Arlo’s songwriting is better than his pinball

Arlo Guthrie is one cool guy.

How could I, a nobody from nowhere, possibly know this about Arlo? Because I once played pinball with the man.

That’s right, baby, me and Arlo, mano-a-mano.

But before we begin, some explanation for our younger readers is in order: Arlo Guthrie was (and still is) a folk singer whose heyday was the late ‘60s and early ‘70s. He’s best known for the song, “City of New Orleans” and the incredibly dated hippie film, “Alice’s Restaurant.” He’s also the son of folk legend Woody Guthrie, who wrote — among other things — “This Land is Your Land,” which still appears in many elementary school songbooks.

As for pinball, it’s a game people played before the invention of Pong, which is a game people played before the invention of Atari, which preceded Nintendo, which preceded … look, at some point, junior, you’re just going to have to Google this stuff for yourself.

I met Arlo in the fall of 1976 or ’77, if I’m remembering correctly, which at this point in my life is no longer a sure bet.

I knew somebody big was in town when I pulled into the Holiday Inn. At the back of the hotel’s parking lot was the sort of tour bus only rock stars rent, the legend “American Rock Tours” stenciled on its gleaming chrome side panels.

My own band’s “tour bus,” a decrepit step-van with balding tires and headlights held in place with duct tape, lumbered in beside it. Usually we slept in the van or a hotel of far less repute than Detroit’s finest Holiday Inn, but the club owner at the place we were playing that night had arranged for rooms. A Holiday Inn, for myself and my three band-mates, represented the very height of luxury.

We oohed and ah’ed over the big act’s tour bus, dreaming of the day when we, too, would be Big Stars. The fact we had almost no talent did nothing to temper our ambition. We had long hair, we had guitars. The talent, we figured, could be picked up along the way.

The counter clerk eyed us dubiously (and no doubt smelled us even more dubiously) as we checked in. Nobody offered to carry our bags to our room, but since none of us had ever stayed at a hotel where that sort of thing happens, we didn’t notice.

We lay around our two rooms for a half-hour or so, relishing the fact we had beds to sleep in, beds with clean sheets! But for me the novelty soon wore off and I went in search of something with which to kill a few hours before that evening’s gig.

I found what I was looking for in the swimming pool area — two old pinball machines, both featuring garish depictions of insanely voluptuous blondes in various stages of undress. A scruffy-looking guy in torn jeans and a concert T-shirt was playing on one; I slipped a quarter into the free machine next to it.

Amid the bings, bongs and flashing lights I began to realize the guy on the next machine looked familiar. It took me a minute, but eventually it came to me.

“Hey,” I said. “You’re Arlo Guthrie.”

“I know,” he said.

“I’ve worn the grooves off ‘Last of the Brooklyn Cowboys,’” I said, referring to his album of a few years earlier.

“Thanks, man,” he said. “Wanna play?”

Arlo supplied the quarters for the next half-hour, which I thought was particularly cool considering he was a big star and I was, well, not. I told him I liked “City of New Orleans,” but thought his best tunes were among the album cuts that never got much airplay. Arlo agreed, but admitted he was happy to cash the checks “City of New Orleans” brought in, though he hadn’t written that song himself.

Arlo was (and is) a far better musician and songwriter than I am (or will ever be), but with regard to pinball, I beat him four games out of five. He was a gracious loser. It made me glad I had purchased most of his records.

We talked music for a while, sharing stories of life on the road. Arlo asked me about my little band just as if we were equals to his world-class retinue, which we were not. Eventually, we parted ways, Arlo to headline at Pine Knob, me to play a 75-seat dive along a seedy section of Woodward Avenue.

But for that half hour, in the pool room of a Detroit Holiday Inn, we were just a couple guys talking music and playing pinball. Like I said, Arlo is cool. And if he ever wants a rematch, I’m willing to meet him at the Holiday Inn pool room of his choice, provided he brings the quarters.

More Reality Check online at mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com. Email Mike Taylor at mtaylor325@gmail.com.  Buy my book!!  Less than eight lousy bucks on Amazon, it's called "Looking at the Pint Half Full" and it's probably better than you think it's going to be.