With his long hair and even-longer beard, not to mention the glare that seemed to bore right through you, the first time I laid eyes upon Phil Thalman he reminded me of Porter Rockwell — or at least, as I had yet to actually learn of Porter Rockwell, an avenging angel of some stripe.
He had recently opened a drinking establishment across the street from my newly acquired digs behind the Miners Hospital when it was up near the resort, and it was immediately obvious that it would take more than just being a paying customer to gain his trust. He could smell a Californian a mile off.
In actuality, I hailed from the panhandle of Idaho, but my base of operations during the ’60s, with time off for a hitch in the Army and a bit of traveling, had been L.A. Obviously, at least to Phil’s perspective, it hadn’t washed off. Becoming part of his inner circle wasn’t going to be an easy sell.
The Ore House featured a bar downstairs, which Phil tended, and a strip joint upstairs where his sister and business partner, the legendary Shirley Price, disrobed to various recorded musical backbeats of the day. Shirley had up-and-left her somewhat-profitable stripping gig further up Empire Avenue at the C’est Bon when family, and ownership, beckoned.
In those days, with saloon-rich Old Town seemingly light years away, having a watering hole close by made the neighborhood much more user-friendly. And, although all that facial hair hid the particulars, I sensed Phil softening with each subsequent visit. Along with the residents of what would later become the “Palace Flophouse,” we supported the new haunt-in-the-hood as best we could.
Although this specific drinking establishment wouldn’t worm its way into the collective consciousness to the point that Thalman would become known in our nickname-rich community as “Ore House Phil,” his next entrepreneurial endeavor very much would.
Phil would open the now-iconic “Handlebar” on upper Main Street in a formerly-used venue much larger than his previous grogshop. Here, a beautifully forehead-worn wooden long-bar ran from the entrance down to a stage and dance-floor area where a jukebox and live acoustic music would often hold forth.
This is where the American musical treasure Elizabeth “Libba” Cotten would show up with Mike Seeger and perform a night’s worth of classics including her own “Freight Train” and where Ramblin’ Jack Elliott would stumble in for a guest set with John and Irene Ullman, crooning “Mule Skinner Blues” and “Don’t Think Twice” along the way.
This is where a group of astrologically-challenged regulars, social misfits all, would concoct and stage the infamous “Sagittarian Drag Ball” and where New Years Eve parties would last until halftime of the Rose Bowl the next day. And, most assuredly, this is where Phil Thalman would become, forevermore, “Handlebar Phil.”
Once he shut the doors to the Handlebar, Phil moved down the street to join up with Billy Ross, then bar manager at the Utah Coal & Lumber restaurant. As far as the locals were concerned, this would become a marriage made in heaven. Over time, Phil and Billy would morph into quite possibly the most quintessential barkeep-sidekick duo in Park City’s long history of over-the-counter beverage distribution.
They would help organize a couple of round-trip bus jaunts down to Salt Lake for, first, a Merle Haggard concert and, next, two busloads to catch the opening show of Willie & Waylon’s “Outlaw Tour.” And their vinyl music stash at the UC&L bar rivaled most any private collection in town.
Later, Phil and his burgeoning family would slip off to more wide-open spaces out along Woodenshoe Lane in Peoa. There, in keeping with his longtime involvement in community social affairs, he would join forces with Gayle Dahl in putting on a few of her earliest “70s Reunion” gatherings. Damn, I miss those days!
And, although we hadn’t touched bases in several years, he always had a way of coming up in conversations about what we all considered Park City’s golden age. So last week, when word arrived that his days were winding down to a precious few, the memory bank slipped into overdrive. And when, a couple of days later, he passed while holding Billy’s hand, the floodgates opened and have yet to close. We’ll have another round down at this end, Phil. Put it on Lightnin’s tab.
Jay Meehan is a culture junkie and an observer, participant, and chronicler of the Park City and Wasatch County social scenes for the past 40 years.