photos by: Bruce Hosking, 1977 

For some reason, it seemed like a good idea to combine coverage of a Ku Klux Klan march and a half-ass rock festival. “Phosphate Pit Stop Rock” has a “tough guy” edge, and it was an excellent opportunity for me to make fun of the hicks.

The great producer/engineer Rodney Mills recently shared his account of the Sunfest event. At the time, Rodney often doubled as soundman and “road manager” for the Atlanta Rhythm Section, whose biggest hits he had recorded. Like most Southern Rockers in the 1970s, ARS stayed fantastically drunk on the road, and they were prone to sock each other in the eye with little provocation. (At the Lakeland Holiday Inn, with only moments to spare before the Sunfest gig, Rodney had to dump a full bucket of water on the group’s guitarist, J.R. Cobb, who came up off his king-size mattress fightin’ mad.)

Besides riding herd over this incredible collection, Rodney sometimes found himself in negotiation situations with venue managements, and the Sunfest was no exception. When The Rod had flown over the festival site in a helicopter—one of which carrying Melanie had nearly crashed earlier in the day-- he could not help but notice that the projected crowd of 15,000 had mushroomed to many times that size. Before he would allow his group to “take” the stage, Rodney pulled a South Georgia maneuver and demanded an additional $5,000, which he received. He never noticed until he was on the plane back to Atlanta that the entire bonus had been stolen from him sometime after his return to the motel following the Rhythm Section’s set.

I wrote this article for a nice little Atlanta monthly called Hittin’ the Note, unrelated to the contemporary jam-rock publication by the same name, based in Macon. A remark by John Paul Rogers, the Grand Dragon, provided the secondary title for this story.  In the photograph below, he marches at the head of the parade. I always wondered what happened to Rogers.  In April, 2008, he was elected city commissioner in Lake Wales. Only in Florida!   (Thanks to Carl McGinnis for bringing this account by Bill Bair of The Ledger to my attention.) The Klan photos by Bruce Hosking are terrific.

May, 1977

PHOSPHATE PIT STOP ROCK,

OR

TOM TOMS DON’T TURN ME ON

by

Jeff Calder

Almost noon .

A reporter on assignment for the big Sunfest rock concert bowled his way past joggling videocorders. John Paul Rogers, the Florida Klan’s Grand Dragon, was in a sharp car, sandwiched between a bread delivery truck and a Blountstown pickup.

“What about all this be-bop destroying the moral fiber of American youth?” asked the reporter.

“ ‘At the Hop’ was a good record,” submitted one underling, pathetic with his day-old stubble.

The Grand Dragon waved him silent.

“I like Country & Western, but when I was younger, I guess I liked some be-bop. I imagine some of the younger kids likes rock.” In indication, the Dragon pointed to several twenty-years olds with styled, longish hair. They were suiting up in the parking lot, precious as choirboys.

Yes, but what about all this race music?

“Well, I have to admit I’m not too crazy about Afro-music.” He studied the upholstery of his silver sedan. “You might say tom-toms don’t turn me on.”

As the Klansmen began lining up for their march around Lake Mirror, an former colonel down from Michigan observed the assemblage and remarked, “You can tell what kind of people they are from the shape of their footwear.”

Below the Klan robes were rodeo boots, elevator heels, and flip-flops. One set of clubfeet struck out like a sore thumb.

The tourist/colonel went on to include his observations about the overnight influx of 50,000 youth to the big Sunfest: “Take dope…Drink…Some of ‘em sleep on the ground…Some of ‘em don’t sleep.”

It would turn out to be the perfect assessment.

The Klansmen were now trying to find someone to beat on a drum. They had fallen into double-file. The quick gulf wind played hob with the peaks of their white satin hoods. Several teenage girls filled out tube tops and carried signs that read LONG LIVE THE KLAN and KKK FOR FREEDOM—NO RACE MIXING. Below the bread delivery truck’s rear balcony was a bumper sticker that read VOICE OF THE KLAN 305-286-2020. Perched on the truck’s hood was a large red aluminum cross. Klan marshals carried it to the head of the parade.

Dressed in quasi-highway patrol uniforms, the marshals wore state trooper-style hats. They accompanied themselves with two-foot long flashlights as a precaution against any sudden solar eclipse. Sewn into their shoulder patch’s white cross was a single drop of blood.

A hundred robes flickered lambently in the noonday sunshine. Between American and Confederate flags, the Grand Dragon smiled and marched in his special khaki sheet. He maintained his grin even in the presence of the Klan nemesis, a carload of black people trapped with an out-of-state tag. Amidst the marching white men, the driver shouted, “I sure hope my insurance agent’s here!”

An alligator sunned in Lake Mirror. The marshals stroked their flashlights.

Along the route the Klansmen picked up protestors from the Tallahassee Revolutionary Student Brigade. “KKK, go away!” the protestors shouted. Police car engines began overheating. The greater the abuse, the higher these men with gaunt, John C. Calhoun features held their chins. They marched up into downtown Lakeland, the Klan-plants in the crowd cheering, the protestors jeering, and the march-snare flam-a-diddles echoing among Lakeland’s HO-scale buildings. Soon the protesting became perfectly synched with the Klansman’s drum.

 High Noon .

North of town, the Cactus’ drum solo resembled a swarm of praying mantises. The Sunfest racetrack had begun to fill.

The one-day event was held at Lakeland’s International Speedway, normally a scene for Funny Car Derbies. In a heavy citrus zone, ringed by radioactive reclaimed phosphate lands, the 550 Sunfest acres had been charred the previous week. Rattlers had to pull up roots and no rains came. Campers rolled in on Friday night, churning the black earth. Tall Miller’s and Busch brews helped remove a good deal of grit from teeth. On Saturday, the same wind that shamed the Klansmen’s cassocks whipped up a cloud of dust. Much French-style kissing was in evidence. Common spiders crawled into the iced tea.

Sunfest fashions featured the two-piece black bathing suit. Conversation centered around the heat and which way to go. Many cases of sunburn went untreated. During uneventful sets by Earl Scruggs and Melanie, small ponds in the parking lot filled with bathers. There was some nudity. The Woodstock/Byron [1970 Atlanta Pop Festival] bunch has fattened.

Capeco Promotions prediction of a “laid back” audience came true. There was no violence and no drug arrests to speak of. A pistol-waving incident was reported backstage. One man was collared by state bev-agents for selling $6,000 worth of Coors beer. He had $2,000 in his pockets at the time, and time is what he will do.

Five sheriff’s deputies were paid by Capeco Promotions to patrol the roads around the Speedway. The Sheriff’s Department limited themselves to intelligence gathering on coke and junk dealers inside the festival. 21,000 cans of beer were sold by Jaycees, proceeds going to muscular dystrophy.

As evening approached, Canned Heat played. They got together strictly for this job, or so it seemed. Bob “The Bear” Hite ran their standard boogie set. They received a big ovation for a drum solo on “King of Rock “n” Roll”.

During the daylight hours, an aircraft criss-crossed overhead with a streamer for a Pink Floyd concert. The taped music between sets was strictly Strawberry Fields. But as night fell, the hundreds of speakers beneath the red-and-white canopy strained from the latest rock.

“Hell, we only had 60,000 watts,” complained one Sunfest soundman. It averaged out to less than one watt per person because after sundown the attendance figure swelled to 80,000. Fence-jumping locals challenged the paid gate. The excitement built when Jonathon Edwards finished his set. In anticipation of the Atlanta Rhythm Section, milling bodies filled the track’s banked curves. Many carried tiny flashing lights tucked in their belts. Fireworks brought cheers. Calls for various drugs were sotto voce.

ARS raised their neon logo, creating pandemonium. A Confederate flag was draped over their keyboards like Easter linen. Sunfest host Flo and Eddie staggered out to introduce the group. (Their day had consisted of Johnny Carson jokes and Chip Monck put-ons, a common denominator among the drunken throng. *) ARS played a tipsy, wild set. A railing prevented lead singer Ronnie Hammond from falling off the stage. He exhorted the rock-starved thousands: “You all like sunshine, you all like whiskey, and you all like rock ‘n’ roll!” ARS captured the spirit of the day.

The most polished act was easily Orleans. Caribbean-rhythms inspired the group’s sound. There weren’t pantywaist, like their recent singles, though their harmonies sounded just like the record. Orleans even made an encore of “She Loves You”.

If ARS captured the spirit of the Sunfest, Jimmy Buffet defined it. Banners proclaimed MARGERITTAVILLE. Two of the Coral Reefers had to be held up.

Yet, by the time their hero took the stage, these, the future residents of so many Tudor-stucco condos, lay facedown in their own filth.

“These people don’t know how to party,” one gentleman said. “Hell, they can’t take it!”

Buffet held a magnetism for the Sunfest majority. He did all the really big ones like "Why Don't We Get Drunk and Screw?" They sang along with Buffet, even on the "spontaneous" talking parts. Sadly, it was after midnight; the wind was out of the sails, and the roars were short-lived.

Then came the day's surprise: Leon Redbone was not hooted from the stage! Redbone had been terrified as he sat poolside earlier that afternoon. Somehow his 3 AM antics brought cheers a quarter-mile away. Leon spun his cane, tipped his hat.

Pure Prairie League played.

Richie Havens woke the crowd at dawn with "Here Comes the Sun". The mighty Sunfest came to a close.

If the scene out front resembled the Thirty Years War, backstage was a model of calm efficiency. Huge, mechanized lifts raised equipment to the twenty-foot high stage. Lulls between sets never exceeded a half-hour. Everyone from stage managers to the lowliest pit-dweller was required to wear plastic wristbands similar to hospital IDs. Capeco Promotions had devised an elaborate compartmentalized security system. There were separate color T-shirts to distinguish between Perimeter Security, Stage Security, roadies, and staff. Three hundred Wackenhut security guards, some with German Shepherds, supplemented the Capeco force. The back stage goon was uncommon, conflict being limited to jealousy and rivalry among the security hierarchy.

One has to admire the strategy of Capeco Promotions. As early as last December these investors came down from New England to begin arrangements. Rather than import Boston barristers, they asked a former Lakeland City Attorney to handle all legal affairs, permits, etc. They hired a realtor named Darden Davis to contract leasing of the Speedway. Darden just happens to be a Lakeland City Commissioner. His Good Old Boy reputation is enhanced by a number of high speed, drunk-driving charges. Capeco had no trouble with Polk County's powerful Polit-necks.

Everyone played along. Capeco assured the dailies that "mellow" acts would discourage the thug element. They stuck with a projected estimate of 15,000 people expected, when it was common knowledge the promoters needed 20,000 to break even. Little things queered the projected estimate, like buying enough fencing to enclose a small military installation. Capeco saturated the state's airwaves with bucolic advertisements. They hit northern markets, too, ploying restless collegians with full moon visions of swaying palms and send-your-camel-to-bed. Florida radio stations played records by Sunfest groups they would otherwise never consider airing.

Overall, the Sunfest was a well-orchestrated mess. A lot of people like to get together and raise hell en masse. At Sunfest, they seemed to have a glorious time knee-deep in aluminum. There were no garbage cans. (A recycling outfit made its fortune on Palm Sunday.) There were no bad vibes; there were no vibes at all. And there were no Afro tom-toms either, soul music having gone the way of the button-down Gant. The music was secondary, anyway. Few acts rose above second-string. Cowboy impersonators ruled.

They're still tearing down the four miles of barb-topped hurricane fencing. The Wackenhut security system is suing the Sunfest. FM stations continue to swoon over the very beautiful scene. Convenience stores by the Speedway drool over the riches gleaned from potted meat-food sales. Everyone speaks of "next year" in ecstatic, hushed tones. Will Capeco and Sunfest return? Jesus, please let them: The Grand Dragon has his order in for a Gran Torino.

*Courtesy of Julia Cade.