Born In Chicago

Elinor Bunin Munroe Film Center

July 26, 2013

With minutes to spare, the old man had found where he was going to sit – right next to me. I was in the last row (where I usually sit at movies) and the seat next to me was one of the few available for this sold out showing. While going up the steps, he smiled at his good fortune, and asked if the seat was available.

This could be tricky. I certainly wasn’t going to lie, but he could potentially be very annoying. Which is why I was sitting at the very back in the first place, to hopefully avoid any kind of annoying or rude numbnut. There’s no one behind you and at Lincoln Center’s Beale Theater’s stadium seating, you’re elevated above everyone else, so you don’t have to worry about someone’s giant head or really bad hair to block your view. Not that I would do this, but if I lied and said the seat was taken, then I would be the rude one. In avoiding potential numbnuts, you don’t want to turn into one yourself. Like I said, tricky.

I mentioned that no one was sitting there, and he replied, “Excellent! This is where I usually sit. I find with things like this, you can’t sit far away enough!” I liked this guy already. “Thanks for saving the seat,” he added. It was an attempt at humor, but I could sense he was one of those slightly eccentric people that gets real crotchety real fast if things don’t go their way. I said in my best Gregory Peck voice (but probably ended up sounding like Freddie “Boom Boom” Washington from Welcome Back Kotter), “you’re welcome” and just prayed that what I perceived as an undercurrent of odd wasn’t full-on batshit.

The grin never leaving his face, he left his paper, drink and whatever else he brought with him on the seat and left to do what he had to do. I’ve observed over the years that people of his age range (between 70 to 80) never wear shoulder bags, like my generation (X) or the one after me (Y). I would imagine the shoulder bag isn’t very conducive to an aging body, so this particular group seemed to favor walking around with belongings in mini-supermarket bags or like my new friend, to forgo the bag entirely and just bare-hand it.

When he sauntered back, I noticed the guy’s baby gray Jew-fro and glasses made him look like Sydney Pollack’s ghost, the much missed director/actor of Tootsie, Absense of Malice, The Yakuza and many other great films. Plopping comfortably onto his favorite seat, he told me how relieved he was to get a ticket, as that morning’s New York Times had a front page story on the documentary we were about to see, Born In Chicago. I’d gotten my ticket awhile back and was pleasantly surprised that the movie had been given such prominence from the prestigious paper.

The film is a vital document about a period in rock ‘n’ roll that doesn’t get as much attention as it should. Back in the early 60’s, young white (mainly Jewish) musicians like keyboardist Barry Goldberg, harmonica God Corky Siegel (try to say that name without cracking a smile) and candidate for most underrated guitarist ever, the late Mike Bloomfield, all descended upon Chicago to play Luke Skywalker to Muddy Waters’ Yoda and Howlin’ Wolf’s Obi-Wan Kenobi.

Siegel was part of the Siegel-Schwall Band, which let’s face it, sounds like a law firm. But they were a shit-hot blues act, one that played the Café au Go Go with Howlin’ Wolf (Chester Burnett) in the mid-60’s for two weeks. According to Siegel, every morning the Wolf would knock on his hotel room door (giving new meaning to idiom “the wolf is at the door”) and the two would walk and talk on the streets of New York for hours. That’s a real indelible image, especially considering the turmoil of that time period. A little Jewish guy and a six foot six black man, who was so huge and intimidating, he made bad-ass football legend Jim Brown look like a member of emo eunuchs Fall Out Boy (sadly, what now passes as a rock ’n’ roll band from Chicago).

Moments like that, or when B.B. King admits Mike Bloomfield was like a son to him, illustrate that the connection these men had, based on friendship, brotherhood and music, did as much to help fight prejudice as much as any march had accomplished.

Fellow Bloomfield fanatics will be happy to know there’s substantial time devoted to him. Some footage we’ve seen before, like his appearance with Dylan at the Newport Folk Festival when Dylan went electric and helped change the course of music history. What gets forgotten in the whole mishegos that followed is Dylan may have picked up an electric guitar, but he was just casually strumming rhythm. Technically, it was Bloomfield who actually went “electric,” his searing lead guitar that got people euphoric or kvetching.

Don’t forget, this was 1965, probably amongst the first, if not the first time the mainstream was exposed to the kind of loud guitar solos we’ve come to know and love. To use a popular term, no one had really seen or heard someone “shred” before. Unless, of course, you were Mike Bloomfield himself, watching Buddy Guy in the Chicago clubs a few years before.

Adding some poignancy to the whole evening was Bloomfield (who died of a drug overdose in 1981) would have turned 70 a few days later, on the 28^th. During the panel, Barry Goldberg, who played that historic gig at Newport and co-produced the documentary, mentioned that Bloomfield introduced him to Dylan (who’s interviewed in the movie) and more importantly, to his wife 42 years ago.

The film has a lot going for it, mixing illuminating interviews with stellar performances, old and new. My new friend would make the occasional odd noise if there was a song he recognized, “Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh,” as if he were laying back blissfully in the dentist chair.

One minor flaw was when someone spoke, performed or a picture was shown, they would be identified again and again, their names popping up constantly to the point of distraction. One time is fine, maybe a few times, but by the 20^th time, even the least knowledgeable blues fan will know who these people are. And was it necessary for Bob Dylan to have his name up every time? We know who he is.

The complete opposite happened during the panel, where Goldberg, Siegel, director John Anderson (not the tiny former singer of Yes) and Marshall Chess spoke with a moderator who didn’t bother to introduce himself. He would sometimes be addressed as Bob. Bob who? At one point, my pal whispered, “Do you know who this guy is?” I replied with, “I was going to ask you.” He then threw his hands up, the universal sign for “Who the fuck knows?” All we knew was he went by Bob and had a bow tie. (A few days later, I would find out that this was Bob Merlis, owner of Merlis For Hire, an independent publicity firm based in L.A. Before that, he’d been Senior VP of Worldwide Corporate Communications at Warner Brothers. Pish posh. Also, he’s a member of the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame nominating committee. Had I known that, I could’ve asked him why after 20 years of eligibility, Deep Purple wasn’t in the Hall.)

The panel began with Siegel and his harmonica wowing the crowd for a few minutes. With his gray hair, neatly trimmed beard, designer glasses and dark blazer, Corky Siegel didn’t look like one of the world’s greatest harmonica players, so much as a very nice, mild-mannered but hip accountant who’s about to be given a surprise retirement luncheon at the firm.

Marshall Chess’ (from Chess and Rolling Stones Records) friendly, hawk-like face and casual wardrobe of black t-shirt and grey khakis gave him the appearance of Ray Davies as an alter kocker living in West Palm Beach, dressed to kill for the Early Bird Special.

The only time his unwavering aimable expression changed was when (what I’d imagine was the 858^th time) he disputed Keith Richards’ account of arriving at Chess in ’64, and being shocked by the sight of Muddy Waters painting the ceiling. Before Bob could complete the question, Chess yelled “Bullshit!” I could’ve sworn Bob’s bow tie shrank a little in fright. Chess thought Richards had hallucinated that image and noted, “Buddy Guy said it was bull!” He then acknowledged that he and Keith have agreed to disagree. If I ever meet Mr. Chess, remind me to never bring that up.

Playing diplomat as well as he performed harmonica, Siegel ended the tense detour the conversation had drifted off to by stating, “Muddy painted the town.” Good save, Corky.

In the middle of the discussion, a photographer situated himself on the steps right where my friend was relaxing his feet. As you might’ve guessed, his feet were not budging. The guy would turn back and shoot him looks when he wasn’t busy shooting the panel. Each time, my friend would respond with, “Too bad I got my feet there!”

When the panel concluded, I was happy to see the two of them talking and shaking hands. It shouldn’t have been that unexpected though. They were exemplifying what the movie was about, how blues brought people together. Granted, this was a totally different context, but it was a good image to end the night on.