CAMBRIDGE - Even now, facing the most daunting challenge of her life, Jeanne Connolly rarely stops smiling. In fact, for a quarter-century's worth of musicians who have passed through the doors of the landmark rock club T.T. the Bear's Place, Connolly's perpetually sunny visage has often been the first, and brightest, thing they see behind the bar.
And they still see it now, if less often than the six days a week Connolly used to work back in the days when she booked a generation of '80s Boston bands like the Outlets (whose drummer, Walter Gustafson, worked there) and the Neighborhoods into the club.
Kurt Cobain saw her smile one dreary weeknight in 1991 when, Connolly remembers, his little-known punk-metal outfit - the word "grunge" hadn't yet been invented - named Nirvana played to "maybe 13 people."
"Everybody was sitting on the floor, and I was standing looking at the stage, so it was like I was here [in the club] all by myself," says Connolly, who grew up in Winchester, one of nine siblings. "I remember Kurt Cobain. He just hung around. There wasn't anybody here. I think it was a Thursday night. Six months later, they were playing the biggest places in the world."
Connolly has seen more shows and accumulated more stories than she can count. Most of the fond memories revolve around the hub of the club where she's literally spent half her life, both booking shows and bartending. But the latest chapter of her life story is a tough read. In August, while undergoing a surgical procedure, doctors discovered Connolly had colon cancer. They said it was inoperable, and that Connolly would have to undergo intensive chemotherapy.
"It was the day before my birthday when the doctor told me I had cancer," a bemused but upbeat Connolly recalls before a recent bartending shift at T.T.'s. (Remarkably, she still tries to work two or three nights every other week, when she's not undergoing chemotherapy at Massachusetts General Hospital.)
"Finding out is a shock," she says. "I've always been pretty healthy. I do smoke. My mother always said I was going to get lung cancer - I fooled her!" She laughs heartily. "But they tell you in stages, and by the 10th test, you know there's something wrong. But at least it's every other week. Some people have to go every week."
The medical bills Connolly is facing are significant to say the least. That's where those Boston bands who have been recipients of Connolly's generosity of spirit over the years come in. As a demographic, musicians tend to be all too familiar with the perils of not having enough health insurance - or any at all. What they do have is talent, and that's what they're offering as a way to help defray Connolly's medical and living expenses related to her treatment: a series of ongoing benefit shows, including tonight's at T.T. the Bear's. (Go to ttthebears.com for complete show lineups and details.)
"Jeanne and clubs like T.T's and the Middle East in Cambridge, where we cut our teeth as a band, are such vital places in our life," says Chris Colbourn, whose band Buffalo Tom is slated to perform Dec. 29. "Always making us feel welcome and warm - always making us feel part of something important and vital - especially on a rainy Tuesday night in 1987, with only our six friends in the house cheering us on."
For local '90s power-pop outfit the Pills, the benefit shows are an occasion to relive fond memories of opening for national touring artists like Robyn Hitchcock, the Velvet Crush, and Boston's own Letters to Cleo. (Connolly proudly claims that she was the first person to book Letters to Cleo singer Kay Hanley into the club.) Tonight's show marks the first time in two years the Pills will have performed together.
"Our guitar player, Dave Thompson, lives in Seattle, so it gets a bit tricky, but as soon as we heard [about Jeanne], we figured out a way to make it happen," recalls Pills singer-bassist Corin Ashley. "Everybody at T.T.'s has been like a family, and they've been very warm and encouraging to us - at times they were the only people who were warm and encouraging. It's always meant a lot to get a smile from Jeanne over the years. There were times when a thumbs-up from Jeanne behind the bar was the only thing you had going for you."
In fact, when T.T.'s music booker Randi Millman sent out the call to the local music community via e-mail last month, she was immediately flooded with requests from bands eager to participate.
"Everyone has been just amazing," says Millman. "Everyone loves Jeanne, so I knew it wouldn't be a problem getting people to play, but I have to say, I'm more than amazed at the response. I had bands who wrote to me before I even wrote to them."
Francine, which plays the Dec. 28 benefit, jumped at the chance. "Jeanne has always been a warm, funny, gregarious person, and receiving the news that she's fighting cancer was really sobering," says Francine singer-guitarist Clayton Scoble. "We just want to help out in whatever small way we can and think positively about her beating this thing."
Jay Walsh, singer-guitarist for the Douglas Fir, which also performs Dec. 28, calls Connolly "synonymous with T.T.'s. Playing a few songs to help raise some money to cover her medical costs is the least we can do."
These days, Connolly splits her time between her boyfriend's home on Cape Cod and her youngest brother's apartment in Cambridge when she's undergoing treatment. She usually spends the day in the hospital and then goes home and continues to receive chemotherapy via a port plugged in to her shoulder. Cracking up with laughter, she calls it "drive-through chemo - it's like having a pocketbook with a tube hanging out of my chest."
The treatment days are tough. One week, she screamed in pain for four days. "Basically, I can't go outside, I can't touch anything, or drink anything cold for five days," she says. "If I do, it feels like somebody's hitting me with a hammer. With one of the drugs I take, if I drink something cold, it feels like I'm suffocating. It's a frightening side effect. You don't feel like you're breathing, but you are. I did it once, and it's a horrible, horrible feeling."
For these reasons, Connolly cannot imagine not being at T.T.'s, chatting with customers, being around the bustle of musicians loading their gear into the club, or letting co-workers know where the club keeps the rock salt on a snowy winter's night. These things seem to matter more than ever now. "I love coming back," she says. "It's hard not working and not doing anything."
During the interview, several clubgoers clad in the night's preferred goth-themed attire interrupt to exchange hugs and hellos with Connolly. The outpouring of support clearly touches her.
"I'm just overwhelmed," she says when they leave. "But I feel awful. I'm used to putting benefits on for people. I never thought I'd be on this end of it."
Then Jeanne Connolly does what she's done for 25 years: She smiles brightly, and her laugh warms the room.
