Our story opens some 45 years ago on then-sleepy Sixth Avenue, Chelsea, a slice of New York heritage home to longshoremen, lounge livers, penniless romantics, and God knows what kind of earworms sliding through the swinging doors of Peter McManus’ Tavern, founded in 1936 (though it hints at Civil War era vibes).
While sometimes a live music venue, McManus’ bubbly 1959-vintage “Rock-Ola” has always been a niche for cramped 45-RPM renditions from local Chelsea crooners like my “running buddy” Chuck Love. His latest “hit” for ‘79 was 150 orange-label platters (Title: “Something Beautiful,” B/W “Rockets in clover.”)
Chuck, all aglow beneath the crimson, violet, and kelly green year-round Christmas lights, was stymied by rights on this particular night.
Bolstered on either side at her table by the aisle-mates from central post office, a rotund shipping clerk cradled her short beer to her thick leather apron, tossed her felt cap-topped noggin back, first lightly humming, then breaking into a soulful wail along with the smokin’ new hit from the O’Jays. “Forever Mine.” “You my kind, whoa baby…”
Chuck surrendered his short stack of 45s to a corner table, gulped some Rheingold and willingly (almost on pitch) joined in the chorus. “Don’t you ever think of leaving baby… You like what I like, I like what you like…We were mea-ant for each other…” The table of PO people laughed, then resumed their descant with the mellow lead of Eddy Lavere.
Then came the comforting tinkle of soul xylophone as Teena Marie and the breathy Rick James oozed out the tinselled speaker with “You’re – my – Fi-yah an’ Dee- si – yah…” whooping and sensuously yelping over the sparkly peripheral instrumentation.
But the glacial pace of the love ballad matched the almost frozen-in-amber aura of McManus’ bar. Chuck was chill. He was on his third brew and he’d abandoned his quest for promoting tonight.
Me? I was just obsessing over the passion of Rick and Teena Marie and the unrelenting emptiness I’d just experienced with the gorgeous Baltic actress having slammed the door on our brief but idyllic affair. (The abrupt goodbye took place on the top of Windows on the World).
Just before New Year’s, my buddy Allen, the head usher at the Selwyn Theater in Times Square, slipped an unlabeled mixtape into my pocket. “Fire and Desire” was smack dab in the middle of side one.
Two clubs, four decades, one message
Now, we made the parabolic leap from the old sidewalk of Lower Manhattan, in the shadows of the haunted hulk of empty Hugh O’ Neill cast iron department store, to the always toney Georgetown, D.C., 2024.
On a rain-splattered Wednesday night, Nov. 20, I had made the quantum move to a back bar stool with perfect sightline and acoustics: Blues Alley, approaching its 60th year as one of the world’s most respected and beloved jazz venues. No brag, just fact.
Two G’ town moments: in 1990 I sat on the very same stool at the behest of Buddy Guy. It was our reunion from the old days of 1980 on Chicago’s South Side. And sometime around 1975, I experienced the original great guitars of Charlie Byrd, Herb Ellis, and Jim Hall, all of them now in string heaven, in the tiny Cafe de Paree, then situated at 3056 M St.
Now, for the benefit of iconic FM “Jazz and Justice” radio station WPFW-FM, David Chappell, Rick Whitehead, and Anthony Pirog were revisiting the theme of great guitars for our era. Anthony opened occupied by his wife Janel on cello. Amazing how the cello intertwined with Anthony’s floating 1978 telecaster, creating a unique environment of conceptual, sometimes Himalayan-steppe-inspired, sound.
Then Chappell, who has for my money done more to extend and perpetuate the legacy of the late Danny Gatton, a multi-disciplinary talent of every style from chicken picking country to roaring surf guitar to premier improvs with effortless pairings with such masters like Roy Hargrove and Joey DeFrancesco.
David’s take on “Blue Dream” echoed subtly through the room to the point one could almost imagine Danny standing in the dark, plucking, slurring, and smiling. A pretty woman and saxy Fifth Avenue added to the stirring homage from a current tele-master.
Rick Whitehead appeared out of the shadows of the green room, his vintage Gibson semi-hollow perched above his right shoulder. “Promised to drop down a few decibels below David,” he murmured. And he commenced on stage to roll some honeyed expertly crafted guitar runs. The rhythm section still consisted of ace bassist John Previti, and a versatile drummer, “Steve,” who perfectly spelled the adept stylings of recently departed Barry Hart, Rick’s longtime aide on the skins.
Whitehead’s fingers brushed through airy chord as Streisand might allude “like butter.” Flawless “Joy Spring” by Clifford Brown and “Waltz for Debby” preceded most indelibly, Rick stretching out Hoagy Carmichael’s “The Nearness of You” (popping every fret tone he could find) and concluded his short set with an encyclopedia journey of riffs that crystalized my favorite — “Little Suede Shoes,” from Charlie “Bird” Parker. In the dim but joyful aura of Blues Alley, the notes shone brightly!
