As I travel the world near and far, I’m still astonished at the inability of the modern-day bartender to mix a decent Dusty Meyer. At the Hanoi Hilton, for example, where I recently attended a 3-day symposium on global warming, Kim, the bartender, had no clue, offering up way too much gin to too little vodka. And don’t get me started about the poor choice of coffee.
It reminds me of an incident that happened nearly thirty years ago. I remember reading about it in the International Herald-Tribune while on holiday in Paris. It seems that K.C. of K.C. and the Sunshine Band was playing a sold-out concert in Sun City. If you’ll recall, the mid-‘70s was the height of the disco craze and K.C. and his Sunshine Band were scorching the charts with “Get Down Tonight” and “That’s the Way (I Like It)” among others.
K.C. was one of the first acts to play the newly-constituted Sun City, the posh resort developed by Sol Krezner in what was previously known as Bophuthatswana. Despite the presence of Apartheid elsewhere on the South African continent, Krezner was keen on making Sun City the new Las Vegas by overpaying even marginal artists to perform and thus legitimize the resort. And it worked. Although K.C. and the boys were a few years removed from their biggest hits, they were a huge draw in Sun City and their concert was greatly anticipated.
But what Krezner didn’t realize was that K.C. was one of the more difficult artists of his day. His contract rider was generally several pages long. Among his demands: bed sheets with a thread count of 200 or higher, 22 different pairs of roller skates, 638 flexible straws and three cases of bite-size Clark bars. Of more immediate importance to this story, though, was a demand for an unlimited supply of Brazilian coffee, Beefeaters Gin, Smirnoff Vodka and a private bartender that could mix the most sublime Dusty Meyer.
This caused great consternation for Krezner and his staff. The coffee, gin and vodka were, of course, no problem. But given how new the resort was, there had been precious little time to find and train quality mixologists. The bar staff was completely clueless how to pour anything more than the standard gin martini.
When K.C. arrived at his private chalet (with the rest of the band forced to scramble for quarters in a series of small mobile homes), he was initially pleased to find a bartender present and all the key ingredients for a Dusty Meyer. Rare was the moment in those days when anyone saw K.C. without his trusty Dusty Meyer.
That initial pleasure soon faded into a dark and ugly confrontation when K.C. learned that his bartender was completely unfamiliar with how to mix a Dusty Meyer, let alone a quality Dusty Meyer. With K.C. trying to bridge an insurmountable language gap with the hapless bartender, several hours passed, no Dusty Meyers had been mixed and the demanding K.C. was still highly unsatisfied and began making noise about not going on stage. When Krezner got word he immediately came over to the chalet and tried to calm the situation.
Unfortunately, Krezner’s presence only seemed to aggravate the situation. K.C., feeling the leverage that his celebrity status in Sun City seemed to afford and risking permanent damage to his vocal chords, was literally screaming at the top of his lungs that without a bartender who could mix a Dusty Meyer, the band would not perform. Of course, no one on the staff qualified for that assignment and it looked like Krezner would have to disappoint the thousands of locals who had plunked down their hard earned Kruggerands in order to witness what was sure to be a historic performance.
Fortunately, for Krezner and history, the concert was saved, but by a most unlikely source. As it turns out, a gentleman by the name of Larry DiPalma was staying at the resort, having won the vacation as part of a sales incentive program with his employer, Mutual of Omaha. If the name sounds familiar, it should. DiPalma was the son of Pourin’ Paul DiPalma, the mixologist to the stars at the original Brown Derby and the inventor of the Dusty Meyer. Although DiPalma had consciously decided not to follow in his father’s rather large shoes, he had inherited some of his great skill. DiPalma had heard the commotion, coming from K.C.’s chalet, as had most of the guests. When a frazzled Krenzer exited the chalet, DiPalma stopped him and offered his services.
Of course Krezner was nervous and worried about further inflaming the situation. But with few options left and a historic concert hanging in the balance, he decided to give it a try. He gave DiPalma one of the light tan bartender’s jackets, adorned with gold epaulets, and the ruse was on. Fortunately for Krezner, this was one gambled that worked and worked well. DiPalma entered the chalet and found and extremely agitated and nearly volatile K.C. But DiPalma went right to work and soon K.C. was mollified. In short order, DiPalma had perfectly mixed an entire pitcher full of Dusty Meyers and had poured one for K.C. Despite his many years as a tea totter himself, DiPalma had learned much and remembered most of what his famous father had taught him and K.C. was now pleased.
The epilogue of course, was the K.C. and his Sunshine Band performed as scheduled and to the obvious delight of thousands. It was an amazing performance by all accounts, with Robert Hillburn of the L.A. Times noting in the next day: “I have seen the future of disco, and its name is K.C. and the Sunshine Band.” The concert did what Krezner had hoped and that was to really put Sun City on the map and as a legitimate vacation destination. But more important to fans of the Dusty Meyer, it was once again acknowledgement that the Dusty Meyer isn’t just a drink, it’s a lifestyle—and a lifesaver.
It reminds me of an incident that happened nearly thirty years ago. I remember reading about it in the International Herald-Tribune while on holiday in Paris. It seems that K.C. of K.C. and the Sunshine Band was playing a sold-out concert in Sun City. If you’ll recall, the mid-‘70s was the height of the disco craze and K.C. and his Sunshine Band were scorching the charts with “Get Down Tonight” and “That’s the Way (I Like It)” among others.
K.C. was one of the first acts to play the newly-constituted Sun City, the posh resort developed by Sol Krezner in what was previously known as Bophuthatswana. Despite the presence of Apartheid elsewhere on the South African continent, Krezner was keen on making Sun City the new Las Vegas by overpaying even marginal artists to perform and thus legitimize the resort. And it worked. Although K.C. and the boys were a few years removed from their biggest hits, they were a huge draw in Sun City and their concert was greatly anticipated.
But what Krezner didn’t realize was that K.C. was one of the more difficult artists of his day. His contract rider was generally several pages long. Among his demands: bed sheets with a thread count of 200 or higher, 22 different pairs of roller skates, 638 flexible straws and three cases of bite-size Clark bars. Of more immediate importance to this story, though, was a demand for an unlimited supply of Brazilian coffee, Beefeaters Gin, Smirnoff Vodka and a private bartender that could mix the most sublime Dusty Meyer.
This caused great consternation for Krezner and his staff. The coffee, gin and vodka were, of course, no problem. But given how new the resort was, there had been precious little time to find and train quality mixologists. The bar staff was completely clueless how to pour anything more than the standard gin martini.
When K.C. arrived at his private chalet (with the rest of the band forced to scramble for quarters in a series of small mobile homes), he was initially pleased to find a bartender present and all the key ingredients for a Dusty Meyer. Rare was the moment in those days when anyone saw K.C. without his trusty Dusty Meyer.
That initial pleasure soon faded into a dark and ugly confrontation when K.C. learned that his bartender was completely unfamiliar with how to mix a Dusty Meyer, let alone a quality Dusty Meyer. With K.C. trying to bridge an insurmountable language gap with the hapless bartender, several hours passed, no Dusty Meyers had been mixed and the demanding K.C. was still highly unsatisfied and began making noise about not going on stage. When Krezner got word he immediately came over to the chalet and tried to calm the situation.Unfortunately, Krezner’s presence only seemed to aggravate the situation. K.C., feeling the leverage that his celebrity status in Sun City seemed to afford and risking permanent damage to his vocal chords, was literally screaming at the top of his lungs that without a bartender who could mix a Dusty Meyer, the band would not perform. Of course, no one on the staff qualified for that assignment and it looked like Krezner would have to disappoint the thousands of locals who had plunked down their hard earned Kruggerands in order to witness what was sure to be a historic performance.
Fortunately, for Krezner and history, the concert was saved, but by a most unlikely source. As it turns out, a gentleman by the name of Larry DiPalma was staying at the resort, having won the vacation as part of a sales incentive program with his employer, Mutual of Omaha. If the name sounds familiar, it should. DiPalma was the son of Pourin’ Paul DiPalma, the mixologist to the stars at the original Brown Derby and the inventor of the Dusty Meyer. Although DiPalma had consciously decided not to follow in his father’s rather large shoes, he had inherited some of his great skill. DiPalma had heard the commotion, coming from K.C.’s chalet, as had most of the guests. When a frazzled Krenzer exited the chalet, DiPalma stopped him and offered his services.
Of course Krezner was nervous and worried about further inflaming the situation. But with few options left and a historic concert hanging in the balance, he decided to give it a try. He gave DiPalma one of the light tan bartender’s jackets, adorned with gold epaulets, and the ruse was on. Fortunately for Krezner, this was one gambled that worked and worked well. DiPalma entered the chalet and found and extremely agitated and nearly volatile K.C. But DiPalma went right to work and soon K.C. was mollified. In short order, DiPalma had perfectly mixed an entire pitcher full of Dusty Meyers and had poured one for K.C. Despite his many years as a tea totter himself, DiPalma had learned much and remembered most of what his famous father had taught him and K.C. was now pleased.
The epilogue of course, was the K.C. and his Sunshine Band performed as scheduled and to the obvious delight of thousands. It was an amazing performance by all accounts, with Robert Hillburn of the L.A. Times noting in the next day: “I have seen the future of disco, and its name is K.C. and the Sunshine Band.” The concert did what Krezner had hoped and that was to really put Sun City on the map and as a legitimate vacation destination. But more important to fans of the Dusty Meyer, it was once again acknowledgement that the Dusty Meyer isn’t just a drink, it’s a lifestyle—and a lifesaver.
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