A photo of Chris, back in 1966
We came into the Highpoint retirement home in Woodstock, Illinois. I knew the place from decades ago, as a young teenager, singing with my family. Back then, Mom would have us sing to “do God’s work” and we did. Little did I know that I would continue on with this legacy of service. (Not that it is all altruistic, -- we do get a little something for our time, but in context, our work that day was immediately consumed and then some, by an alternator dying on the van. Such is the life of an independent musician.)
Chris was in a wheelchair, and he rolled toward Brian and me as we hurried to set up. Because of the dead alternator, we had abandoned our van on the town square. borrowed my brother Joe’s car which had a tire going flat, piled in our equipment and ran over to the gig. We were racing the clock and so it was difficult to stop and talk. But I smiled and said “hey!” to Chris. “He was a saxophone player,” the aide said. Chris nodded enthusiastically and it was then I noticed that his left arm was limp by his side. “Stroke,” I thought to myself and I fist-bumped his right hand and said “ah, a fellow musician.” We started playing and he immediately started “playing” too, fingering an air saxophone and singing his part with “Blue Moon” and “This Can’t Be Love.” We then did some original songs, and he was still playing along. I decided to call on him for a sax solo. “Take it Chris,” I said, and he would play a good solo, fingering the notes and scat-singing the sax line. He was good, too. His delivery was a true musician--a counter melody to Brian’s mandolin and when given a solo, a nice original take on the song.
At one point he left the room. I figured he needed the bathroom or maybe just had had his fun of playing. But soon he rolled back in with a small polaroid booklet--prints that were bound by a red plastic loop and the kind of work dated it at least to the 1970’s.
We finished the show, and he gestured me over. He couldn’t really talk, but he pointed and try to make words. I opened the polaroid booklet and there was this young man, dressed in a sharkskin jacket, tie and onstage playing his sax. On the back was written in hand: Chris, 1966.
“Is that you, man?” I asked.
“Yeah! Yeah!” he said.
We went through his booklet and there were more pictures of him playing. Clearly someone in his life was proud of his musical career. Chris playing saxophone in the Cary-Grove marching band. Chris trying out a guitar with a brand-new Fender amp (that was the size of a small refrigerator and probably as heavy) and rocking that particular dance. Then an older shot with the saxophone. I asked to snap some quick pictures.
“This is cool, man!” I said to him, “You’re the real deal.”
He then pointed to a small plastic box with a lapel pin from the US Post Office. The pin was in gold and had “Forty years” etched onto it.
“Wow! You were in the Post Office for that amount of time?” I asked. “You have to be proud of that.”
We still had a dead van on the city square of Woodstock and now my brother’s car is with a tire in need of some air. Brian called a mechanic that my brother Joe knows, and he was willing to fit us in to get us back on the road. We had one more show that evening in Woodstock and then back to Chicago for a funeral in the morning. Somehow between this show and the next, we needed to get that van fixed. There was no time to waste.
I fist-bumped Chris one more time.
“You be good, my fellow musician,” I said.
“I will, I will” he said, and he watched as we hauled out our system to the car.
There are points every day when I think about my career. How, like Chris, I may end up being that guy who hears that a band is coming and instantly rekindles that passion that never goes away.
As I get older, I am more convinced that our life will be measured by the joy we bring to others. Not winning the race perhaps but running the race.
Chris may be a victim of a stroke in a wheelchair, but he is one of us musicians. He may have worked that day gig, but his love was there on stage. Someone knew that enough to photograph him playing his heart out back in 1966.
And I am glad we played for him and reminded him that he is still the real deal.
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