THE BIGGEST MOB HIT IN YEARS

Meeting
Jimmy Buffett
By Bill Kelly
The first time I met Jimmy Buffett was at the Caribbean Club—the old Key Largo Hotel bar—
before he made it big time. The original wood clapboard hotel where the classic Bogart
film, Key Largo, was filmed had burned down long ago, and in its place was this little one story
bungalow, shot and beer bar on the bay, with a juke box and a pool table.
Stopping there on the way to Key West with some friends, we were shooting pool with Lynn
Delcorio and the guys from the Quiescence dive shop, when Jimmy, apparently having been
asleep in the corner booth, woke up and introduced himself.
Since he didn’t have a hit song yet, nobody knew who he was, but he fit in well with our crowd,
bought a round of drinks and fell into the nine-ball rotation with the guys while the girls sat in
lounge chairs out back under the palm trees by the bay.
Later Jimmy played guitar and sang during the open mic night and won the $50 prize, which
was a lot of money in the days when a bottle of beer cost fifty cents.
It must have been an interesting time in his life because he mentions it in his autobiography.
A few years later we were all glad to hear his songs on the radio and were proud to know him,
especially when he made it, and made it big-time from such humble beginnings. And from all
accounts, the money and celebrity didn’t seem to change his personality or style.
When we finally got back to Key West, after parking the van at the trailer park next to the
shrimp boat docks, we went to Jimmy’s then new bar—Margaritaville. Jimmy wasn’t there, but
the bartender said to stick around, as he was due in to pick up the receipts. Sure enough, he
came in, went right to the cash register, counted the money and put it in his pockets. As he
was walking out, I stopped him and asked if he remembered us from the Key Largo days.
He stood back and scanned us, clicked his fingers and then said, “Nine ball, the afternoon I
won open mic night, right?”
I was surprised that he recalled us and asked, “You mean that was such a special day that you
really remember it?”
And he said with a laugh, “You must think that I always slept in the back booth there. Sure I
remember it. I just got my first record contract and I was on a load, but yeah, I remember you
guys.”
A crowd had developed around us, and somebody tugged at Jimmy’s shirt and asked him for
an autograph. He smiled, shrugged and signed, but then somebody wanted a photo of them
together, and people started pestering him, and buzzing around like flies, so he just waved to
us as he walked backwards out the kitchen door.
That was the last time I saw Jimmy until Freemantle, Australia, 1987, during the America’s Cup
sailing regatta. We were cheering on Dennis Conner to win back the Cup he had lost to the
Aussies in Newport, Rhode Island, four years earlier. The Cup is the oldest sports trophy in
competition and it was the first time since 1858 that a foreign country had taken the America’s
Cup away. Dennis Conner was embarrassed he had lost it and was determined to win it back.
Jimmy wrote a song about it, and Americans who had never sailed in their lives were suddenly
interested in the America’s Cup sailboat race on the other side of the world.
I heard Jimmy was in Freemantle from Joe Scafario, my Ocean City, NJ neighbor, who caught
up with me at the Sail & Anchor pub. Joe said that he was walking around the Cape May-like
Victorian port town when he came across Jimmy playing guitar and singing on a street corner
like a vagabond, and he had a video to prove it.
A few days later I caught up with Buffett at the bar of the Sail & Anchor. Jimmy was by himself,
having a cold Swan, the local beer.
I slipped up to the bar next to him and even though I had grown a beard since I saw him last
he recognized me. “Key Largo, right? Nine-ball,” he snapped his fingers.
58 | The Boardwalk Journal | May 2013
“You Jersey guys are the only ones I know who play nine-ball like that.”
After shooting the breeze and trading a few shouts—Australian for rounds of beer—Jimmy said
he really enjoyed being Down Under.
“They don’t recognize me here,” he said, incredulously. “So I can go out and about like this
without people bothering me. I can’t do this at home. I can’t even hang out at my own joint
because of the freaking idiots who just want a piece of me—my signature, my picture, do this,
do that, I can’t even go out in public anymore. But here they don’t know me. It’s great.”
Just then a new Australian friend came up to me and said, “Hey Ned, What about you now?”
I explained to Jimmy that the Aussies nicknamed me Ned, after their famous outlaw Ned Kelly,
and I introduced him, “Ian, this here’s my American friend Jimmy Buffett.” They shake hands
and Ian orders a shout for the three of us, and asks Jimmy what he does in America. Jimmy
looks at me, laughs and slaps his thigh. “See!”
They knew his songs if you named them, and hummed a few bars, but his name and reputation
hadn’t quite gotten as far as Freemantle yet—partially because the people there pretty much
live a laid back Jimmy Buffet lifestyle anyway, so it isn’t that special.
The America’s Cup races went on for weeks, through November and December, our winter
being their summer, and the competition was fierce. Once there was a break in the action,
before the main showdown between Dennis and the Australians, they had the America’s Cup
Ball.
A black tie affair in which Prince Albert of Monaco, another Ocean City neighbor, was the guest
of honor, the America’s Cup Ball is the principal social affair of the entire event, and everyone
has a smashing good time. I knew Albert from Ocean City, where his family has a beach house
on the street where I lived, and I saw his mother give the winning trophy to Graham Hill at the
1970 Monaco Grand Prix, but we only nodded at each other on the dance floor.
All of the best Australian bands took turns performing, and about three o’clock in the morning
the emcee said, “We understand that the American pop star Jimmy Buffet is in the house and
we’d like him to come up here and sing us a song.”
I hadn’t seen Jimmy all evening, but he came through the crowd towards me laughing and
said, “Now I’m a Pop Star, how about that Kelly?”
Then he grabs me by the arm and leans over and says in my ear, “Do you believe this? I’m in
a suit and tie and I’m still UNDERdressed.” Just then a flash went off and somebody took a
picture of us. [See photo on right]
While all the other men wore black tie
tuxedos, Jimmy had on this white suit
and white tie, thus expressing his casual
individuality without insulting our Aussie
guests.
A few days later, at the Sail & Anchor,
Jimmy was saying that he was
disappointed that he didn’t get a chance
to play for Dennis Conner’s Stars & Stripes
crew, who were always sailing, either
practicing or competing. So one night Bill Kelly and Jimmy Buffett
he threw a party for the crew at the
Freemantle Beach Bar, where he gave them a good show.
I had met a local Australian singer-songwriter at the Eagle’s (Australian rules) football stadium
a few weeks earlier, and she had tickets to see Kenny Rogers and Dolly Parton at the arena,
but I convinced her Jimmy would be better.