Introduction... Inspiration:
Chicago Stories was inspired by a fluke. By chance, pre-Covid I bought this small self-published book called Music To My Eyes by Dmitry Samarov. It was a collection of little vignettes about Chicago bands and music venues (mostly) and it looked intriguing. So I tossed it in my shopping bag at Dusty Groove Music Store and kind of forgot about it. Then came quarantine and I was in my house 24/7. As I was cleaning out some stuff one day, I stumbled over the book. My wife and I had ordered an “adult kiddie pool” for the backyard and I made myself a cup of coffee, grabbed the book, and climbed in the pool. Maybe lockdown wasn’t so bad.
Within the pages of Dmitry’s book I found solace from the madness of our upside-down reality. His stories featured many bands I knew and loved, musicians I had worked with, venues where I’d spent so many memorable nights. I felt like I was in on this conversation of music, art, and urban life at its best, its realest. I was reconnected to a world I prayed would someday return — a time when live music, happy laughter, and passionate conversation could prevail.
So I read all of Dmitry’s books. They held the same tonic for me — from Old Style (my second favorite) about dive bars and the culture and history of local corner taverns, then the Hack book(s) about his adventures driving a cab around the city of Chicago (All Hack my fav), I kept going and read them all. I looked up his art and listened to his podcasts for breakfast every morning until finally I ran out of Dmitry’s artistic offerings (or so I thought). I needed more.
Serendipitously, his work kept turning up in my life. I went to the Pleasant House Pub one rainy night — completely random — I was looking for pie (cherry) but instead found a sumptuous Steak and Ale Pie topped with a little dough crown… and Dmitry’s art all over the wall!! WTF?! How could I literally shlep across town to a place I’d never heard of for a pie I didn’t get and find my favorite Chicago artist? It was kismet.
But then, I really was all out of his “art crack” and I still needed more, so I began writing my own Chicago stories. Just to try and recapture some connection with a city I have loved since I was old enough to know I didn’t want to stay in the suburbs where I was raised.
Check out some of Dmitry’s work and I hope you enjoy this book as much as I enjoyed all of his! www.dmitrysamarov.com
Chicago Stories was inspired by a fluke. By chance, pre-Covid I bought this small self-published book called Music To My Eyes by Dmitry Samarov. It was a collection of little vignettes about Chicago bands and music venues (mostly) and it looked intriguing. So I tossed it in my shopping bag at Dusty Groove Music Store and kind of forgot about it. Then came quarantine and I was in my house 24/7. As I was cleaning out some stuff one day, I stumbled over the book. My wife and I had ordered an “adult kiddie pool” for the backyard and I made myself a cup of coffee, grabbed the book, and climbed in the pool. Maybe lockdown wasn’t so bad.
Within the pages of Dmitry’s book I found solace from the madness of our upside-down reality. His stories featured many bands I knew and loved, musicians I had worked with, venues where I’d spent so many memorable nights. I felt like I was in on this conversation of music, art, and urban life at its best, its realest. I was reconnected to a world I prayed would someday return — a time when live music, happy laughter, and passionate conversation could prevail.
So I read all of Dmitry’s books. They held the same tonic for me — from Old Style (my second favorite) about dive bars and the culture and history of local corner taverns, then the Hack book(s) about his adventures driving a cab around the city of Chicago (All Hack my fav), I kept going and read them all. I looked up his art and listened to his podcasts for breakfast every morning until finally I ran out of Dmitry’s artistic offerings (or so I thought). I needed more.
Serendipitously, his work kept turning up in my life. I went to the Pleasant House Pub one rainy night — completely random — I was looking for pie (cherry) but instead found a sumptuous Steak and Ale Pie topped with a little dough crown… and Dmitry’s art all over the wall!! WTF?! How could I literally shlep across town to a place I’d never heard of for a pie I didn’t get and find my favorite Chicago artist? It was kismet.
But then, I really was all out of his “art crack” and I still needed more, so I began writing my own Chicago stories. Just to try and recapture some connection with a city I have loved since I was old enough to know I didn’t want to stay in the suburbs where I was raised.
Check out some of Dmitry’s work and I hope you enjoy this book as much as I enjoyed all of his! www.dmitrysamarov.com
Two Excerpts:
The Chicago Hawaii Connection
My dad died in Oahu at Queen’s Medical Center. He had really been through the ringer and was now at his final hour. It happened fast and I wasn’t there but I did get to say good-bye before he went into a coma. He went to Hawaii, Hauula to be exact, because he was at the end of his marriage to my stepmom after almost 50 years, and it was sad and ugly and he needed to heal. He moved in with my brother who was living there with his wife.
As I may have said before in other stories, when my brother moved there I thought I’d never see him again but what happened is somehow I started visiting…also at very poignant times in my life. People were kind…they saw something in my eyes. Where their should have been distain for this blond Haole they instead were friendly, almost treating me like a strange distant family member. A guy in the hair isle in Long’s Drug Store called me Sister, while I helped him chose some hair products for his very curly long hair. There were lots of little moments of tender inclusion for no apparent reason.
My brother and I had not been super close before he relocated, but that changed as he drove me on Kam Hwy. With the ocean to my right and the green mountains to the left, as the song “I Can’t Move” from The Weeds soundtrack played, and he pointed out The Stairway to Heaven— and we began to really talk like brother and sister…like two orphans reunited on this “rock.”
It was not my first time in Hawaii. I’d been here years prior when my two cousins, who were in the military, were stationed here. I saw Honolulu and the Dole Farm, drank Lion coffee from the grocery store, and ate some Malasada’s on the beach watching the sunrise after barhopping at the Sugar Mill. But I wasn’t hooked.
I was hooked standing in line talking to the people on their lunch break at The Superette getting a poke bowls. Eating some Ted’s carrot cake talking to my brother and sister-in-law until the wee hours while my wife, Polly, and I healed from my dad’s passing.
If God lived anywhere, somehow, I think it would be here. For all the times I have felt “not let in” like I was an intruder or a burden, this land that has every reason to cast me out, drew me in. It was ironically the same feeling I had when I moved to Chicago. So many lost souls seem to find grounding or a place in this gumbo of diversity that I call home. That is why my two favorite places to be are Chicago and Hawaii. I’m always casting my net out for more experiences and travel, but these two places feel like home. *This story pairs well with the song - Bonnie Raitt, Feels Like Home”.
My dad died in Oahu at Queen’s Medical Center. He had really been through the ringer and was now at his final hour. It happened fast and I wasn’t there but I did get to say good-bye before he went into a coma. He went to Hawaii, Hauula to be exact, because he was at the end of his marriage to my stepmom after almost 50 years, and it was sad and ugly and he needed to heal. He moved in with my brother who was living there with his wife.
As I may have said before in other stories, when my brother moved there I thought I’d never see him again but what happened is somehow I started visiting…also at very poignant times in my life. People were kind…they saw something in my eyes. Where their should have been distain for this blond Haole they instead were friendly, almost treating me like a strange distant family member. A guy in the hair isle in Long’s Drug Store called me Sister, while I helped him chose some hair products for his very curly long hair. There were lots of little moments of tender inclusion for no apparent reason.
My brother and I had not been super close before he relocated, but that changed as he drove me on Kam Hwy. With the ocean to my right and the green mountains to the left, as the song “I Can’t Move” from The Weeds soundtrack played, and he pointed out The Stairway to Heaven— and we began to really talk like brother and sister…like two orphans reunited on this “rock.”
It was not my first time in Hawaii. I’d been here years prior when my two cousins, who were in the military, were stationed here. I saw Honolulu and the Dole Farm, drank Lion coffee from the grocery store, and ate some Malasada’s on the beach watching the sunrise after barhopping at the Sugar Mill. But I wasn’t hooked.
I was hooked standing in line talking to the people on their lunch break at The Superette getting a poke bowls. Eating some Ted’s carrot cake talking to my brother and sister-in-law until the wee hours while my wife, Polly, and I healed from my dad’s passing.
If God lived anywhere, somehow, I think it would be here. For all the times I have felt “not let in” like I was an intruder or a burden, this land that has every reason to cast me out, drew me in. It was ironically the same feeling I had when I moved to Chicago. So many lost souls seem to find grounding or a place in this gumbo of diversity that I call home. That is why my two favorite places to be are Chicago and Hawaii. I’m always casting my net out for more experiences and travel, but these two places feel like home. *This story pairs well with the song - Bonnie Raitt, Feels Like Home”.
Legacy Blues…Chainsaw Dupont
2022…on a hot Sunday summer night in July, my hair salon rocked with the sound of Reggae and Blues. The former historic Howard Street Theatre space, brought the arts back to the farthest corner of the northside of Chicago. My Northside Blues and Reggae event at Curls and Company salon was in session! The headliner that evening was a world-renowned Chicago Blues great Mr. David “Chainsaw” Dupont. I had doubts he was going to show. Tim Williams who had played with him on and off for years said, “Don’t worry Urban Rhythms will have your back if he fizzles out.” Tim’s band was a little bit Santana and a little bit Jimmy Cliff, so I knew the night would be magical either way.
A week before the big night Chainsaw kept calling and asking me if I could send “a bit” of his fee via Cash App…
“Sure man, I can do that, but I’m only paying 100$ and then whatever the door collects you split with the other band “Urban Rhythms,” I explained over the phone. Curls and Company is not a big headliner bar but merely an amazing space with great acoustics that plays music after hours to small crowds of local music lovers.
He sounded excited. “Great, fine…no problem.” So, I sent him 30$ and the next day he asked for an additional 6$. It wasn’t looking good for our hero.
He was calling sounding confused about the event. When I had met him 5 years before he was a feisty, smart aleck, wearing a bowler hat and a fur bomber jacket wailing on a Flying V Gibson guitar like it was part of his body. I immediately felt I was in the presence of blues-greatness! Now, it was clear he had changed, hard times had befallen this bluesman.
Other bands that had played our after-hours events Curls and Company just a few weeks before were ominously patting me on the shoulder when they heard Chainsaw was going to play in our space, wishing me “good luck, he’s a handful”. A very well-known studio musician who’s like a Chicago version of The Wrecking Crew, and has played with everyone who’s anyone, lamented, “I love the guy but I’ll never play with him again”. I took a deep nervous swallow and tried to have faith because pre-covid when I’d first heard him practicing for a gig at The Wild Hare, in Tim Williams music studio, Legacy Blues…Chainsaw Dupont
Circling back to 2018. Alton, the keyboardist for my band (Cally and The Snag”), and I were attempting to navigate the icy, snowy slop that was the formally grassy backyard of my friend and drummer’s music studio (Tim) located behind his house. The weather had been insane with intermittent rain and driving sleet--and now just cold-to-the-bone December winds and hardening slush.
We heard this incredible music coming from Tim’s studio. Alton and I look at each other confused and bewitched, “did Tim forget we had a practice”? I said as we stood outside the studio door unsure if we should knock and mess up someone’s recording or intrude on their practice. Alton gave me a questioning look and as my fingers started going numb, I made the decision to crack the studio door and peer inside. A blast of hot, humid air hit me in the face like a wet washcloth. The glow of yellow lights buttery warm, illuminated a vision…there before me was a dignified African American guy. He was out of this world stylish, sporting a calico fur bomber jacket and a vintage highly priced guitar and a pair of custom made Florsheim zip up boots (my dad would’ve drooled over), not to mention, a lovely black cashmere turtle neck sweater, keeping his vocal cords warmed up. He was wailing on his Flying V- guitar like he was in a trance, this was a cinematic movie moment and time stood still while finished the final chords on his song. Chainsaw’s aura was captivating and we snuck in and took a seat on some of the dusty bar stools that were sitting next to the wall.
Turns out they were just finishing up their practice. Emanuel my bassist from Tanzania had also arrived and sat down next to me. Chainsaw was a cocky dude, he was talking and strutting while he put his gear away.
Tim put on a recording of one of my songs “Your Daughter,” which I sang and wrote, while Chainsaw’s band was milling around. He barked out, “This you,” he guffawed in an accusatory fashion. “Yes,” I replied, holding my ground, I nodded, “I wrote it and am singing”. Then he turned to Emanuel (my bass player), “let me guess, she’s got you on bass,” which was him kind of slamming me, saying I was “making” Emanuel play the bass. The truth is, I wanted Emanuel in my band so badly because he was so talented but I already had guitar, drums, sax and keys…so bass it was and he did a great job. Emanuel winked at me as if to say it was all ok.
Once Chainsaw listened to my song, he was a little more conciliatory, “pretty good” was his critique. He explained he grew up here in Rogers Park but now lived between the South and West side.
“Maybe we can do a do a music event together someday,” I suggested boldly.
“Yeah…I’d be ok with that,” he nodded.
He zipped up his fur and bid adieu, tipping his hat to us as he made his exit, slipping out the door like a sleek panther, ducking into the shadows of the night.
I was in awe…he was the real deal and he made such a huge impact on me that I never forgot.
Fast forward to “the big night” of our Blues and Reggae concert. I’m doing music shows once a month in my hair salon on Sunday night. “Private Parties” where we have boozy and non-boozy drinks, vinyl give away’s at the door, and other fun gimmicks to go along with whatever the theme of the evening is to be.
Tim’s band was doing reggae and some Santana style music. His guys were so pro…they played festivals all over the city, many of them perform at churches, bars, night clubs and anywhere a pro can go and get paid. They were here tonight as a labor of love, they could just freestyle it and have fun because I was just a girl with a personal checking account and a great love of music…no big money is backing me. Let’s put the play back in play.
We had a nice little small but mighty crowd. They were good listeners, and were buying the scant merch we had for sale as well as their “donation” for drinks. Chainsaw had not yet made an appearance. Finally, at 8:33 (he was supposed to load in at 6 and play at 8:30), he shows up at the door. I had told Polly, my wife, who was working the door, “I sure hope he doesn’t pull a Chuck Barry and not bring a guitar.” Chuck was notorious in his later years for showing up to gigs and having no guitar. She had reassured me that was crazy talk…
The man I saw at the door was a vague shadow of the Chainsaw I had met in 2018…the years had done him no favors.
He stumbled in, with a suitcase, a straw Panama hat, a wrinkled light blue and white-striped shirt (possibly bought at Marshalls up the street last minute) over his worn t-shirt and…no guitar. He still had some fire in him, though.
“Chainsaw, get your buns in here,” I kidded him nervously. Urban Rhythms, Tim’s band was taking a break and I attempted to get Chainsaw a guitar…No one wanted to loan him their ax--our soloist that night Haley LeRand had just maxed out her credit card on a new custom Guild. There was no way she was handing over her baby. The other band knew Chainsaw and well…maybe they knew something I didn’t, no one would step up. “I can run home and get mine”, I offered. A guy in the audience played guitar at his church, and came to our rescue. “Miss, you can borrow mine,” it was packed in his car’s trunk. The gentle 6’8 giant saved the day. The show would go on!
Painful minutes mounted and the crowd and I nervously watched Chainsaw struggle with the strap…he was mumbling and confused and the minutes felt heavy and long. He had his pride and no one was willing to step on it. “He’ll be ok.” Haley said confidently.
Finally, Tim got behind his drum kit and said, “Chainsaw, let’s do some Willie Dixon like we did in the old days”.
Chainsaw lit up and for a few brief songs, his fingers found the old magic- we heard bits and pieces of a blues genius. 4-5 songs was all he could handle. Then he needed to rest. I still felt so honored that he was under the same roof as me, doing his craft with all he had left in him.
Chainsaw called me into the backroom on break. Sitting in our lunch room talking to a legend felt very surreal among the rolling color trays, broken hooded blow dryers, and zip locked chips and food accessories. We sat on the wobbly chairs and I attempted to understand what he was trying to say, his words came out like gravy, all I could understand was “You’ve got a gold mine here,” “this place is…marvelous”, -- and after that I just nodded, he was pretty incoherent.
Thirty minutes later we joined the audience and Tim’s sister got up and pulled an Aretha Franklin moment, singing “I’ll Take You There” like she owned the stage. We all oooh’ed and ahhhh’ed, but Chainsaw was spent, he could play no more. He just sat in the audience smiling, nodding to the beat of the song, sipping his drink, eating some Chex Mix off a paper-plate.
The evening finished up and the bands headed out, Polly, Marilyn my bartender and I cleaned up. We had to set up the salon for the next day of doing hair. It was almost 11p.m. and Chainsaw was still there glued to his chair. Then he suddenly, like he’s been injected with electricity, he jumps up and goes flying out the door.
“You didn’t give him 100 did you,” Polly said wearily. He barley played.
I hung my head. “Yeah…I did,” and some tips and part of the door and an extra 20. It was all I had in my purse after paying the other bands and our bartender. I could tell he had nothing and that suitcase was probably all he had left of his possessions at this point.
Now I was stuck with his suitcase…shit?!
I figured I’d finish restocking the booze and draining the mobile ice bins, and if he wasn’t back by then I’d go find him.
Howard Street at 8pm isn’t a cake walk…let alone, almost midnight. The drug dealers and drug casualties are all out doing their thing. Think NYC circa 1977…
I dumped the last of the ice water and Polly went to take Marilyn home, “wait guys,” I have to go find Chainsaw. They both nervously looked at each other.
Tired, stressed from the weird night that was… I grabbed a bottle of water and Chainsaw’s valise, and made my way into the creepy night. I didn’t have to look far. A gigantic 6’8 African American man using a walker, wearing two very heavy winter coats with multiple hats a top his head was limping down the street, towards me, with Chainsaw in tow (Remember it’s a hot July night, and something ain’t right). The man Chainsaw was with reminded me of Robin Williams from the movie The Fisher King. In the film Robin was a lumbering, forlorn character and yet somehow awe inspiring, like a haunted apparition. Chainsaw was talking to this man a mile a minute as he introduced me to the weary walker. “Me and him gone to high school together,” Chainsaw, explained ecstatically. The “Blast from the Past,” seemed less enthralled to reconnect with Chainsaw.
The man stopped, he still had not spoken, then he lifted his great and noble head and his eyes became huge as he looked at me and looked at Chainsaw, as if to say, “get him the hell out of here.”
I handed Chainsaw his bag, thanked him for the night, gave him a bottle of water for the road--which he refused. The two men walked slowly away from me. I stood there among the lost souls, under the broken, flickering light of Howard L stop--hookers, trying to make a deal, young punks asserting their authority barking loudly at sketchy addicts with no money, nervous commuters attempting to get around the riff-raff, older people with no homes to go pretending like they were waiting for a bus--but I’d drive by an hour later and they’d still be there. This was a nightly scene.
Making my way back to the salon a lady on lawn chair was sitting in an alcove of an empty abandoned building store front, which used to be a pizza by the slice place. Her “boombox” was playing a sweet, familiar song. It was George Benson singing “Masquerade,” one of my favorites.
“Oh, I love this song,” I said. She smiled despondently. “You know him?” she said pointing to Chainsaw and his hostage. They were across the street, under the lamplight by Willye White Park. “Yeah, he’s a blues legend.”
She smiled and kind of snorted, “Well, well, well.”
“Would you like a bottle of water,” I offered, since Chainsaw had declined it. “That would be nice,” she smiled. We both watched the two men move further and further away.
“Have a good night.”
“You too,” I waved as I left her… I guess we are all “lost in a masquerade…” of our own making.
As I drove home that night, I hoped the best for Chainsaw. He called the salon and my phone asking to borrow money for about ten days or so. Then I never heard from him again.
End of September I had another music event and my sax player, Wally, who had been in the Blue/Reggae audience that night told me Chainsaw had just passed away. My heart sank. God, I hope he didn’t die alone, in a park somewhere.
“I think you were the last gig he ever played,” Wally surmised.
Like I said before--fame isn’t a guarantee--it’s just a moment where the stars align, luck and talent have to collide. Then then the trick is to keep the light burning bright. For many talented people that moment is all they get and the rest of their life is lost in its mysterious and illusive promise of the next big hit. Some find a way to relax and enjoy the legacy they’ve built for themselves, others fall into that deep well of what was, trying to get back up that wall-- back into the highlife. Fame can be a phantom when it’s finished with you. I hoped that Chainsaw would find his way back to the top.
***Update: Turns out I know people. A friend read this story when I originally posted it, and she was working at the hospital when they brought Chainsaw in. He wasn’t on drugs but he did have a serious illness, which she couldn’t disclose. He died surrounded by love with his family-- so he was not alone. I never felt so relieved and happy. He was like many musicians--broke. We can’ help him now but I went on iTunes and bought some of his amazing albums from the peak of his career.
This scenario made me think of Bonnie Raitt and the Rhythm and Blues Foundation she is part of. This foundation tries to help aging musicians who had no benefits and who “got so little in return” for their talents. If you enjoy someone’s art/music/ don’t forget they need support too. Buying their music can help them. They earned that right.
**My favorite songs: Last Chance Lounge, Workingman’s Roulette, Back Again from Gone and Hoodoo Ya. Check them out on iTunes or see if your local record shop could get you the vinyl! www.rhythmandbluesfoundation.org
2022…on a hot Sunday summer night in July, my hair salon rocked with the sound of Reggae and Blues. The former historic Howard Street Theatre space, brought the arts back to the farthest corner of the northside of Chicago. My Northside Blues and Reggae event at Curls and Company salon was in session! The headliner that evening was a world-renowned Chicago Blues great Mr. David “Chainsaw” Dupont. I had doubts he was going to show. Tim Williams who had played with him on and off for years said, “Don’t worry Urban Rhythms will have your back if he fizzles out.” Tim’s band was a little bit Santana and a little bit Jimmy Cliff, so I knew the night would be magical either way.
A week before the big night Chainsaw kept calling and asking me if I could send “a bit” of his fee via Cash App…
“Sure man, I can do that, but I’m only paying 100$ and then whatever the door collects you split with the other band “Urban Rhythms,” I explained over the phone. Curls and Company is not a big headliner bar but merely an amazing space with great acoustics that plays music after hours to small crowds of local music lovers.
He sounded excited. “Great, fine…no problem.” So, I sent him 30$ and the next day he asked for an additional 6$. It wasn’t looking good for our hero.
He was calling sounding confused about the event. When I had met him 5 years before he was a feisty, smart aleck, wearing a bowler hat and a fur bomber jacket wailing on a Flying V Gibson guitar like it was part of his body. I immediately felt I was in the presence of blues-greatness! Now, it was clear he had changed, hard times had befallen this bluesman.
Other bands that had played our after-hours events Curls and Company just a few weeks before were ominously patting me on the shoulder when they heard Chainsaw was going to play in our space, wishing me “good luck, he’s a handful”. A very well-known studio musician who’s like a Chicago version of The Wrecking Crew, and has played with everyone who’s anyone, lamented, “I love the guy but I’ll never play with him again”. I took a deep nervous swallow and tried to have faith because pre-covid when I’d first heard him practicing for a gig at The Wild Hare, in Tim Williams music studio, Legacy Blues…Chainsaw Dupont
Circling back to 2018. Alton, the keyboardist for my band (Cally and The Snag”), and I were attempting to navigate the icy, snowy slop that was the formally grassy backyard of my friend and drummer’s music studio (Tim) located behind his house. The weather had been insane with intermittent rain and driving sleet--and now just cold-to-the-bone December winds and hardening slush.
We heard this incredible music coming from Tim’s studio. Alton and I look at each other confused and bewitched, “did Tim forget we had a practice”? I said as we stood outside the studio door unsure if we should knock and mess up someone’s recording or intrude on their practice. Alton gave me a questioning look and as my fingers started going numb, I made the decision to crack the studio door and peer inside. A blast of hot, humid air hit me in the face like a wet washcloth. The glow of yellow lights buttery warm, illuminated a vision…there before me was a dignified African American guy. He was out of this world stylish, sporting a calico fur bomber jacket and a vintage highly priced guitar and a pair of custom made Florsheim zip up boots (my dad would’ve drooled over), not to mention, a lovely black cashmere turtle neck sweater, keeping his vocal cords warmed up. He was wailing on his Flying V- guitar like he was in a trance, this was a cinematic movie moment and time stood still while finished the final chords on his song. Chainsaw’s aura was captivating and we snuck in and took a seat on some of the dusty bar stools that were sitting next to the wall.
Turns out they were just finishing up their practice. Emanuel my bassist from Tanzania had also arrived and sat down next to me. Chainsaw was a cocky dude, he was talking and strutting while he put his gear away.
Tim put on a recording of one of my songs “Your Daughter,” which I sang and wrote, while Chainsaw’s band was milling around. He barked out, “This you,” he guffawed in an accusatory fashion. “Yes,” I replied, holding my ground, I nodded, “I wrote it and am singing”. Then he turned to Emanuel (my bass player), “let me guess, she’s got you on bass,” which was him kind of slamming me, saying I was “making” Emanuel play the bass. The truth is, I wanted Emanuel in my band so badly because he was so talented but I already had guitar, drums, sax and keys…so bass it was and he did a great job. Emanuel winked at me as if to say it was all ok.
Once Chainsaw listened to my song, he was a little more conciliatory, “pretty good” was his critique. He explained he grew up here in Rogers Park but now lived between the South and West side.
“Maybe we can do a do a music event together someday,” I suggested boldly.
“Yeah…I’d be ok with that,” he nodded.
He zipped up his fur and bid adieu, tipping his hat to us as he made his exit, slipping out the door like a sleek panther, ducking into the shadows of the night.
I was in awe…he was the real deal and he made such a huge impact on me that I never forgot.
Fast forward to “the big night” of our Blues and Reggae concert. I’m doing music shows once a month in my hair salon on Sunday night. “Private Parties” where we have boozy and non-boozy drinks, vinyl give away’s at the door, and other fun gimmicks to go along with whatever the theme of the evening is to be.
Tim’s band was doing reggae and some Santana style music. His guys were so pro…they played festivals all over the city, many of them perform at churches, bars, night clubs and anywhere a pro can go and get paid. They were here tonight as a labor of love, they could just freestyle it and have fun because I was just a girl with a personal checking account and a great love of music…no big money is backing me. Let’s put the play back in play.
We had a nice little small but mighty crowd. They were good listeners, and were buying the scant merch we had for sale as well as their “donation” for drinks. Chainsaw had not yet made an appearance. Finally, at 8:33 (he was supposed to load in at 6 and play at 8:30), he shows up at the door. I had told Polly, my wife, who was working the door, “I sure hope he doesn’t pull a Chuck Barry and not bring a guitar.” Chuck was notorious in his later years for showing up to gigs and having no guitar. She had reassured me that was crazy talk…
The man I saw at the door was a vague shadow of the Chainsaw I had met in 2018…the years had done him no favors.
He stumbled in, with a suitcase, a straw Panama hat, a wrinkled light blue and white-striped shirt (possibly bought at Marshalls up the street last minute) over his worn t-shirt and…no guitar. He still had some fire in him, though.
“Chainsaw, get your buns in here,” I kidded him nervously. Urban Rhythms, Tim’s band was taking a break and I attempted to get Chainsaw a guitar…No one wanted to loan him their ax--our soloist that night Haley LeRand had just maxed out her credit card on a new custom Guild. There was no way she was handing over her baby. The other band knew Chainsaw and well…maybe they knew something I didn’t, no one would step up. “I can run home and get mine”, I offered. A guy in the audience played guitar at his church, and came to our rescue. “Miss, you can borrow mine,” it was packed in his car’s trunk. The gentle 6’8 giant saved the day. The show would go on!
Painful minutes mounted and the crowd and I nervously watched Chainsaw struggle with the strap…he was mumbling and confused and the minutes felt heavy and long. He had his pride and no one was willing to step on it. “He’ll be ok.” Haley said confidently.
Finally, Tim got behind his drum kit and said, “Chainsaw, let’s do some Willie Dixon like we did in the old days”.
Chainsaw lit up and for a few brief songs, his fingers found the old magic- we heard bits and pieces of a blues genius. 4-5 songs was all he could handle. Then he needed to rest. I still felt so honored that he was under the same roof as me, doing his craft with all he had left in him.
Chainsaw called me into the backroom on break. Sitting in our lunch room talking to a legend felt very surreal among the rolling color trays, broken hooded blow dryers, and zip locked chips and food accessories. We sat on the wobbly chairs and I attempted to understand what he was trying to say, his words came out like gravy, all I could understand was “You’ve got a gold mine here,” “this place is…marvelous”, -- and after that I just nodded, he was pretty incoherent.
Thirty minutes later we joined the audience and Tim’s sister got up and pulled an Aretha Franklin moment, singing “I’ll Take You There” like she owned the stage. We all oooh’ed and ahhhh’ed, but Chainsaw was spent, he could play no more. He just sat in the audience smiling, nodding to the beat of the song, sipping his drink, eating some Chex Mix off a paper-plate.
The evening finished up and the bands headed out, Polly, Marilyn my bartender and I cleaned up. We had to set up the salon for the next day of doing hair. It was almost 11p.m. and Chainsaw was still there glued to his chair. Then he suddenly, like he’s been injected with electricity, he jumps up and goes flying out the door.
“You didn’t give him 100 did you,” Polly said wearily. He barley played.
I hung my head. “Yeah…I did,” and some tips and part of the door and an extra 20. It was all I had in my purse after paying the other bands and our bartender. I could tell he had nothing and that suitcase was probably all he had left of his possessions at this point.
Now I was stuck with his suitcase…shit?!
I figured I’d finish restocking the booze and draining the mobile ice bins, and if he wasn’t back by then I’d go find him.
Howard Street at 8pm isn’t a cake walk…let alone, almost midnight. The drug dealers and drug casualties are all out doing their thing. Think NYC circa 1977…
I dumped the last of the ice water and Polly went to take Marilyn home, “wait guys,” I have to go find Chainsaw. They both nervously looked at each other.
Tired, stressed from the weird night that was… I grabbed a bottle of water and Chainsaw’s valise, and made my way into the creepy night. I didn’t have to look far. A gigantic 6’8 African American man using a walker, wearing two very heavy winter coats with multiple hats a top his head was limping down the street, towards me, with Chainsaw in tow (Remember it’s a hot July night, and something ain’t right). The man Chainsaw was with reminded me of Robin Williams from the movie The Fisher King. In the film Robin was a lumbering, forlorn character and yet somehow awe inspiring, like a haunted apparition. Chainsaw was talking to this man a mile a minute as he introduced me to the weary walker. “Me and him gone to high school together,” Chainsaw, explained ecstatically. The “Blast from the Past,” seemed less enthralled to reconnect with Chainsaw.
The man stopped, he still had not spoken, then he lifted his great and noble head and his eyes became huge as he looked at me and looked at Chainsaw, as if to say, “get him the hell out of here.”
I handed Chainsaw his bag, thanked him for the night, gave him a bottle of water for the road--which he refused. The two men walked slowly away from me. I stood there among the lost souls, under the broken, flickering light of Howard L stop--hookers, trying to make a deal, young punks asserting their authority barking loudly at sketchy addicts with no money, nervous commuters attempting to get around the riff-raff, older people with no homes to go pretending like they were waiting for a bus--but I’d drive by an hour later and they’d still be there. This was a nightly scene.
Making my way back to the salon a lady on lawn chair was sitting in an alcove of an empty abandoned building store front, which used to be a pizza by the slice place. Her “boombox” was playing a sweet, familiar song. It was George Benson singing “Masquerade,” one of my favorites.
“Oh, I love this song,” I said. She smiled despondently. “You know him?” she said pointing to Chainsaw and his hostage. They were across the street, under the lamplight by Willye White Park. “Yeah, he’s a blues legend.”
She smiled and kind of snorted, “Well, well, well.”
“Would you like a bottle of water,” I offered, since Chainsaw had declined it. “That would be nice,” she smiled. We both watched the two men move further and further away.
“Have a good night.”
“You too,” I waved as I left her… I guess we are all “lost in a masquerade…” of our own making.
As I drove home that night, I hoped the best for Chainsaw. He called the salon and my phone asking to borrow money for about ten days or so. Then I never heard from him again.
End of September I had another music event and my sax player, Wally, who had been in the Blue/Reggae audience that night told me Chainsaw had just passed away. My heart sank. God, I hope he didn’t die alone, in a park somewhere.
“I think you were the last gig he ever played,” Wally surmised.
Like I said before--fame isn’t a guarantee--it’s just a moment where the stars align, luck and talent have to collide. Then then the trick is to keep the light burning bright. For many talented people that moment is all they get and the rest of their life is lost in its mysterious and illusive promise of the next big hit. Some find a way to relax and enjoy the legacy they’ve built for themselves, others fall into that deep well of what was, trying to get back up that wall-- back into the highlife. Fame can be a phantom when it’s finished with you. I hoped that Chainsaw would find his way back to the top.
***Update: Turns out I know people. A friend read this story when I originally posted it, and she was working at the hospital when they brought Chainsaw in. He wasn’t on drugs but he did have a serious illness, which she couldn’t disclose. He died surrounded by love with his family-- so he was not alone. I never felt so relieved and happy. He was like many musicians--broke. We can’ help him now but I went on iTunes and bought some of his amazing albums from the peak of his career.
This scenario made me think of Bonnie Raitt and the Rhythm and Blues Foundation she is part of. This foundation tries to help aging musicians who had no benefits and who “got so little in return” for their talents. If you enjoy someone’s art/music/ don’t forget they need support too. Buying their music can help them. They earned that right.
**My favorite songs: Last Chance Lounge, Workingman’s Roulette, Back Again from Gone and Hoodoo Ya. Check them out on iTunes or see if your local record shop could get you the vinyl! www.rhythmandbluesfoundation.org