Small Town to Big City

The place was tiny. Squeezing in between people, we never did find seats for the whole group. We did find the stage, though. Words like “Shoop” and “Rock” came from the speakers on repeat. People let go on the dance floor, and when they started to really feel the music, making up their own new dance moves and such, Charlie would grab the microphone right in the middle of a song. He’d point and ask, “Hey, you! What’s that you’re doin’?” Some answered and some shook their heads, but their responses meant nothing to Charley because he responded in the same way every time: “Oooh! I like that!” Then Charlie would start rolling into song again, telling us, “The blues is alright!”

Sections of missing paint chunks were visibly scattered along the walls and the bass player swayed back and forth with barefeet. Girls threw their purses on the stage’s rug while they danced, and the drum player wiped his head with a white towel between songs. T-shirts with the bar’s popular musicians hung on a top section of one wall, and those with the man on the piano led my eyes to the doorman –an unquestionable resemblance. He never played, he said, but they needed someone to pose.

 Although Miss Shirley Johnson (the one with “a voice that will shake the place”, as my mother says) and her band were no part of this particular Saturday night scene, they spent the evening entertaining just a few buildings away at its sister location, 736 N. Clark. Until we left to go hear Miss Shirley Johnson at that sister spot, the Charlie Love Blues Band with Patricia Scott entertained just fine. They taught me that my first visit to the sweaty and soulful Blue Chicago will not be last.

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