Buddy Charles played just for you
MUSIC | Chicago piano man's songs had that personal touch
Buddy Charles was Chicago's most beloved piano man because he knew how to personalize every phrase.
He hit all the right notes. They were always from the heart.
(Sun-Times file)
Charles, who died Thursday at age 81, spent 61 years playing Chicago's taverns, joints and piano bars. I had interviewed Mr. Charles a couple of times during his 1972-1990 residency at the Acorn on Oak in the Rush Street neighborhood. We may have talked about my love of the Cubs during one of those conversations, but I did not recall that in September 1997, the day I walked into the Coq d'Or (Golden Rooster) Lounge at the Drake Hotel.
Charles was commemorating his 50th anniversary as a Chicago entertainer. Mayor Daley had proclaimed it "Buddy Charles Day" in Chicago. But it wasn't about him, as it would have been for most entertainers. Charles saw me and broke into "The Very First Baseball Game," a novelty tune full of swings and strides.
It was his way of saying hello.
The song was written from the point of view of a deacon telling his congregation how baseball might have been played in the Bible. The song dates to 1907, although Johnny Mercer popularized it in 1947. Charles' right arm flailed in the air and the smile within his neatly cropped goatee connected with the most remote hotel visitor. Charles was not unlike other legendary creatures of the night such as Bill Veeck, Harry Caray and Kup. He had to be seen to be believed.
I was always enamored with Charles juxtaposition of playing piano at night and teaching Sunday school the next day.
"Performing isn't always a gas," he told me that night. "You've got to believe it's worth something. That's where your theological or philosophical upbringing comes in. Music's always been done. Somebody worked hard to give you this music. You better come across and give it out. But if you start living for the kicks, you'll end up like Jolson -- a piece of paper."
Between 1942 and 1944, one of his classmates at Loyola University was the late Christopher FitzGerald, patriarch of FitzGerald's music club in Berwyn. A lifelong Chicagoan, Charles remained friends with the FitzGerald family for the rest of his life.
When FitzGerald was dating his future wife, Margaret, in college, they would visit Charles at his earliest haunts, such as the tiny bar in the old Webster Hotel on the Near North Side.
"That was a little swank for him," Margaret FitzGerald recalled. "We'd go to breakfast with him after his set. He was always mentoring people he worked with, a waitress, a bartender. He had such a love of mankind. I never saw him provoked, and that is such a hard thing when you're trying to play and everybody's drunk and talking."
Piano player Paul Marinaro now plays at Coq d'Or.
Marinaro, 35, moved to Chicago seven years ago from Buffalo, N.Y. He first woodshedded with Charles in a tribute to piano players at Davenport's in Wicker Park.
"It was an instant connection where you felt like you knew him all your life," Marinaro said. "It was the way he shook your hand, and, if you were lucky, the way he hugged you. I was tentative when I came to Chicago. I had got knocked around by some peers and I was at a low point. Buddy knew that or sensed that and was exceptional to me. That was his way."
Chicago entertainer-performer-composer Scott Urban knew of Charles' personal touch, although it worked better for him than a baseball song has worked for my team's fortune.
Urban recalled hanging out at the Acorn on Oak on Monday nights, when local entertainers filled the joint on their off night. "I remember bringing dates there," he said. "Buddy would sing a love song or maybe go into 'Have Some Madeira, My Dear,' and it was the perfect aphrodisiac." It was Charles' way of saying hello.
It is impossible to say goodbye.