Lefty, left, that “wizz dizz.” Many readers have heard this name — and not just from my pen.
He is the prime reason I consider ‘meself’ an honorary Chicagoan. I’ll never forget the night my Whitman High buddy, “Lightman,” and I blew into Chig-town. On Light’s dash radio mutual broadcasting had just announced the passing of Waukegan’s own “patron saint,” Jack Benny.
Jack was not “39,” he was eighty. And on Dec. 19, 1974, he died peacefully in L.A. Not protesting, “Money or your life— I’m thinking, I’m thinking!” So that same evening, when Lightman and I blew into town on the wings of Second City’s notorious Hawk wind, we found comfort in Lefty Dizz’s cozy slipcovered living room. The sofas and the lampshades were swathed in matching shades of purple and gold! (Lefty was the tuxedoed host being nudged to one side by Mick and Keith in a notorious ‘surprise visit’ video shot inside the checkerboard lounge on S. 43rd street). Mick — his hubris was unsurprising; Keith? Not so much. Even before some of his tattoos and piercings, Mr. Richards wasn’t too ‘special’ than to writhe in the low elevations with ‘Raw’ Bluesman. I always linked his fervor to that of Kim Simmonds and the manic Savoy Brown band. Wow! And my pal the “Wizz Dizz” definitely fit into that Outlaw vice… It was said the amazing Jims could fry bacon with his right hand while clouding “Red House” with his left.
So it was the very night we D.C.-Maryland boys hit the frigid shores of Lake Michigan that we wound up in Lefty’s cramped but flash crib, loading up on stray slabs of pork loin, green beans, and canned tuna to chunks. All slathered up in a hunk of pig fat, and swirled into a perfect fluid mash at Lefty’s deft and spidery fingers.
As we wolfed down this penultimate “soul stew,” Lefty clapped loudly and declared, “Boy, this is da real deal – cussin’ food! So good make you cuss out loud! Now we’ve feasted, let’s lighten up and relax a while!”
In a flash, Lefty disappeared behind beaded portieres, then re-emerged, balancing a soap crate full of soul LP’s, most still clad in their original glossy wrappers. Little Sonny, Johnnie Taylor, Irma Thomas, even local faves like Byther Smith, Jimmy Johasch, and Mack Sims. Amazingly, he balanced a pack of Grendad short shots. Winter be gone — no Bailey’s and cream for this crew.
Couple hours later, we were all crammed into the matchbox like checkerboard lounge, where the time-worn vocalist Lee Jackson was pumping quarters into the club’s bubbling warlitzer jukebox. “Merry Christmas baby, you sure been good to me,” Charles Brown was the first to tumble out. It was 1947 all over again, I thought. Lighty and Lefty ambled across the dim space to the bar to talk some smack with some ‘foxy ladies.’
I looked back and the playlist in the bar’s play rack, the reassuring bell-clink of Lloyd Glenn’s funky “Sleigh Ride” filled the din. Then, a sharp CLICK and my head spun around with such force my string-bean hat flew off. As I tumbled forward to retrieve my brim, I realized how lucky I was. A tiny woman with cleavage disproportionately poking out of a fake fur wrap over a blindingly blue sequin dress, blindly brandished a snap-nose revolver.
The gun barrel pointed straight up, and one round went off, through a tin panel into the ceiling overhead. Everyone scattered, screaming, crying, praying. I did a tuckin’ roll and jumped to my feet right into Lefty. “Welcome to Chicago, John boy,” he growled slyly.
Many heavy moments drew me close after this, but I’ll save those for another “Cussin’ Food” segment.
