Ah, Hutzel, how right you are. Every time I get into Chicago and head up North on Lake Shore Drive past all the stuff where so much went down---well, it's enough to get ya choked up for sure. So many great ones were not survivors. Butterfield, Bloomfield, Malcolm Hale, Ed Balchowky etc. etc. etc. (But that's wrong---Eddie B. probably just fell in front of that incoming subway train at the North & Clybourn stop.) The folks do stay with us. We hold 'em and we are their immortality --- until our memories slip too --- or we put 'em into cyberspace to be found by others --later -- or into a song -- like this one.

But Fred Campeau's song was/is a work o' art--no doubt about it. I never did know what he called it...

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A few legend notes: In the song :
"The red-bearded pirate on the matchbooks" was (IS) Terry Rebenar.
"the biggest man around" (with what was actually a bluegrass banjo) was Wally Frederichs.
The "flamenco guitar" guy singing the Kurt Weil song "Bilbau" was Ray something-or-other----Hey, Frank Hamilton, who the hell was that? You brought him to the U. of Illinois concert you did on Navy Pier in '59 or '60 to open the show for you! Was it Watkins?---Yeah, I think that was his name -- Ray Watkins. Where the heck is he now? I hope that he is one of those that survived.
AND I was one of those "who just came and sang what was on my mind." So many of us felt good there and kept coming back and then staggered home late alone or hand-in-hand while Ira Sullivan's trumpet sang "Salt Peanuts--Salt Peanuts" down the street while the neon flickered out on the wetness of Rush Street -- and then the sun rose over the lake. We stood and watched it -- and ate breakfast. Tonight, for me, these glimpses back are more vivid than any photo...

Here's the song...

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It was down in the old time lobby of the Dearborn North Hotel,
Where they had a grand piano and a big oak desk --
A leatherbound register and a hotel bell,
They say a pack o' taxis'd drop high class folks right off in front of the door,
Ya know, Jeanette McDonald and Fred Astaire even stayed there for a night or more.

Those green times turned a little thin with age,
The old hotel lobby got a little rearranged,
They took out the piano and put the desk back in one corner and put panneling right up to those aluminum & glass doors,
But off to the side -- they kept the lobby alive,
They put up a wall -- and they put a bar inside,
In that bar you can still see the scrolled- beamed ceilings and the fireplace down on the floor.

Now, I don't know the whole history --
But you can catch bits and pieces of it from an oldtimer's memory late at night.
They tell ya of times when the stairs were on the other wall and a bunch of old men came around to play a quick game of chess ---
Or talk about the latest fights.

There was a lot o' talkin' and a lot o' laughin',
A lot o' drinkin' and a whole lot of staggering,
All the way from the end of the cooler -- which used to be under the window -- to the pool table upstairs.

Whether it's called a sneak joint or a fun house or a good time bar,
There were times when the bartenders could fill up three tip jars by servin' 'em up and making the main event the radio and the Chicago Bears.

Well, I don't know exactly how it all goes but I've been told about nine or ten years ago
They put up a stage and the people came in
And they sang and played what was on their mind
Like the ragtime banjo from the biggest man around,
Or a flamenco guitar singin' 'bout a room in "Bilbau",
Or the red-bearded pirate who was on all the matchbooks who just sang so long and kind.

Ya know, some have made it-- and some just went on
But none of the tunes or the feelings are gone,
They've been burned into the beams and the wood and the plastic
From the heat of a late night set.

Sometimes when you're sittin' there and it's a quarter to four,
There's nobody left --the keys are in the door,
Some o' them ghosts come out and they scare you a bit
But they let you know they ain't disapeared yet.

Alot of things have changed -- the family there is new
But it all goes on -- all those feelings and tunes,
Sometimes you can tell from the dust you sweep when ya open up
That it was a hot late night before.
The old family's still around -- they ain't gone,
New faces and songs take the tradition on,
You can almost hear those ghosts in the walls moving over just a bit -- making room for more.
Like "Joshua Johnson" or "Those Were The Days" --
"Jimmy Carter" or "Cockroaches On Parade",
You might even hear the wail of a fiddle when the old boy has had one or two.

And it's all mixed up with Nancy's tambourine,
And the clink and the clack of the damn cigarette machine,
It always liked to join in on a slow one -- but it always seems to make it through.

There're a lot o' things I can't touch for lack of time,
Like the juke box or the regulars or open mike,
The graffiti in the women's john -- or all the hookers off the street--
All the times I had to work -- and I moaned.

You just may call it a bar I guess,
I think I'll love it down to the bottom of my glass,
'Cause it's always kind of nice when you have a second place you can call home,
'Cause, ya know, there's just no place -- like home.

{by FRED CAMPEAU}

Art Thieme

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