The places and names trip off his tongue the way hot drum licks did from his sticks, back in the day.  Oiled by a sunny April Saturday and just a wee taste of Buckeye Lake Brewery’s finest liquid sunshine, Paul Clark is holding court, and the troops are dazzled.

Crystal Ballroom.  Valley Dale.  Jerry Rasor and Dance Rama.   Ziggy Coyle. Buddy Rich. Lionel Hampton. Gene Krupa.

Gene bleeping Krupa?  Three drummers, a half-generation younger, sit up a little straighter.

Clark laughs.  Heck yes. We were the warm-up band.  I was setting up my drums, playing a little.  Krupa’s kit was already up.  I looked around, and there he was. He said, Want to try these, kid?

You played Gene Krupa’s drums??!!!?

Yep.  Those guys were amazing. Had a rack on either side of the drums, just for booze.  Those fellas, they went at it hard.

The stories flow, and the years slip away. This bright Saturday afternoon is 58 years from that first gig, Labor Day weekend at The Granville Inn.

Battles of the Bands.  Gene Fullen on WTVN.  Del Shannon.  The Drifters, Herman’s Hermits. The Coasters.  Clark’s own band, The Possums, named for the garish suede Thom McAns that were all the rage.

State fairs, backing up Sonny and Cher. Clark shakes his head and smirks.

That’s when she looked like Cher.  She always wore these really high, white go-go boots. Sonny looked back at us once and said, Boys, you’ll never lose the beat if you just keep looking at Cher’s legs.

Yacht Club.  Amvets. Copper Penny and Papa Boo’s.  Local festivals.  The Paul Clark Party Band is the thing now.  Put-In-Bay has called.  Again. Still.

I told ‘em, it’s seven of us.  That’s hauling the truck over on the ferry.  Lodging, the whole deal.  I said to the girl doin' the booking, that’s a big number.

DJ’s.  Karaoke. Changes in entertainment tastes. Fewer places willing to commit to live music, especially with all the guys - the horns, drums, keyboards, bass, and guitar Clark loves most.

There have been health problems, too, the last few years. But you wouldn’t know it on a perfect Saturday afternoon on the Buckeye Lake Brewery patio, where the passion for the music, the joy of being on stage, the great good fun of it all can make a grizzled old road dog young again.

He checks his watch.  Oh God.  It’s my night to cook.  Jackie’s gonna kill me.

Then somebody mentions a classic drum kit, big sound, pearl rims, which reminds him of the time when...

Maybe Jackie’s dinner can wait just a bit longer.  Paul Clark is holding court, and the troops are dazzled. Again. Still.