A memoir from Atlanta music and comedy icon Darryl Rhoades tracks the city's rock history

Darryl Rhoades has been a fixture of the Atlanta music and comedy scene since the 1970s. Born in 1950, Rhoades grew up in Forest Park. He came of age during Atlanta’s hippie movement that was centered around Piedmont Park and frequented the city’s first rock clubs that sprang up in that area.

In 1975, he formed Darryl Rhoades and the Hahavishnu Orchestra (the name was a spoof on the groundbreaking jazz group Mahavishnu Orchestra), a 12-piece band that toured nationally and incorporated often outrageous performance art with songs that were infused with comedic satire. Kurt Loder, of Rolling Stone and MTV fame, wrote at the time that Rhoades was “one of the most savagely gifted writer/performers in the country today.”

Rhoades later formed the band Men From Glad, a prominent Atlanta group in the 1980s. In 1988, he shifted to stand-up comedy. While he still releases music, stand-up has become his primary focus.

He recently published a memoir, The Road To Almost: The Lean Years . . . 1950-2024 that is infused with stories about the early rock scene in Atlanta, his often wild stage antics, and his keen sense of humor. Rhoades recently spoke with us about the book.

In the words of the late Col. Bruce Hampton, our culture is losing its “characters,” people who stretch the boundaries of what’s considered normal. You’ve had one of the most eclectic lives one could imagine. What prompted you to write a book, and how difficult was it to bring those stories alive on the written page?

I wrote the book after being reminded by a few lifelong friends that the lifestyle many of us lived earlier no longer exists. There are no teen clubs, fewer clubs promoting original and diverse music, and concerts are less accessible with growing ticket prices to make up for lost income from streaming music.

Bruce was correct about losing “characters,” but it’s bigger than that. The birth of influencers, devices that promote closeness from a distance, and the sense that copying is more sought out than originality makes the world smaller. I also wrote the book because I don’t want someone making up or changing the stories when I can no longer speak.

You were coming of age and getting into music during the “Hippie era” in Atlanta, when kids congregated around 10th Street and 14th Street and the city’s first rock clubs were opening. How do you describe that scene to people who didn’t experience it firsthand? 

The vibe was very chill on one end, with the music and introduction to new sounds and smells—my first fog machine experience, which smelled like a Mercedes-Benz with a leaky gasket, happened while playing at the Catacombs—and being around like-minded people.

I was raised in Forest Park and except for a few friends, I felt pretty isolated. It wasn’t uncommon for a construction worker to throw bottles at me from their truck because of my hair. Being around others with a passion for music and seemingly open-mindedness was a new world for me.

It was also when I was introduced to how dangerous it could be to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. The police were always looking for a reason to search you and hoping to get a response that would prompt them to throw you in the backseat in handcuffs.  I never did drugs but walked into two different situations where friends were being busted for drugs, and I was met at the door by the cops in both situations. Since I didn’t have drugs on me, I was let go, but I’m not sure everyone was treated that way.

I met a lot of wonderful people while working at the Catacombs; sadly, many are no longer around.  Hearing Ellen McIllwayne was mind-altering as a songwriter, singer, and one of the best slide players I ever heard.  So many people, such as Joe South and Ray Whitley (both songwriters enshrined in the Georgia Music Hall of Fame), were my mentors. I don’t hear any ghosts when I stand on the corner of 14th and Peachtree these days; the traffic has drowned them out.

Courtesy of Darryl Rhoades

When the Sex Pistols made its infamous North American debut in 1978 in Atlanta at the Great Southeast Music Hall, you sat in with the opening act, Cruise-O-Matic. What was that craziness like? 

I was asked to sit in at the end of their set and perform a song that I’d performed many times with the Hahavishnu Orchestra, “Boot In Your Face,” which was more of a take-off on The Ramones but still had the capability to piss off punk fans, specifically Sex Pistols fans.  We knew there’d be pushback, actually, we hoped there’d be pushback, and the target was hit.

Yes, it was a circus. I sat in the dressing room with those guys, and they looked nervous except for Sid Vicious. He just looked like he was circling another galaxy. When Cruise-O-Matic hit the stage, they experienced some resistance. Pistol’s fans probably weren’t dialed into “I’m a Girl Watcher” or “Secret Agent Man.”

When I was introduced, I was wearing a baseball jersey with “Kill Me” spray painted on my chest. I stuck a huge safety pin made out of a clothes hanger in my mouth, and had an incredibly large safety pin made from welded metal strapped around my waist to appear as if it was running through my stomach.  I was the recipient  of several tomatoes and enough eggs to make a small omelet. The Pistols were warned not to spit on anyone, but I picked up the slack since I wasn’t.

Courtesy of Darryl Rhoades

Your music career was marked by your band, the legendary and notorious Hahavishnu Orchestra. It was part comedy, part performance art, part music. How do you reflect back on that band?

It was an era that produced [Frank] Zappa, The Bonzo Dog Band, The Tubes, and a few other bands that appealed to my taste. I wrote then as I do now, whatever hits my groove. I started writing simple, funny songs like “Leprosy Queen,” “The Song is Boring,” and “Suicide” that were so over the top that hearing them made an impact which snowballed.

When I started hanging out with [legendary New York City songwriter] Doc Pomus, he was encouraging and got every angle of what we were doing. Martin Mull was a fan, but he viewed us as competition. I don’t mean that as a criticism; he was one of my heroes. He told me he was humiliated when he had to follow us, and I understood what he meant. He came out solo, sitting on a couch playing guitar, and performed smartly crafted songs after our over-the-top, circus-like performance with costumes, dancers, backup singers in drag and a very tight band playing all styles of music.

You did a lot of appearances on WTBS. And you were part of the Tush universe, which was a cutting edge comedy show hosted by Bill Tush in 1980 that launched several prominent careers including Jan Hooks, who later became a Saturday Night Live cast member, and Bonnie and Terry Turner, who later created 3rd Rock From the Sun and That ’70s Show. What’s your favorite memory from that show?

The segment we did as a takeoff of the Johnny Carson show was easily my favorite. Jan played the part of a self-absorbed famous singer and performed the “I Am Woman” Helen Reddy parody that I wrote during the Hahavishnu Orchestra period. I wore a lime green leisure suit, a wig that looked like road kill, and a Mr. T starter kit around my neck. Jan was as sweet and funny as advertised. She was in several of my WTBS appearances and always excellent. But this one episode will always hit the groove for me.

Although you continue to release music, you turned to stand-up comedy in 1988. What prompted that transition, and what has proven to be the biggest challenge compared to performing music?

Being on the road with 14 people is like herding cats. Maintaining a large band on a national tour with several vehicles was challenging, but adding in the difficulties of doing so under a less-than-friendly budget made it almost impossible.

After disbanding the Men From Glad in 1988, I entered some comedy competitions and quickly started getting work and a steady paycheck. It satisfied my need to be on stage, and I love being alone most of the time while I’m traveling. The downside is missing the camaraderie on stage and the bantering you feed off of with good friends.

My comedy is a little different than most of those I’ve worked with. I go from straight standup to music, spoken work, and singing a capella. Sometimes I’ll work the crowds for a good bit, but rarely work blue and never do politics. I’d probably anger a lot of people if I went that direction mainly because I see what I see and hear what I hear. I still enjoy stand-up but try to only work venues I enjoy. I’m not chasing anything; I got stuff to do everyday no matter where I am.

If you could go back and give one piece of advice to your 21-year-old self, what would it be?

I don’t have a long list. I did everything I wanted at the time and what I haven’t done yet is on my list for things to do. I surrounded myself with great friends, broke a few hearts, and had mine broken a few times, so I’d say we’re even.

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