The event that solidified my role as Leader of the Pack was our May trip to Gilley's.  Starting in April, I had become Pied Piper to a social group culled from the younger TGIS crowd known as the Seekers.  In May, the Seekers acquired a second name, 'Blazers'.  They were Seekers on Sunday and Blazers whenever they went dancing.  One day my new buddies Chuck and Doug insisted I escort the newly-coined 'Blazers' on a pilgrimage to Gilley's, epicenter of the Western Universe. 

"Rick, you have to come!  It won't be the same without you!"

Thanks to John Travolta, Houston was paying more attention to Pasadena than at any time in memory.  Houston was caught in the throes of serious Urban Cowboy fever.  After what had seemed an eternity, the film debut was right around the corner.  The anticipation sent shock waves to my students.  The movie was set to make Gilley's famous, so this group of intrepid dancers wanted to see what all the fuss was about.  No one in the group had ever been to Gilley's, including me.

I asked Victoria, my jail keeper and occasional girlfriend, if she wanted to come along and check it out.  Victoria looked at me like I was crazy.  She said, "Are you out of your mind?  I wouldn't go near that place if you paid me."

Victoria's negative sentiments were echoed by a lot of people in my dance group, but at the same time some of them were curious.  If they visited the honky tonk together, they would have each other for protection.  So the idea caught on.  I said no no no, but eventually gave in.  Virtually against my will, I found myself roped into visiting Gilley's, Redneck Mecca of Pasadena's cowboy culture. 

Gilley's was a fabled country-western bar that served as the focal point of Pasadena nightlife during the 70's and 80's.  Gilley's claimed to be the largest nightclub in the world.  And it probably was.  It was definitely bigger than a football field.   Featuring local bands and popular singers like Mickey Gilley and Johnny Lee, Gilley's was now famous throughout America.

Upon my visit to Gilley's, I could see the rumors of of the club's immense popularity were true.  Due to a veritable ocean of pickup trucks, we had to park almost a mile away.  On my way to the door, I noticed every truck had a Gilley's sticker on its bumper.  There was a rumor that you could leave a sign on your windshield asking to avoid the bumper sticker.  I was worried my car would suffer a similar fate, so I left a sign. 

In the distance I could see the giant ramshackle building with the metal roof.  Someone said this massive building could hold 6,000 people.  Probably so.  Once we got in there, the crowd stretched from wall to wall.  I estimated a crowd of 3,000, but how would I know?  It might have been 6,000.  

Due to its drab interior, Gilley's was often described as the ugliest dance club in America.  I had to agree.  This club was very tough on the eyes.  Gilley's suffered from a near-total absence of any color other than brown, gray, black and white.  No attempt had ever been made to make the place look nice.  The ubiquitous neon beer signs were the only discernable decor feature.  Wallpaper that said 'Gilley's' was plastered in every available spot, including the ceiling.  The concrete floor was sticky with spilled beer and the restrooms were littered with overflowing trash.  Texas heat made the crowd perspire which in turn created an unpleasant odor of beer mixed with sweat.  

In my opinion, Gilley's was the spitting image of the Cactus Club that had upset me so much a year earlier.  I read an article in the Houston Chronicle that said Mickey Gilley admitted his place was a complete dive.  Gilley blamed this eyesore on Sherwood Cryer, his cheapskate business partner. 

"The club was filthy.  When it rained, there was water in there.  Try dancing in mud puddles.  When it got cold, it was cold in there.  When it got hot, it was hot in there.  Sherwood, my partner, made the club bigger, but he didn't make it better.

Being tight like he was, Sherwood was slow to put AC in at Gilley’s.  He wanted people to get hot so they’d drink cold beer.  It pissed him off bad when people tried to stiff him on the booze.  These old cowboys used to hide whiskey bottles out by the fence instead of buying drinks inside.  Sherwood found out where they hid them, and he’d go piss in them bottles."

Sherwood Cryer was a tough old son of a gun.  This might explain why fighting was tolerated, perhaps even encouraged.  Singer Johnny Lee, famous for his hit song Looking for Love, told a great anecdote about Cryer.

"One time Sherwood said to me,  'Johnny, there’s an old boy who keeps picking fights in Gilley’s and he's running some of my business off.  But I know where that son of a bitch is, so get in the truck and let's go find him.'

We went into this icehouse that Sherwood owned.  Sherwood told me to stand by the door so no one could leave.  Sherwood grabbed a pool cue, walked over to the guy, and hit him upside the head.  No warning whatsoever.  Whupped his ass bad and told him never to come back to Gilley’s. This guy was twice as big as Sherwood, but that don't matter.  That’s just the way shit was in Sherwood's world.  No one messed with Sherwood."

The rundown club was known for plenty of fighting.  Typically on any given night one might see more brawls than your average ice hockey match.  I did not witness any fights during my visit.  My friend Chuck was disappointed.  He told anyone dumb enough to listen that he had come specifically to witness some action.  I told him to make fun of someone's dancing and see what happened.  Chuck claimed to be very tempted, but then I realized he was just showing off for the girls.  So much for Mr. Macho Man.

Gilley's was described as 'Brawling Texas Badass', whatever the heck that is.  Every night thousands of regulars showed up to drink, dance, fight, flirt, make out, shoot pool, and see who would get their nuts cracked on El Toro, the club's famed mechanical bull.  Gilley's clearly deserved its reputation as the biggest, noisiest, rottenest, meanest bar of its kind ever. 

It was no surprise the clientele preferred the 'Outlaw' country sound because a lot of angry people hung out here.  That included some actual outlaws as well.  They considered this place their personal fighting ring.  One regular said, "With all the lowlifes who come in here and drink themselves silly, if they don't get into at least one scrap, they think their weekend is wasted."

I was not the only one who had heard the stories about the fighting.  My group of twenty-five yuppie puppies admitted their sheltered lives had not prepared them for a place like this.  They huddled close to one another for protection.  Sad to say, a certain dance teacher and his wide-eyed students were not known for fighting prowess.  Therefore, self-preservation demanded we make darn sure not to step on any toes that did not belong to our group.

As for me, I had come here for one reason only.  I was still looking for answers to The Mystery.  I assumed that Gilley's had somehow played a major part in killing all of Houston's Discos last year.  I was sure of it.  I just didn't know the inside story.  Unfortunately, I found no answers.  Instead, the mystery got even more perplexing. 

How did a dump like Gilley's ever manage to shut Disco down in Houston two full years before the rest of the country? 

Urban Cowboy was due to debut in about three weeks.  Shortly before my expedition, I had read the strangest film review in memory.  I could not get that article out of my mind as I strolled past the bull, the bars, and the boxing section. 

The review claimed that Urban Cowboy portrayed a realistic look at the pain of displaced country folk forced to work daily in dangerous, unsatisfying urban jobs.  To deal with their loss of identity, these alienated country émigrés felt an intrinsic need for fantasy.  They instinctively went to the saloon after work to  remind them of the small town existence they left to come to the Big City.

I had never read more pretentious copy in all my life.  Obviously some English major had an maladjusted cowboy for a boyfriend.  As I looked deep into the faces of beer drinkers and bull riders, I had a tough time spotting signs of alienation.  Nor was the fantasy necessary to survive the cold, cruel world of the big city noticeable.  If I were to make a guess, the fantasies of these cowboys had more to do with picking up a cowgirl than dealing with separation anxiety from their country homeland.

I had come here hoping to find a clue how Gilley's had managed to put Disco out of business.  It was not the dancing, that's for sure.  I was appalled at how primitive it was.  The western dancing at Gilley's was a throwback to the dancing at the Cactus Club.  Most of the patrons danced the old-style Twostep which barely moved.  With a beer in their left hand and their sweaty, tattooed right arm around the woman's neck, these cowboys made sure their ladis shuffled backwards all night long. 

The people in my group were surprised at how lame the dancing was.  The clientele called it 'buckle-polishing', but my students called it 'boring'.  They asked why the dancing at Cowboy was more energetic, so I explained I had taught them the new style of western dancing.  I danced with Mollie once.  When I began to receive hate stares for dancing New Country, I realized I was risking my life.  I left the dance floor and wandered.  If my students decided to show off and got beat up, that was their problem.

As I weaved my way through throngs of people, I shook my head in amazement.  No matter how ugly this place was, no one could deny it was popular.  As I said, there had to be two, maybe three thousand people in here.  The funny thing is the dance floor was the least crowded place in the joint.

Despite the fight rumors and dilapidated appearance, there were plenty of people willing to overlook the club's shortcomings.  Ever since the movie had started filming last year, Gilley's now rivaled the Eiffel Tower was said to be one of the most famous tourist attractions in the world.  I hoped that wasn't true, but from the look of this crowd, it just might be. 

I was not in a very good mood.  To begin with, I had a bad toothache that was really starting to bother me.  I was also upset that a dump like Gilley's had somehow put an end to my beloved Disco career.  But most of all this visit triggered my animosity.  I thought I had overcome my bitter prejudices against the World of Country, but I was wrong.  I felt nothing but revulsion for the drunken mob that dominated. 

Despite my bad attitude, I was on good behavior.  I did not say a nasty word the entire night.  Other than one beer to be polite, I held off on the drinking.  Otherwise I might have been in real trouble.  I was just one beer away from telling everyone what I really thought about this place. 

When I left, there was a nasty surprise waiting for me.  Sure enough, some jerk had slapped a Gilley's bumper sticker on my car despite my sign.  Feeling violated, I scraped it off the moment I got home.  I don't know what they used to attach the sticker, but it was almost impossible to get rid of it.  It took me half an hour of scraping and I was really grouchy the entire time.

As if I didn't hate Gilley's enough already.