Letter

I met Bill MacKay a long time ago. The first time I heard him play guitar was on the patio of Letizia’s Bakery, kitty-corner to the ugliest hospital in Chicago. I don’t remember the tunes he played that afternoon but do remember thinking he was way too good to just be a soundtrack to folks lingering over muffins and cappuccinos.

In the ’80s on “Saturday Night Live” there was a bandleader named G.E. Smith. He slicked back his grey hair and wore retro duds. The guitars he played looked vintage and were undoubtedly pricey. He knew every hot lick in the book, as well as the corresponding facial expression meant to underline the deep feelings behind every last riff. The trouble was that not a note he played ever rang true. Anytime he shut his eyes and leaned back, as if under his own spell, I’d wish a piano would land on him so that just for once the emotion on that mug were real.

Bill MacKay is the opposite of G.E. Smith. He underplays when a lesser player can’t resist wailing away. Over the fifteen or so years I’ve gone to see him, I’ve heard him play jazz, pop, country, and everything in between. But there’s always a gentle, searching quality, a wistfulness, which is a quality most of my favorite music has. I’ve sketched him playing guitar more than anyone else because I never tire of wanting to witness where he’ll go next. He’s used some of my artwork to illustrate his recordings. The latest is a short set of solo guitar pieces by newly-rediscovered folkie John Hulburt. It’s being put out by the great Tompkins Square Records, which I hope widens Bill’s audience. I’m proud to have contributed a bit to his work and to count him as a friend. You can find out more about him at his site and buy the new recording here or anywhere you buy your digital entertainment. 

If you’re in Chicago, make sure and catch Bill playing with his pal Ryley Walker in the front room of the Hideout on Tuesday night.

If you celebrate Christmas, I hope you get through that.

Last Sunday a mustachioed man in a trench-coat, scarf, and hat came into the bar. He went up and ordered a drink, then made a show of hanging his hat and coat on the coat rack by the magazine stand. He sidled up to several groups of drinkers, chatting with them as if they were lifelong friends catching up after not seeing one another for awhile. When not talking he twirled about the room with an enchanted sort of smile on his face. Whatever play he imagined himself to be in, he was most certainly the star.

On his way out the door he introduced himself as John and welcomed me to The Skylark, as if he was its mayor or something. On hearing my name his smile widened further and he asked if I was Greek JUST LIKE HIM! The fact I wasn’t didn’t dampen his spirits as he disappeared into the night. After he’d gone I went up to the bartender and asked if he knew the guy. He’d never seen him before in his life.

There are bits of theater performed in public for our benefit many times a day but when I go see the real thing I’m always taken aback at the heightened reality of it. On Thursday I went with a friend to a small theater in Old Town to see a new play. The room sat maybe fifty or sixty and the stage set was an ordinary living room. Watching and listening to actors who are close enough to touch is often an odd experience. They’re both with us and in an entirely different place, due to the words coming out of their mouths and the set through which they move, which is a few feet from our chairs, yet also miles and years away.

I felt the same way watching that mustachioed Greek at the Skylark go through the scenes of a drama only he knew the script to. We’re all that way to a greater or lesser degree; he was just acting out his inner monologue, while most of us keep it to ourselves.

As I told you a couple weeks ago, I’ve been logging a bunch of hours at the Skylark. Before I started working the door there early this year, I’d been a customer since the place opened in 2003. Of course it has been a bar of one kind or another much longer as my friend Paul Durica will tell you.

One of the great pleasures of the place is how dark it is inside. In a proper tavern it should always be night, to my way of thinking. The absence of TV screens gives the room a calm which is rare in the city’s drinking establishments. The low light leaves you to your own thoughts as well as encouraging an interest in the few objects which are illuminated here, like the Odd Fellows banners above the bar or the old stopped Schlitz clock in the corner.

From my post at the door, I can look back over the booths, towards the back of the room. I often see women come in alone or in groups and they’re rarely harassed or bothered; it’s one of the hallmarks of the place. I have yet to have to break up a fight here or even raise my voice when asking folks to leave at the end of the night.

I think back on all the people I’ve known who’ve worked here: Nora, Kevin, Eric, Nick, Dan-O, Andy, and others. There’s also a tie to Leo’s Lunchroom in Ukrainian Village. Having Sheila and Phyllis and Derek here (as well as some of the old specials on the menu board) makes me feel at home, without having to go back to Ukrainian Village and witness the unholy shitshow it’s become. I guess this has all been a long-winded way of explaining I like the place and am happy I work there. Walking home down Halsted with the dishwasher last week, he asked me to show him the painting I was carrying. He looked at it a few seconds, then said, “Wow. That’s how it felt from back in the kitchen.”

It was probably one of the best compliments I’ve ever gotten.