A few
years ago, visiting Scottsdale, Arizona for the first time, Donna
wandered through Old Towne, a tiny neighborhood of the city, charming
streets adorned with galleries, shops and restaurants. This section of
Scottsdale is steeped in Old West history. She came across a little
storefront bar, quite ordinary, a virtual hole in the wall, but with
the welcoming twang of guitar strings coming from within. So, to escape
the heat of high noon, she stepped through the swinging doors of the Rusty Spur Saloon.
This summer, July 2010, returning to Phoenix with my dear friend,
Warren, I insisted we go to Old Town, Scottsdale. Once again, in the
lazy afternoon heat, we entered the Spur
and were immediately surrounded by a cool, dimly lit, tiny place.
Little did we know we were stepping into the oldest cowboy bar in
Arizona, a genuine registered historic landmark. (It even has a
hitching post out front.)
Friendly voices of “Hi-ya” greeted us. Several small tables lined
the walls of this 800 square foot room, a few in the middle. As every
afternoon and evening, there was live country western music. And never
a cover charge! This afternoon we heard a terrific
guitarist-singer. He happened to be from West Chester, Pa., a town next
to where Warren grew up, though both guys pulled up stakes several
decades ago. This cowboy had us chuckling and singing along. The
house band “Psychobilly Rodeo Band” draws
a
crowd
whenever they take
the stage.
JIMMY HORNICK SINGIN' TO THE COWBOYS
.
. . AND GIRLS
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Looking around the place, every inch of the walls was decorated with
dollar bills, license plates and assorted Western and some Eastern
memorabilia. It seems John Wayne and Clint Eastwood bent an elbow
there at one time.
The bar spans the mirrored back wall, bar stools side by side. We sat
in the corner, next to two charming regulars, Myron and Rudy, both
hat-clad and friendly. We chatted about local history and lore
and general all around Spur etiquette. Myron commented on the
musician’s attire. Warren was fascinated to hear that the singer was
wearing his cowboy hat correctly – straight on his head, one inch above
his ears.
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Photo by Warren J. Spindler and
Donna Garcia
TRENT,
RUDY,
AND
MYRON
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Our bartender, “Trent”, served up a terrific Margarita and a series of
great local and micro-brewed bottled beers, including 8th Street Ale
from Four Peaks Brewing. Later, we
wished we had grabbed some grub, as
the hamburgers looked and smelled scrumptious. And Warren coveted
Trent’s brim.
Ron and Susan Anderson co-own
the Rusty Spur, 2011 will be the
60th anniversary for the bar. Ron and Susan bought it back on
October 3, 2000.
We were also introduced to the Spur’s version of the shot glass, to our
eyes, considerably larger than what we know back East. And, of course,
the whiskey being poured, not measured by an electronic shot maker, but
by a sympathetic barman. When we asked Myron what determines the amount
of libation poured, he glibly remarked “the more pitiful the patron
looked, the more whiskey showed up in the glass!”
And although there was a television on in the corner, it didn’t seem to
hamper conversation, laughter, calls across the bar or listening
pleasure of us all.
So, when in Phoenix, get to Scottsdale within its city limits. Head
towards Old Town. It’s easy to find the Rusty
Spur. Arrive at noon, at
happy hour or at the end of a night on the town. Step through that
door. You’ll squint, sigh and smile in this honestly real cowboy
saloon. You’ll probably stay too long. And you will vow to return.
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JAN
CARRITT
ON GUITAR PROMPTING SOME DEEP DIP DANCING
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AN
AUTHENTIC
COWBOY
EXPERIENCE
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