The Set-Up

     I hadn’t intended to include events and people who weren’t directly involved with the history of folk music, but damn it, Bob Hippard deserves credit for being at the center of a true Hollywood moment at the height of the folk explosion in Los Angeles. Here’s the background.

 

     Indulge me please.

 

     Paul and I were appearing at Mike’s Pub in Boulder Colorado just before spring break at the U of Colorado. The year was 1961. If I’m not mistaken, a young David Crosby came to every one of our shows then, even used to meet us at the airport in Denver when we arrived – (OK, a Brownie Point – none of us is above it).  Paul and I had finally decided to make our move to Los Angeles and we were sorely in need of a ride. That’s when Bob showed up and announced that he would take us if we shared expenses. Was he a student? No. So who? Just a tough kid from the wrong side of Chicago, ex-biker, wrangling horses in Estes Park and looking for a change.  He loved folk music, he loved Art and Paul, and L.A. sounded like a good idea. From then on Bobby’s star was hitched to ours. He was our protector, our roadie, our front-man, our friend.

 

     Once in L.A. we moved in to Normandie Village on the Sunset Strip, a small group of European style cottages designed to look like the mini-chateaus of Normandie France.  It was funded and owned by John Barrymore, who created it to house impecunious actors and entertainers. We qualified - no questions asked. One look at our old black 1948 Chevy coupe and our worn bed rolls and we were handed the keys.

 

     Here’s where it gets interesting….

 

     Our next door neighbor at Normandie Village was Bruce Dern. He was separated from his wife and had moved in close to the time we did. He had one movie under his belt and was supporting himself giving acting lessons to whomever he could convince that he knew what he was doing.  Of course, we all joined his class when he consented to accept payment when we got work and Paul and I had some decent prospects. Bruce was, still is, a committed Method actor – Stanislavsky to the max and even though Paul and I tried to absorb the lesson plan, it was Bob who fell into it head over heels. He had found his calling. Bruce Dern and Marlon Brando were his new gods. Dern would give assignments to Bob: “Walk up to the next stranger you see on the street and borrow $5. Don’t come back until you – be real because if you aren’t, you won’t get it.” Bob would faithfully follow Bruce’s commands.  Bruce and Bob bonded. Both from Chicago, both passionate about acting and both gutsy enough to do what it took to get results. Bobby was a changed man. Half the time he was Marlon Brando, the other half someone we didn’t recognize - but his loyalty to Art and Paul never wavered and Bob remained the most loyal friend I’ve ever had until his passing in 1993.

 

     Pretty long set-up for a story, I know. But here’s the reason. The following events were witnessed by a few folks, Dickie Davis, lighting guy at the Troubadour was one of them and Dickie reminded me of the incident recently and commented that I should write it down somewhere.  

     The Incident – The Giant Swede and the Kid from Chicago

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     It was one of those warm summer L.A. evenings and a group of us were seated outside The Troubadour passing time until the next show. The Troubadour bar area looked at the street from behind a large plate glass window fronted by a concrete sill.  Dickie was there, so was Bob Borilla, Doug Weston’s barista and a few others. Barry McGuire was there too. I was seated on the sill next to Paul, resting my head against the plate glass when a shiny large red Cadillac convertible pulls up to the curb, parks about fifteen yards past where we were sitting and out steps a very large man with a very red face. When I say large, I don’t mean wide. I mean large Paul Bunyan large.  Six-four Arnold Schwarzenegger large. Did I mention his face was red?  The guy approaches us and asks if they serve beer and liquor inside and are there any girls in there as well.

 

     I explained that this was a folk music club and didn’t feature that kind of entertainment. That’s when it got interesting.  He glared. “Oh you mean no real girls and no real men here?”  The accent was distinctly Scandinavian and the breath was 86 proof or better.  I don’t remember exactly what I said then but I remember exactly what he said to me: “Where I come from, real men fight.”  Suddenly a clenched fist appeared three inches from my nose blocking my view. It looked like a cantaloupe. I could see this cantaloupe punching my head through the plate glass and into the bar. I remember wondering if anyone inside would recognize me. All I could utter were sounds: “ut – kir –ut – ut”.  Clearly I wasn’t pleasing him and his fist started trembling from the force he was exerting trying to make his point.

 

     Then, out of the corner of my eye, Bob Hippard, index finger pressed to his lips urging me to be silent, while his other hand quietly unlocked the trunk of our old black Chevy and quietly removed  - a tire iron. He winked at me once, and it began.

 

     Wham! The tire iron practically decapitated the parking meter six feet behind the Swede.  Every head turned to face Bob who had become a crimson-faced snarling animal - measured growling words struck us like a flame thrower:

 

     “You want a fight….?. you want a fight….? You want a fight? I’ll show you a fight you chicken piece of shit…”

 

     Wham! The parking meter post buckled.

 

     “Not a fair…” burbled the Swede, backing away. “That’s no fair…..”

 

     “You want fair? You want fair” – Hippard roared and charged as the Swede backed into The Troubadour.

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     “Oh this is terrible, this is terrible”.  Borilla intoned.  He sounded like my aunt Sylvia.

 

     We all remained frozen outside while sounds of crashing emanated from the doorway. I don’t know how long it took but the next thing we saw was the Swede backing out of the Troubadour holding a chair in front of him as Bobby methodically splintered it with each swing of the tire iron. He never stopped roaring:

 

     “You want fair…? Here’s what fair is…” on and on as the Swede backed down the street toward his open top red Cadillac and jumped in and turned the key. Bob stood on the curb by the passenger window, face still crimson, spittle running from his snarling lips, eyes blood red slits, and in one final giant arc, put the iron through the passenger side of the windshield and watched it collapse in shards. The convertible roared out on to Santa Monica Blvd., screeched a right on Doheny Drive and disappeared.

 

     Bob, fifteen or twenty yards away on the sidewalk turned to face us, the color draining from his face.  He dropped the tire iron to the sidewalk with a clang that echoed on the suddenly silent street. He stared at us for a long minute as we stood in horrified shock at what we had just witnessed.

 

     Suddenly it was no long Bob standing there, it was someone else.

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     “So like man...” he began..

 

     “Like man, how was I?”

 

     Once again: “Like man, do I get the part? I can’t stand here all day.”

it was a familiar voice, a familiar pose…. Who?

 

     Slowly it dawned on us…no mistaking it. Bob Hippard had disappeared and Marlon Brando stood in his place, head tilted back and turned to display his profile, arms outstretched at his sides waiting for a response..

 

     He bowed deeply as our stunned silence broke into applause.

 

     Bob Hippard left us in 1993. Like I said, I never had a more loyal friend and I don’t think I ever will.