We sat on our front porches at night and sang “our songs.” It was a tradition we had learned from our parents: Mitch Miller sing-alongs at family gatherings–birthdays, communions, or picnics in one of the city’s forest preserves. The adults gathered in a circle around a keg of beer, swung their feet up on it, and sang “Bicycle Built for Two,” “Danny Boy,” and “Sweet Rosie O’Grady”–the “old songs,” the best songs. I remember sitting on splintery wooden benches, watching the adults’ faces change at dusk from yellow green to gray to black, occasionally made visible again by a cigarette’s red glow. We sang “Heart of My Heart” and I’d catch the eye of an aunt sitting next to me. As the song ended, we’d toss arms around each other’s shoulders, lean our heads together until our temples touched, and croon “Heart of my hear-ar-ar-art.” We’d laugh and clap as though we’d spontaneously dreamed this up, although we did it every time. If someone joined the circle late, usually one of the women who had been cleaning up, someone would wave to her to come sit down and she’d obey, never speaking a word, never interrupting the song, joining in as she moved to her seat, shaking her head as if to say, “Yes, yes, yes. That’s right. I know this spot. I know this song. I know these words. I belong.”
The biggest downtown deal of all was the autograph parties at the Sheraton-Chicago Hotel on North Michigan Avenue, next to the Tribune Tower. Once a month or so, you actually got to meet your rock-star idols. If you bought 12 tickets to Arie Crown Theatre performances, you were able to go to three autograph parties, where Dick Biondi and the stars sat on a makeshift stage. We waited in line for hours, then walked up onto the stage, passing in front of our idols. A long series of tables separated us, and we got 30 seconds to declare our love, to make an impression that would set us apart from the thousands of other fans who were dressed exactly like us and get, if not the marriage proposal we dreamed of, at least a decent autograph we could show off to the front-porch crowd that night. Afterward we waited outside the hotel for the chance of one small touch of his hair or clothing, one small glimpse of him through the gray smoked glass of the departing limousine.
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One day, after our study day and music making were done, the north-side and west-side kids went to their various bus stops, and we south-side kids–Cecil, Jenette, Joe, and I–decided to extend our time together by walking downtown. We planned to walk down Michigan Avenue, then take the Englewood el home. They would get off at their stops in the black neighborhoods; I would ride till the end, 63rd and Ashland, the newest dividing line, and hop a bus that would take me into the white neighborhoods and home.
“Oh, yeah,” I lied. “He’s great.” The only jazz I knew was from the one jazz record I owned, Concert by the Sea, which I won at a neighborhood picnic when my father and I finished first in the polka contest. While the emcee made jokes about the Irish father and daughter winning, my eye was caught by the shiny red album on the winner’s table. “I’m picking this prize,” I said to one of my neighbors. “What do you want that for?” he stated more than asked. “That’s jazz.”
“What the hell is it?” Cecil said, his jaw hanging open, his eyebrows knitted together.
“Who’s Dave?” Cecil asked.
