The Last Backyard Juke Joint in America
If you find yourself near Bessemer, Alabama, on any Saturday night with nothing to do, ask someone who lives there how to get to Gip's Place. There aren't any signs, and more than likely, GPS will get all bumfuzzeled and confused. And when you finally discover the address and begin heading that way, you'll say over and over along the drive, "Surely, this is a mistake. Where am I going?"
Henry Gipson was born in 1920, and it appears, that he continues to carry that Roaring Twenties spunk with him daily. However, instead of jazz revving his motor, it was the blues; it grabbed hold and refused to let go. You're on your way to Gip's Place, the last backyard juke joint in America.
Once you turn off the main drag in Bessemer, curve around the back road and create a parking spot on a piece of ground that has been overlooked by the first fifty or so cars that have beat you to the party, you walk the walk. Down the hill on a dirt path, behind a church, there's a tin-roofed shack in the distance, with sounds of laughter and music raising its roof. Outside, crowds circle a roaring fire. There are young people, old people, white and black, ladies in sequins and men in flannels, hippies and cowboys, all crowded into an intimate hall with a screen door separating the front section from the back. You eye a vacant table, chair or sofa, and you run. For the next few hours, you lay claim to your spot while you enjoy the musical acts that come from across the country to say they've played at Gip's.
And while the band takes a break, Gip himself takes the stage in his blazing white head-to-toe duds. He picks up his guitar, gets warmed up, brings the mic closer and begins his song. Close by, a little glass of water, most assuredly moonshine as those who know him best claim. However, this isn't his first performance of the evening; every Saturday night begins the same as he introduces himself and the band to the crowd, encourages everyone to have safe and fun evening, and leads the crowd a prayer and in singing Amazing Grace. At this point, you know this is one-of-a-kind.
After his song, the crowd-appointed rock star shimmies through the wall-to-wall people, posing for selfies and hugging ladies. And if the band returns and you're not dancing, he becomes the matchmaker, putting one hand in another and pulls the couple onto the dance floor. It's not magic; it's just another Saturday night at Gip's. There's no food or drink served, no cover, no strangers; there's only Gip and his blues; it's been this way since 1952.
Gip, or Mr. Henry as many call him, turned 97 (2018) in January with a party at Gip's Place. He's still dancing, singing, and playing matchmaker in his favorite backyard. And just maybe, this will be the Saturday night that Keith Richards makes his return visit.
Henry Gipson was born in 1920, and it appears, that he continues to carry that Roaring Twenties spunk with him daily. However, instead of jazz revving his motor, it was the blues; it grabbed hold and refused to let go. You're on your way to Gip's Place, the last backyard juke joint in America.
Once you turn off the main drag in Bessemer, curve around the back road and create a parking spot on a piece of ground that has been overlooked by the first fifty or so cars that have beat you to the party, you walk the walk. Down the hill on a dirt path, behind a church, there's a tin-roofed shack in the distance, with sounds of laughter and music raising its roof. Outside, crowds circle a roaring fire. There are young people, old people, white and black, ladies in sequins and men in flannels, hippies and cowboys, all crowded into an intimate hall with a screen door separating the front section from the back. You eye a vacant table, chair or sofa, and you run. For the next few hours, you lay claim to your spot while you enjoy the musical acts that come from across the country to say they've played at Gip's.
And while the band takes a break, Gip himself takes the stage in his blazing white head-to-toe duds. He picks up his guitar, gets warmed up, brings the mic closer and begins his song. Close by, a little glass of water, most assuredly moonshine as those who know him best claim. However, this isn't his first performance of the evening; every Saturday night begins the same as he introduces himself and the band to the crowd, encourages everyone to have safe and fun evening, and leads the crowd a prayer and in singing Amazing Grace. At this point, you know this is one-of-a-kind.
After his song, the crowd-appointed rock star shimmies through the wall-to-wall people, posing for selfies and hugging ladies. And if the band returns and you're not dancing, he becomes the matchmaker, putting one hand in another and pulls the couple onto the dance floor. It's not magic; it's just another Saturday night at Gip's. There's no food or drink served, no cover, no strangers; there's only Gip and his blues; it's been this way since 1952.
Gip, or Mr. Henry as many call him, turned 97 (2018) in January with a party at Gip's Place. He's still dancing, singing, and playing matchmaker in his favorite backyard. And just maybe, this will be the Saturday night that Keith Richards makes his return visit.
Gips Place | 3101 Avenue C, Bessemer, AL
