Piano C. Red at Maxwell St.  | Back
 

    The fact that I haven't written an "Another Magic Night at Rosa's"
column since March should not be taken as a comment on the magical
quality of every night I spend there. My deal with Tony, when we talked
about me writing these musings, was that I would write them when the
spirit moved me. I never fail to have fun at Rosa's. I saw a terrific
set by Louisiana Red there last Friday, for example. I just wasn't moved
to write anything. What follows is an account of a day that was pretty
magical and fun, but it doesn't involve Rosa's, except that Tony read an
earlier version of it and that prompted him to invite me to write for
the site. I hope you enjoy it too.

    This story involves a different Red, Piano C. Red, a longtime blues guy
here in Chicago who has played frequently on Maxwell Street. If you have
looked at my site (linked to my name, above), you know I have been
involved in the movement to save the last remaining blocks of Maxwell
Street, birthplace of the Chicago blues. Last summer (1998) for the
Chicago Blues Festival, we (the Maxwell Street Historic Preservation
Coalition) produced a small event on Sunday morning at the new Maxwell
St. Market, which is on Canal at Roosevelt. This is an account of that
day. It was originally written as a letter to Geof Rogers, a friend and
blues fan from Michigan.

    The event is supposed to start at 9:00 AM and my sole job is to MC. I
get there a little after 9:00, figuring they will already be playing.
Red is there as are Jimmie Lee Robinson and Dan Marmer, the guy from the
Coalition who organized the event. Iceman Robinson and another guitar
player, Daryl the bass player, some other MSHPC people, and Red's two
assistants are all milling around, and I eventually determine that the
drummer hasn't shown up and Red is trying to line-up another drummer.
Red's van is blocked in so I offer to drive. This has taken a very
leisurely amount of time. I lived in Kentucky for 9 years and know what
the Southern pace is like. That's what this is like. The process just
described has taken about an hour.

    As Red and I are leaving, Jimmie Lee and the rest of the guys start to
set up. They have picked a spot of sidewalk near the Port-o-Lets, about
50 yards north of Roosevelt on Canal. They will play without a drummer,
which Jimmie Lee usually does anyway. Daryl, we quickly learn, is the
only one who knows anything about any of the equipment. Dan is having
trouble with the generator but Daryl knows it has a cutoff valve at the
gas tank that has to be opened before it will run. He gets it going.
Janelle (another person from the Coalition) has a tour getting ready to
walk over to old Maxwell Street. They are gathering over by the White
Palace Grill. She has about 15 people. Red waits with them as I walk to
my car, parked at the top of the Roosevelt Road bridge.

    The market, of course, is very busy so it's impossible to tell who has
come for our event and who has come for the market. We distributed about
3,000 flyers at blues fest. If people came, enjoyed the Market, and
maybe went over to Maxwell Street on their own, I would be happy with
that and consider the event a success. If they got a tour or heard some
of the propaganda we mixed in with the music, all the better.

    Red and I drive in my Tracker to 87th Street, around Halsted, where we
cram Michael, the drummer, and his kit into the back of my tiny car.
Again, the pace is very Southern. Michael is half asleep. Now we have to
go to Cicero and 70-something to get a head for the bass drum, but
Guitar Center is closed so we go to Sunkist Music at 63rd and Pulaski.
Red pays for the head, explaining to Michael how the debt will gradually
be repaid from his band earnings. Then we stop to pick up some
refreshments, Old Grand-Dad and Sprite for Red and me. I don't know what
Michael is drinking, but the stop is his idea. I'm trying to ignore the
clock, knowing I am helpless to change the pace at which events are
unfolding, but it is after 11:00 AM. Still, I am enjoying the ride. It
is a beautiful, sunny and comfortable Sunday morning. The company is
good and the conversation is about music, instruments, what this or that
neighborhood used to be like, etc.

    When we get back to Canal Street, Jimmie Lee, Iceman and the other two
guys are playing and there is a nice crowd listening. One of Red's guys,
with him for 25 years, skillfully works the crowd for donations, using a
chained and padlocked tackle box with two small holes cut into its
plastic top as the hat. This is the band's money, not MSHPC.

    As the original ending time for our event approaches, Red is about to
begin his set with the full band. A fuse is seemingly blown in the old
Fender amp head they're using as a PA. Someone is dispatched to find
another fuse. I am dispatched for more refreshments. The fuse doesn't do
the trick and the amp head is relegated to propping Michael's bass drum
so it doesn't slide forward on the pavement. Some loose chunks of
concrete are also pressed into service for that purpose. The mike gets
run through the bass amp, with limited success, but at least the whole
band is playing. There are no takers for the scheduled noon tour of old
Maxwell St. I am able to make the Maxwell Street pitch a couple of
times. I get some good responses back from the crowd and feel a little
like an old Maxwell Street street preacher, which I guess I am, at least
for those few minutes.

    It is now well past the original noon end time, but so what? Certainly
the band doesn't care about a schedule. They have been oblivious to it
all along. They came to play and make some money from the hat, so as
long as there are people there they will keep playing. They sound good
despite the technical deficiencies. Jimmie Lee is working the crowd to
great success, selling quite a few of his CDs. He looks pleased as he
sucks on an Old Style, his arm around a pretty young fan. This is the
real deal, Maxwell Street busking as it always was, including the warm
sun and the crowd and the whole scene, with the Chicago skyline in the
background. I overhear someone say "we don't need to go to the blues
festival, we have it here," and they're right.

    The band plays a few numbers and decides to take a break. I talk over
the loudspeakers about the cause, then join Red in the van. Red tells me
about his brief recording career with Chess and his philosophy of life.
No one (including me) thinks about the fact that the generator is still
humming away. After the break, the band starts up again, after some more
fruitless messing around with the broken PA amp and trying to run the
vocal mic through Red's piano amp, rather than Daryl's bass amp, also to
no avail. Almost as soon as they begin, everything abruptly goes silent.
The generator has run out of gasoline. An assistant is dispatched for
more. (There's a station just around the corner.) The nozzle on the gas
can leaks badly so Daryl removes it, but passes it to me to pour because
he says his hands shake too much. I guess you don't need steady hands to
play bass. I get most of it into the tank and Daryl wipes off the excess
with a rag. The generator is soon humming away again.

    The crowds start to thin out about 3:00 PM and the band calls it a day.
I help a little with the load-out, especially with the generator, and
head out myself. I go home, take a nap, go to a friend's house for the
Bulls game, then to Rosa's (where I hook up with Geof and his then
girlfriend, now wife. Hey, I guess Rosa's figures in this story after
all.)

by Charles K. Cowdery

 
 

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