I was still in high school the first time I ever played a real nightclub.
And it wasn't just any nightclub.
It was the Ebony Club.
The Ebony Club was right up the road from where I lived in Triana, Alabama, and back then, that place was a big damn deal.
We were just kids. Had ourselves a high school band and thought we were something. Hell, maybe we were.
Music was different back then. We were heading into the disco era. Everybody was dancing. Bumping. Bump contests. Bands playing. Folks dressing up to go out on the weekend.
Nightclubs weren't just places you went to drink.
They were part of the community.
And somehow or another, my little high school band got a chance to play the Ebony Club.
Man, that meant something to me.
Then There Was Chuck Moore
The man behind the Ebony Club was Chuck Moore.
Chuck was in the nightclub business for something like 40 years, and if you grew up around North Alabama during that time, there was a pretty good chance Chuck Moore or one of his businesses crossed your path.
Everybody knew Chuck.
And everybody who knew Chuck knew there was one phrase you were eventually gonna hear:
“Them crazy motherfuckers.”
That was Chuck.
You couldn't have much of a conversation with him without somebody becoming one of “them crazy motherfuckers.”
Something went wrong?
Crazy motherfuckers.
Somebody did something stupid?
Crazy motherfuckers.
Somebody walked through the damn door sideways?
Probably one of them crazy motherfuckers.
That was just Chuck's language.
And we loved him for it.
The Ebony Club Was Bigger Than a Building
What I didn't fully understand as a high school kid was the impact men like Chuck Moore were having on music.
Especially Black music.
Especially blues.
The Ebony Club became one of those places where artists could come through North Alabama, get onstage and play for people who gave a damn about the music.
And some serious people came through there.
Johnnie Taylor.
Bobby “Blue” Bland.
Bobby Womack.
And damn near everybody in between.
Think about that.
I was a high school kid who got to walk onto a stage connected to that kind of history.
At the time, you're not thinking about history.
You're thinking, “Shit, we're playing the Ebony Club!”
You don't realize until years later what those places—and the people who kept them alive—actually meant.
So I Made Chuck a Song
Years passed, and eventually I got a chance to work in another one of Chuck's clubs.
By then I knew him better. I knew his personality. And I damn sure knew his favorite phrase.
So I decided to record something for him.
The Crazy Mofo Song.
It wasn't supposed to be some big mainstream record.
Hell, back then it was probably too explicit to even think about doing much with it.
Today?
Shit. They'd probably play it during breakfast.
But that wasn't the point anyway.
I made it for Chuck.
He'd play the song in his club sometimes, and people loved the damn thing because they knew exactly where it came from.
They knew Chuck.
They knew the phrase.
They knew the joke.
And underneath all that cussing and carrying on was something more important.
It was my way of saying thank you.
Some People Leave More Than Memories
The older I get, the more I understand that music history isn't just made by the people standing under the spotlight.
It's also made by the people who built the damn stage.
The club owners.
Promoters.
DJs.
Record men.
Bartenders.
Folks hanging posters.
People taking chances on young musicians who hadn't proved a damn thing yet.
Chuck Moore was one of those people.
He gave musicians a place to play.
He gave audiences a place to hear them.
And without even knowing it, he gave a high school kid from Triana a memory that would stay with him for the rest of his life.
That matters to me.
That's why when you hear “The Crazy Mofo Song,” you're not just hearing some funny, cussing little record I made years ago.
You're hearing my tribute to Mr. Chuck Moore.
A businessman.
A nightclub man.
A character.
And one of those people whose fingerprints ended up all over the blues music history of North Alabama.
So here's to Chuck.
And here's to the Ebony Club.
And here's to all them crazy motherfuckers who made those nights worth remembering.
Who was the Chuck Moore in your hometown—the person or place everybody knew, and you still tell stories about today?