Letter

For those of you who’ve been reading these newsletters this past year it’ll be old hat to hear me talk about quitting Twitter, getting rid of my smartphone, etc. but last Tuesday the Chicago Reader published a whole essay I wrote on the subject. It seems to’ve struck a chord with a few people and I thank everyone who posted it on Facebook, Twitter, and every other social network they use.

At the beginning of December I went up to Andersonville for the monthly edition of Tuesday Funk and drew the readers, including my good friend, Bill Savage. Host Andrew Huff was kind enough to post all my sketches on the show’s blog. It was also that night that Andrew told me he’d be pulling the plug on his long-running local news site, Gaper’s Block. Over the years that site has helped launch many journalists’ careers, has been one of the few news sites I’ve seen to present stories online in a calm, aesthetically pleasing way, and has been incredibly supportive of my work. It’ll be a shame to see it go but it’s completely understandable that after twelve years Andrew would be exhausted and want to move on. It’ll be missed in Chicago nonetheless.

There’ve been a lot of changes in my life over the last year as well. This newsletter has been one of the constants and as such has helped me keep my equilibrium. So I thank all of you who read it even just every once in awhile. It means a lot to me.

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.