It was a good night to walk. Maybe, the last good night before the snow and cold came to put sting in the wind. This night, there was no wind, the air was calm and there were millions of dry golden leaves between my feet and the sidewalks. Clouds filled the sky, but not dark and menacing, they were twilit gray by the half moon. I walked south on Wood street towards Wicker park and each patio light attached to a motion detector came on as I passed. I was heading to Phyllis’s Musical Inn for the Song Writer’s night that I had heard of earlier. I was going to see some musicians I knew and respected and others to hear for the first time.
I came to the door at 9:10 pm and the show had already started, atypically on time. There was no door man to receive the $3 dollar cover which I held prepared in my hand so I placed it back in my jacket pocket.
Phyllis’s was the first music venue in Wicker Park. The walls inside are filled with murals, there’s antique furniture near the stage and the liquor bottles don’t need speed pourers. The patrons seated at the bar are regulars, bearded and weathered. Everyone else is younger, looking interesting; most of them are musicians and speaking to each other in their own language.
Standing up alone on the stage was Brent Toland, with a plaid shirt and his guitar. Brent’s music and vocals were unpolished like a found stone before being placed in a tumbler. But this wasn’t a show for over produced acts and right away I felt that his performance, being the first, was perfect in that his sound set the proper tone for the evening. It was lyrically driven and supported by a rhythmic style of acoustic guitar.
I went to the bar and bought a can of Coke for $1.50. “Hey man.” Someone spoke to me from my right and I turned. “I heard the last time you came out you were in really bad shape.”
“Yeah, I guess. Who told you?”
“Ty asked me, ‘Who’s that guy with the brown hair? John’s friend?’ He said he found you outside looking for your car and he gave you 20 bucks for cab.”
That’s how I got home. “Yes, that could have been bad. Thank you for telling me, next time I see him I’ll give him my affection and 20 dollars.”
The next musician, Jeff Breakeyhttp://awuliconspiracy.com/, was on stage plugging in his guitar and doing a brief sound check. In this format, each artist played only a 30 minute set and there were 6 songwriters on the program. Jeff was one of the reasons I came and joining him was Ryan Suzuka, the harmonica player. Jeff had trouble getting through two new songs he debuted, which was the only stain on an otherwise good performance. Jeff’s music is catchy but what makes him exceptional is the strength of his writing. Bob Dylan called Robert Frost “the poet laureate of dark meditations", as I sat with my elbows on the table and my face in my hands listening to Jeff’s lines; “I don’t mean to treat you so bad, sometimes it’s easier,” and “Ten years, she’s grown so dull, found a man and her belly is full,” that quote came back to me.
The televisions in the bar were playing game one of the World Series. I hadn’t brought my glasses with me and could make out only the largest images. It was late in the game and a white Philly was pitching. After a pitch I recognized Cliff Floyd by his leg kick, the starter. He was still in the game, pitching a shutout against the best lineup on the biggest stage.
Josh Leahy’s music was heavy. Heavy strumming, crisp strings, heavy sound, and he was heavy set. His acoustic guitar sounded like Wisconsin, gluttonous but beautiful.
I looked up and the blurred picture on the TV had changed to the news. The bottom of the screen read, “THE SUSPECT’S BOND”, and I thought of how much better I would feel if I could remove the apostrophe, and have it be true.
The next group was Longsleeveshttp://www.longsleeves.org, the first non solo act of the night. Even with roots and travels from Ohio to Indiana to San Diego, where the band now lives, the two guitarists felt very at home on the small stage in Chicago. They were amazing. Harmonic voices, perfect beats from an apple computer and appropriate acoustic solo riffs were painstakingly blended like a smooth soup. The result was so palatable that I couldn’t pick out the ingredients, only sit satisfied at the sum.
Behind this night, pulling the strings is Chris Darby, one of the founders of the band Them Damn Kids and one of the people in Chicago that has the wonderful foresight to understand how important friendship and collaboration is among young musicians. Traveling all around the country, Chris seems to collect promising talent and bring them together for shows and to let them find support in each other like not many other can.
Phylli’s Musical Inn rarely disappoints with any manner of music they bring in, and Singer Songwriter Night is especially an evening not to miss. They provide a valuable service and a voice to very talented musicians and the night comes around every few months. Gentlemen, don’t let this be the last.
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