jerry Lee married his cousin and nobody would hire him," Hohlt says. Taking a risk that Lewis' agent was correct, that Lewis was on his way back to the top of the music business, Hohlt agreed to pay Lewis $650 to perform. Then Hohlt rented a piano for Lewis to play. "He practically demolished that piano," Hohlt says with a laugh. "And the kids went crazy."
Rita Marcum, 56, of Mooresville, was a frequent patron at Whiteland Barn. Her boyfriend was a drummer and singer in a local band called The Impalas. She was known to wear a two-piece, white, fringed mini-dress with matching go-go boots, says this grandmother of two. She danced in a black cage with orange and lime green spray paint on the bars. "With the black lights, it kinda accented the white fringe," Marcum says with a laugh. The mood in the barn was electric, Phillips says. "I'm telling you, the barn was major. There were 1,300 people coming around on a Sunday night. It became a thing. It was "Be there or be square." It was incredible."
A photographer roamed through the crowd, aiming his camera at young people as they socialized near the downstairs concession stand or danced near the band. Hohlt displayed the photos inside a glass case. "If your picture was there, you got a free pass for the next week. And you got the picture," he says. "Before the night was over, all the pictures would be gone."
Alcohol was not allowed on the premises. Off-duty law enforcement officers and a few Whiteland firefighters provided security. With more than 1,000 teen-agers crowded inside one structure, people might envision hassles. "But there were very few fights," Hohlt says. "They'd be over before they got started
good." He recalls only three fights in the years he and his band played at the barn, Phillips says. "And one of them was me," he says.
In 1965, Whiteland Barn was suddenly running out of steam. Phillips had moved on by then. His Keetie and the Kats band traveled the Midwest. Living first in New York and then California, Phillips entertained in nightclubs around the country.
Puzzled, Hohlt saw Sunday evening be-bopping dwindle every week. "It just seemed like it happened overnight," Hohlt says. Phillips told Hohlt about a British rock 'n' roll band, new to the music scene in the United States but sure to change the face of entertainment. "I had never heard of the Beatles before," Hohlt says. "But Keith said, "They're gonna be huge, Don. There won't be any more dancing." And he was absolutely right. Concerts took over." Six months later, Hohlt stopped mopping the dance floor in the barn. There was no need to pop corn or buy soft drinks anymore. "The Beatles shut down the old teen-age dancing business," he says.
Two years after that, Hohlt's family home next door to the barn caught fire. Hohlt's collection of memories. years of photographs, autographed by every musical group ever to perform at the barn were destroyed. "It was a wild run,"' Hohlt says of the land where Whiteland Raceway Park now operates. "I never will forget it, as long as I live," Holt says. "It was a stroke of luck. And it was fun"