By GREGG KIRK
January 1993, Big Shout Magazine

It was a beautiful thing. Four months of nominating, balloting, counting, calling, organizing, showcasing, and pulling hair came to a bubbling head on Tues., Dec. 15, 1992 at the Trocadero in Philadelphia. Yes, the 1992 Delaware Valley Music Poll Awards bash — the culmination of endless hours of labor by an organizing committee consisting of some of the sharpest but not entirely sane minds in this area — came rumbling into town on a cloud of good will and good intentions and left those who witnessed it standing with mouths agape.

No small animals were killed. The environment was not harmed in any way. And people from all walks of musical life, races, creeds and so on were honored with trophies, urbane (albeit drunken) speeches and outstanding performances from some of the most noteworthy bands from the region. But the most amazing thing about the night’s event was it seemed that almost everyone in attendance was genuinely happy.

It hardly seemed possible four months ago when the editor of this mag (Gregg Kirk) called up a group of skeptical but hopeful people — Carol Schutzbank (Earwig Inc.), Kathy James (J.C. Dobbs) Dave Simons (Khyber Pass/Trocadero), Robert Drake (WXPN), and Sherri Bonghi (Star Farm Music) with the idea of organizing a readers music poll that represented the entire Delaware Valley’s music scene, genre-by-genre.

At times, the going was slow to the point of not seeming worthwhile, but when the ballots started rolling in in November and when some of the nominees were being showcased at various clubs that same month, the whole mess started to take shape.

Things solidified further when Carol Schutzbank and Sherri Bonghi took the ball and ran with it by organizing and scripting the actual awards ceremony between the two of them. Their immense effort set the stage literally for what was to come the night of the event. The icing was put on the cake when Philadelphia’s own Ruff House Records decided to sponsor the event.

A little after 1 p.m. on the night in question, perhaps 200 VIPs (I’ll bet you didn’t know there were that many in the city) were crammed into the mezzanine of the Troc, tearing into a free buffet and swilling free Rolling Rock Lights. An hour later, the flood gates were opened and bands, their girlfriends, their friends, and anyone remotely involved in the area’s scene poured through the front doors and filled the entire club. The city has never seen a privately-run bash this size.

Amidst all the hubbub and schmoozing, “Best Live Performance” nominees, Public Service?! noisily took the stage. They kicked into a version of “White Lines” that made Grandmaster Flash’s original sound old and outdated, and it was the perfect announcement for those in the room to focus their attention to the ceremony at hand.

I was standing in the middle of the audience at the time. Some people raised their half-empty bottles and let out savage whoops. The air was thick with electricity and anticipation, and it felt like something big was about to happen — whether it was going to be good or bad, I was afraid to wonder.

When co-emcee and WXPN personality Michaela Majoun approached the podium to introduce the first presenters and thereby start a chain of award giving, the bash had officially kicked into gear.

A slew of trophies were presented (“Best Country/Rockabilly Artist,” “Best Folk Artist,” “Best Jazz Artist,” and “Best Blues Artist,”) and then Patti Shea, who had just picked up the award for the “Best Folk” category, entertained the audience with a solo performance at a piano, center stage.

After a handful of other awards were given, WXPN’s Elise Brown took over as emcee and introduced Chuck Treece and Rodney Anonymous, who gave away the trophy for “Best World Music Artist” — a category Anonymous quipped that is “one of the last forms of music besides rap that white people haven’t fucked up.”

A few awards later, Zen for Primates took the stage and rolled into what has to have been the most off-beat and quirky version of “Whole Lotta Love” that anyone in attendance has ever heard.

I happened to be standing backstage a few awards later when the co-producer and stage manager Sherri Bonghi made the alarming realization that the people who were scheduled to give away the trophy for “Best Thrash Artist” were nowhere to be found. “Who can we get?!” she gasped, and suddenly I heard my name called, and my arm was yanked from me as I sipped my free backstage beer. I was unceremoniously shoved onstage, beer and all, with a DJ from WVUD named Sherman. We proceeded to stumble through our scripting for the award presentation and got the hell off the stage as fast as we could.

As soon as I stepped into the darkness and tried to get my bearings, I was yanked into a tiny room and thrown into a line-up of people who were getting their photos taken for press reasons. Minutes later, I walked out of this cell, blinded by flash bulbs, straight into the intense din of the Original Sins performance. This is when things started to rock.

The audience was pressed close to the stage. Even people who had come expecting to win awards but had lost were digging it. Musicians were exchanging cards and numbers. Backs were getting slapped left and right. No one was pissed. What the hell was going on? Except for a few instances of underage people not being allowed in the door, there hadn’t been a single complaint. I saw Kathy James wandering around — she was searching for someone who wasn’t having a good time, but she couldn’t find anybody. “I’m trying to get an objective opinion,” she said. It almost seemed odd.

After the “Lifetime Achievement Awards” were given, it was my turn on stage for a scheduled appearance. I was supposed to introduce those in the organizing committee and say nice things about the music scene. Everything I had thought of saying that night flew out of my head when the spotlight hit me. All I could manage to utter was, “Hi, I’m the asshole who started this whole thing,” and then I introduced the committee and called them the “best damned people in Philly.” They all seemed fairly happy about it (just look at the picture).

At the last minute I dragged a bound and gagged figure into the spotlight and announced him to be Big Shout employee Bill Hitchcock, the hapless soul who had counted all the ballots. I released him to the crowd and told them that if they were unhappy about any of the results, they could discuss it with him.

Soon after, newly-signed Ruff House recording artists Dandelion ruled the stage, WXPN’s Robert Drake took over as emcee, and more awards were given. The crowning moment occurred when Dandelion’s labelmates, the Goats, assaulted the audience with four songs that kept the capacity of the Troc riveted even after all of the awards had been given.

When the final noted sounded, no one was left unmoved. People were smiling and shaking hands. Others were hugging. It hardly seemed true.

When the night finally ended, there was only one thing left to say, “Good God, let’s do it again next year!”