THE WORLD FAMOUS CRABETTES

The
"World-Famous Crabettes”

                                                                                                                                                    Ted Eldridge                                                            

The short hall on the lower level of Christ Church has a grid of choir box cubbies on one side and robe racks on the other. The St. Julian Street entrance funnels all of the 40+ singers in somewhat staggered fashion on Sunday mornings. During the fifteen minutes before ten o’clock warm-up, anyone walking innocently down St. Julian Street, by that door, could easily get caught in the flow and end up being fitted for a robe before

knowing what had happened. We are SERIOUS about being ready. The jumble of black robes, hymnals, bulletins, hangers, white cottas being thrown over heads to cover the robes, music folders, sport coats and suit jackets being removed and reading glasses being found and put on makes a high school locker room at game time seem organized. But, we get it done.

And, somehow, among the din of activity and articles and arms flying around, actual conversations are held – or are at least started. The comment, “I’ll catch you after church” is the most common ending as someone opens the door to the practice room and the vacuum sucks everyone in.

It was during this brief, frenzied period, with white cotta half over my head – enough to render me temporarily blind - that I heard the distinctive voice of Anita. She was talking to me. “Ted, would you consider singing with the Crabettes?”

I would describe Anita as “blunt,” a refreshing and sometimes comical trait. She talks as though she might not have time to elaborate. It’s the Jack Webb approach from the old ‘50s television series, Dragnet: “Just the facts, Ma’am.”

I hardly had time to ask, “Are you serious?” and add, “I’d be honored!” when my cotta slid down my face onto the robe and I was confronted by Anita – eyeball-to-eyeball. The “whooooosh” of the vacuum began to tug us into the practice room.

“I’ll talk with you after church,” she said.

A little background is in order here. The band is not known locally as simply “The Crabettes.” Officially, they are “The World-Famous Crabettes,” and they’re Savannah’s own. Their formation years ago is said to have grown out of a need for some lively

entertainment at an evening birthday party planned for Polly’s mother, Big Polly. It was to be outside, on the Skidaway River on Isle of Hope. Everyone in the group who would be at the party played at least one musical instrument and/or sang.

They needed to quickly come up with a theme to tie them together. Considering where they lived - their lifetimes spent on the rivers, marshes, bluffs and islands of Savannah – AND – the fact that a fresh line of live blue crabs had just been brought in by someone in the family, with rubber bands they attached the moving crustaceans to straw hats and were ready to perform. The Crabettes were born!

The core of the group has been the accordionists from the start, surrounded by a clarinetist, banjo player, fiddler, guitarists, keyboardist, and drummer. And, as if a touch of the unusual were really needed, the gut-bucket player has long been considered indispensable.

Vocalists are really back-up for the group; but, the players insist that the singers stand in front at all gigs. These ladies, all accomplished musicians, and gentlemen, each with the innate gift of an ear for music, are not interested in seeking personal recognition. They just enjoy being team players and drawing an audience into the fun they have together performing familiar songs from the 40s and 50s, a time almost all of them well remember. When they play, a good time is ALWAYS had by all. They’ve performed in such venues as the River Street waterfront on the anniversary of the Skidaway Island National Oceanographic Institute; the Coastal Georgia Bamboo Farm and Gardens out on old Hwy. 17 for the traditional Savannah Strawberry Supper; at Trinity Methodist Church downtown for the funeral of a band member (they played “When the Saints Go Marchin’ In” at the request of the deceased); at Velvet Elvis, a club on West Congress Street, with a band named Fleshy Foreskin ; in Forsyth Park, to celebrate National Accordion Week; at the Westin Hotel on Hutchinson Island; in the woods down toward Darien for a Georgia Wildlife Conservation picnic, at nursing facilities and on the Green for Tybee Island’s anniversary bash.

I think the official name expanded to include “World-Famous” when Clint Eastwood insisted the flavor of Savannah be enhanced in his filming of Midnight in the Garden of Evil  by including the Crabettes in the cast. Of course, it only added to their notoriety when they were beckoned to play at a university graduation affair up in Maryland. And, their fame now extends to a highly acclaimed appearance on the Travel Channel’s series, Stranded with Cash Peters, when Savannah was the highlighted city of one segment.

But, all of this name recognition has not gone to their heads (or their shells or their pincers). The “World-Famous Crabettes” remain local – one of Savannah’s unique treasures and traditions.

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In the process of repeating the weekly ritual in the little hall after church - shoulders rubbing, hangers falling on the floor, the young Choristers dropping hymnals and tripping over one another, all angles of arms tangled in partially removed robes, and friends continuing conversations started before the service, Anita picked up on ours. “Well, are you going to sing with us?”

Still somewhat stunned and excited to have been asked, I hesitated for just a second.

Now, for those from the “outside” who haven’t yet experienced a “World-Famous Crabette” event, the significance of this invitation warrants further explanation.

This group generates an energy and provides cheer to a level that must be heard and seen to be fully appreciated. The unassuming, down-home enjoyment of people who come and the positive, humorous, exotic and patriotic music selected catch every audience like a Southern breeze: it kinda comes out of nowhere; but, is instantly comfortable and welcomed. It is relaxing and exciting at the same time. Feet are tapping and those in the audience are singing long before they realize it. It clears a person’s head – sweeps it clean of the debris of the day and the contemporary sounds of the media.

The homespun hospitality and shtick of the band members could be deceiving. Most of the group, both She-crabs and Jimmy-crabs, trace their family lines back to (or somewhere in the neighborhood of) the founders of this first settlement in the 13^th colony. And, although unspoken, that means something here. To the discriminating observer, the signs are there:  unconscious use of the manners and kindnesses their Mammas taught them; a sometimes startling, straightforward confidence delivered softly – as the brush of a magnolia blossom against your cheek; a locking of eyes with no hint of timidity when chatting with you;  inbred understanding of understated style – from dress to hairstyle to how a visitor is welcomed at the door; and, of course, the give-away – the pronunciation of one particular sound that distinguishes a true Savannahian from every other Southerner – the one you have to listen for very carefully – the sound of  “o” as it comes through such words as “house.” It’s subtle; but, definitely there. It’s not quite the Middle English of their their forebears, and is said to have been influenced by language developed by the first slaves brought into the port of Savannah – from African tribes via a generation or two living on the Caribbean Islands, with a dash of the Cajun of New Orleans; the language and culture known today as “Gullah” or “Geechee.”

Anita told me straight out, “Anyone new has to fit in. The group will have to meet and hear you. But, I think you’ll do all right. I think you’re just crazy enough to be able to pull it off.”

“Anita, I’m flattered that you would ask—I’m bowled over!” I responded. I really was. “I’ll give it my best shot. It will be an experience just to attend one of your practices. If the group decides I’m not the crab for this soup, I can handle it. I’m a big boy. Just let me know…    Do you practice on a regular basis? Should I just drop in and observe a few practices?  When will you be getting together to practice? And, when do you need someone to fill in?”

“Why, we need someone to fill in this afternoon.  Can you make it?”

(It was already afternoon! – twelve-thirty, by the clock.)

“Well… Sure. Tell me what I need to know,” I said.

“You’ll need to wear black slacks. Do you have black slacks? And, a white shirt – a dress shirt, like the one you are wearing. Do you have a straw hat? You’ll need some sort of hat. I’ll try to find a vest for you. We all wear bright red, yellow or green vests with felt crabs sewn all over them. The gig is at the Bamboo Farm. You’ll need to be there at 4:30. We play at 5:00 for the Savannah Strawberry Supper.”

“All right. I’ve got it… I think,” I managed, as Anita turned, took the brass knob of the St. Julian Street door and pushed it open.

“Oh,” she said over her shoulder, above the street noise of a tour group strolling by. “Do you know the music?”

“Will you have the words there?” I asked.

“Yes.” Anita  called from outside, halfway to her car.

I caught the door with my foot and hollered out, “Then, yes. I know the music.”

The heavy door shut with its reverberating whack. I didn’t have a clue as to whether I knew the music. Anita hadn’t told me what they would be playing.

I had no black slacks and no straw hat.

But, it didn’t matter. I was going to be singing with Savannah’s own “World-Famous Crabettes!”