Though rockstar lore is filled with mudshark-sized stories about hotel hedonism, my experience working as a bellman for Warren Haynes and his Asheville Christmas Jam thankfully shattered the stereotype of the room-destroying rock n’ roll maniac (RIP Ozzy).
The term “bellman” is a word rarely heard nowadays, outdated in many ways. But almost two decades ago, it entailed doing whatever guest services were needed at a high-end hotel in downtown Asheville. The yearly highlight for the staff was when we’d block out the hotel to host Warren Haynes and his guests for the annual Christmas Jam, the long-running, star-studded benefit concert for Asheville Area Habitat for Humanity (and now BeLoved Asheville as well).
Before working my first Christmas Jam weekend, I’d heard stories from employees of Jams past—one bellman found out that you do not joke around with Trey Anastasio about the entire town of Asheville not recycling—but I never had to deal with any ego friction. The entire operation had the down-to-earth feel of a family reunion taking over a hotel, with the patriarch of the event holding court in a top-floor suite.
Not all the Jam artists stayed at the hotel, however, with some opting for other arrangements. Dave Matthews had a room booked, but he never set foot in the hotel. There were the awkward couple hours after the planned checkout time of debating whether or not we needed to check his room for signs of life. [Editor’s note: Dave Matthews is alive and well, as of this publication.]
The late Bernie Worrell (Parliament-Funkadelic, Talking Heads) showed up wearing a coonskin hat and batting gloves¹. I made small talk in an elevator with the guy whose dance moves I rewound my VHS copy of Stop Making Sense to watch. He was a true freak, in every complimentary and historical sense of the word.
Bernie was standing outside the hotel, too close to showtime for it to make sense why he wasn’t at the venue. The shuttle seemed to have forgotten him, or vice versa, and I offered to give him a ride to the show. I remember being self-conscious about whatever music was playing when my car started—god forbid I be judged by the guy from P-Funk for listening to Arcade Fire.
Amid the star power, though, were many moments of regular humanity. One time, John Popper—whose room had to be aired out with a humidifier for days, as someone in the Blues Traveler frontman’s room tested the limits of the hotel’s already-relaxed “no smoking” policy during Christmas Jam weekends—and Taj Mahal approached the front desk mid-conversation about what kind of dogs they had and how they care for them when they’re on the road, a reminder these musicians are just dudes who want to make sure someone is taking care of their pups.
The man born Henry St. Claire Fredericks Jr. checked in under the name Taj Mahal, rather than obliging the motif of using a phony name. There were some great hotel aliases, though. I don’t think there’s any harm in sharing that the late B.B. King checked in as Pump Davidson, and Widespread Panic guitarist Jimmy Herring‘s was essentially a Bart Simpson prank phone call to Moe’s Tavern (no, not Hugh Jass).
Mr. Mahal had to check out of his room a few hours before his ride to the airport arrived, and he needed somewhere to keep his guitar. Hotel policy was to hold whatever items for guests behind the front desk once they’d checked out, and his prized instrument that entertained thousands the night before was just a guest’s stowed luggage for a few hours.
Stripped from the spotlight of the stage, any of the guest musicians could have easily been mistaken for just another tourist visiting Asheville.²
The old guy with the dorky hat? The Grateful Dead and Tupac approved Bruce Hornsby. The hippie chick stressing out over one thing or another? A pre-platinum (blonde) Grace Potter. Jason, the guy from Brooklyn, walking around with his own personalized crate of vinyl? DJ Logic.
No TVs flying out windows. No outtakes from This Is Spın̈al Tap or Almost Famous. Just people, who just so happened to be in town as part of Asheville’s longest-running musical event, making sure their room keys worked.
The two years of working at the hotel during the Jam provided no shocking clickbait headlines—Bernie Worrell Glove Mystery REVEALED—and the closest thing to a scandal that weekend actually happened about 850 miles away.
Gov’t Mule drummer Matt Abts was chatting with some friends about the news he’d just received. Someone who sounded like a friend of his had been arrested on some serious drug charges somewhere in upstate New York. I heard the name “Trey,” and after a few minutes realized that I was well aware of who he was talking about, but that’s another story.
Warren’s management would leave an envelope of cash at the front desk upon checkout. The gesture more than compensated for not getting a single tip the entire weekend (which was more than understandable for people who were there as literal acts of charity). The bell staff would split up the cash, currency that would not hold the same value as being able to say I got to bring Peter Frampton coffee one morning.
The hotel is still there, but a new one has been added to downtown Asheville just about every year of the nearly two decades since, so Warren and crew have found other accommodations, I hear. But still the same Jam, same time of year, same town, only with a different set of well-behaved rock stars to be checked into their rooms by a different guy in a vest and tie.
Warren Haynes’ Christmas Jam returns to Asheville on Saturday, December 13th, with Warren Haynes & Friends and a tribute to Grateful Dead bassist Phil Lesh, Stone Temple Pilots, MJ Lenderman, Daniel Donato’s Cosmic Country, and more. Tickets are on sale here.
¹He explained that the gloves were to protect his hands, seemingly as unaware of incoming curveballs as modern hand protection.
²Marty Stuart & His Fabulous Superlatives may be the one exception. They looked at all times like they were pulled directly from a ’90s pop-country video. I still don’t know who the hell the guy is, and no one else who worked there seemed to either. There was a signed CD from Marty that sat in the breakroom for a few weeks before I decided I’d be the lucky one to keep it, eventually tossing it in the trash without ever giving it a listen. He carried his own marker with him for autographs, one of which found its way into an Asheville landfill.