TRINITY & FRED

HOME

RETURN TO THE COFFEEHOUSE ARTICLES

THE BURKHART FAMILY

"The Day I Met Fred Burkhart and Trinity Valentine"

By Mark Bose

Photo by Michelle Wortman 1996

It was a Sunday night in spring. About 9:30 or so. I was sitting at home, playing piano and I got a phone call. It was my best friend, Angela, a girl I've written songs for (Angie Lamb; Sweet Seduction, etc.) and with (It Was Only But Once); a beautiful girl who knew me as well as anyone did. She said, "Mark, I'm at this place. You should come see it; you would really like it."

"What kind of place is it?" I asked.

"It's like a coffee house, but it's not a coffee house. But there's music and lots of people and hippies and pictures of naked girls and stuff to drink."

"Wait. Music and naked hippy girls and what?" I asked.

"Mark, come see this place. Trust me, okay? I know you, Mark, and you would like it. 2845 N. Halsted. Red and Yellow Building. Music coming from inside."

So I grabbed my guitar (I had the sweetest guitar back then!), changed into something presentable, and took a cab over there (I had money for cabs in those days, too.) When I got there, I opened the door and found a basement filled with people. A particularly busy night, it seemed. Every seat filled and people standing everywhere. I saw Angela snuggling with her boyfriend at the time, Sam, who once used to be a good friend of mine till I became close with Angela. As Sam regarded me indifferently, she nodded to me and smiled, saying, "See, Mark," and I smiled and nodded.

An Open Mic was going on and a guy I was to later learn was named "Ozzy" was onstage and playing guitar, singing a song with a powerful, raspy voice. I sat and listened to him for a while, and when his set finished, I decided to take a look around. Angela pointed to a striking looking man with a long, thick graying beard and whispered, "That's Burkhart. Give him a couple bucks if he asks for it, cuz it's his place, okay? Drink some soda and tea and stuff, too." The place was brimming with life. Young hippy girls in apron dresses and dreads. Intellectual chess-playing boys in glasses. A dark-haired guy with a beard, holding a guitar case in his hand and a knowing look on his face. A stoned looking lanky kid with long curly hair and overalls. I grabbed a soda, and wandered upstairs and found even more people. And art.

There were paintings and shelves with tacky religious icons in day-glow colors. I wandered past teenage kids sitting on the floor eating near the bathroom and found a room filled with photographs in the back. Lots of good naked ones. Ones with derelicts and drunks. Celebrities. Ku Klux Klanners with rifles. There was a stack labeled "Portraits of Trinity," or something similar, that I recognized as a collection of pictures of one of the blonde teenage girls in the other room. There was a picture on the wall of a man with no pants, pointing a gun off camera, in a standoff (I always imagine) perhaps with someone trying to get him to wear pants. There were young lovers and old men and boys in drag. Girls in leather. Girls in nothing. A weathered looking man hugging a crying woman. A hippy couple, the woman boyish and strutting, the man biting his tongue at the camera.

I wandered back into the other room, past the teenage kids sitting on the floor eating sandwiches and went to the bathroom. I washed my hands and fixed my hair for a couple of minutes. As I came out of the bathroom, Fred Burkhart entered the room through a doorway, playing with his long beard, with a mischievous smile that I've seen on his face dozens of times since. A pretty young woman with dark hair just past twenty years old handed him a handful of dollar bills, when the blonde girl who's pictures I'd seen in the gallery, Trinity, called out to Burkhart, "Hey! Hey! Look, I bought you a sandwich."

Burkhart turned and walked over to the group sitting on the floor. "What?"

She smiled and held up a sandwich, still wrapped in paper. "I went for sandwiches, and I brought you one in case you were hungry."

Burkhart laughed, pleased by the generosity. "Oh, good! Thanks, Trinity. Ya know, I actually am kinda hungry." He smiled at her and then took the sandwich and held it up to catch its scent. He sighed, and wandered into the kitchen, unwrapping his gift.

I smiled, touched that these teenagers had thought of Burkhart when they went to get themselves food. I walked over to Trinity, "Do you always give out sandwiches?"

Trinity shrugged. "He's my dad." As though that explained it all.

I nodded and thought to myself, "I hope when I'm a father, I'm close enough to my kid that they think of me and whether I might be hungry when they go get themselves something to eat with their friends. That's sweet. She loves him."

I ended up wandering downstairs and staying late into the night. I ended up sitting at a table with "Ozzy" and a bearded fellow who introduced himself as Ethan Daniel Davidson, both of whom played some amazing music, and Ethan offered me a beer. I sat in the back of Burkhart's basement, drinking beer, listening to the music. As the crowd dispersed slowly, till there were only a handful of us left, Ethan and "Ozzy" and I traded songs. Burkhart stood listening, nodding, swaying with his eyes closed as though the sound was water washing over him. As the night ended, I shook Fred's hand and promised to return.

I came back almost every Sunday after that, and met some amazing people in Fred's basement. I've played shows there and eaten home-cooked food in the backyard. Laid on the couch with beautiful girls, discussed chess with strangers, and read Shakespeare in the backyard with artists. I've brought my friends by, to meet Fred and some of them ended up on film. It's become almost a family to me, in a way that I haven't experienced before, and sometimes when I glance at the stack of portraits Burkhart took of his daughter, Trinity, I remember the first time I ever came to Burkhart's. The day I saw someone express their love with a sandwich. The day I found Burkhart's Underground and saw what it meant to be part of Burkhart's family.

Mark Bose 2002

Appointment: 1228 N. Noble St. (coach house) Chicago, 60622 (773 348-8536)


	HOME RETURN TO THE COFFEEHOUSE ARTICLES MEXICO \| CCULT(URE) \| TRIBUNE \| ANOTHER VIEW \| YOUTH \| TRINITY & FRED \| AROMAS \| READER \| MUSIC \| LAST STOP THE BURKHART FAMILY "The Day I Met Fred Burkhart and Trinity Valentine" By Mark Bose Photo by Michelle Wortman 1996 It was a Sunday night in spring. About 9:30 or so. I was sitting at home, playing piano and I got a phone call. It was my best friend, Angela, a girl I've written songs for (Angie Lamb; Sweet Seduction, etc.) and with (It Was Only But Once); a beautiful girl who knew me as well as anyone did. She said, "Mark, I'm at this place. You should come see it; you would really like it." "What kind of place is it?" I asked. "It's like a coffee house, but it's not a coffee house. But there's music and lots of people and hippies and pictures of naked girls and stuff to drink." "Wait. Music and naked hippy girls and what?" I asked. "Mark, come see this place. Trust me, okay? I know you, Mark, and you would like it. 2845 N. Halsted. Red and Yellow Building. Music coming from inside." So I grabbed my guitar (I had the sweetest guitar back then!), changed into something presentable, and took a cab over there (I had money for cabs in those days, too.) When I got there, I opened the door and found a basement filled with people. A particularly busy night, it seemed. Every seat filled and people standing everywhere. I saw Angela snuggling with her boyfriend at the time, Sam, who once used to be a good friend of mine till I became close with Angela. As Sam regarded me indifferently, she nodded to me and smiled, saying, "See, Mark," and I smiled and nodded. An Open Mic was going on and a guy I was to later learn was named "Ozzy" was onstage and playing guitar, singing a song with a powerful, raspy voice. I sat and listened to him for a while, and when his set finished, I decided to take a look around. Angela pointed to a striking looking man with a long, thick graying beard and whispered, "That's Burkhart. Give him a couple bucks if he asks for it, cuz it's his place, okay? Drink some soda and tea and stuff, too." The place was brimming with life. Young hippy girls in apron dresses and dreads. Intellectual chess-playing boys in glasses. A dark-haired guy with a beard, holding a guitar case in his hand and a knowing look on his face. A stoned looking lanky kid with long curly hair and overalls. I grabbed a soda, and wandered upstairs and found even more people. And art. There were paintings and shelves with tacky religious icons in day-glow colors. I wandered past teenage kids sitting on the floor eating near the bathroom and found a room filled with photographs in the back. Lots of good naked ones. Ones with derelicts and drunks. Celebrities. Ku Klux Klanners with rifles. There was a stack labeled "Portraits of Trinity," or something similar, that I recognized as a collection of pictures of one of the blonde teenage girls in the other room. There was a picture on the wall of a man with no pants, pointing a gun off camera, in a standoff (I always imagine) perhaps with someone trying to get him to wear pants. There were young lovers and old men and boys in drag. Girls in leather. Girls in nothing. A weathered looking man hugging a crying woman. A hippy couple, the woman boyish and strutting, the man biting his tongue at the camera. I wandered back into the other room, past the teenage kids sitting on the floor eating sandwiches and went to the bathroom. I washed my hands and fixed my hair for a couple of minutes. As I came out of the bathroom, Fred Burkhart entered the room through a doorway, playing with his long beard, with a mischievous smile that I've seen on his face dozens of times since. A pretty young woman with dark hair just past twenty years old handed him a handful of dollar bills, when the blonde girl who's pictures I'd seen in the gallery, Trinity, called out to Burkhart, "Hey! Hey! Look, I bought you a sandwich." Burkhart turned and walked over to the group sitting on the floor. "What?" She smiled and held up a sandwich, still wrapped in paper. "I went for sandwiches, and I brought you one in case you were hungry." Burkhart laughed, pleased by the generosity. "Oh, good! Thanks, Trinity. Ya know, I actually am kinda hungry." He smiled at her and then took the sandwich and held it up to catch its scent. He sighed, and wandered into the kitchen, unwrapping his gift. I smiled, touched that these teenagers had thought of Burkhart when they went to get themselves food. I walked over to Trinity, "Do you always give out sandwiches?" Trinity shrugged. "He's my dad." As though that explained it all. I nodded and thought to myself, "I hope when I'm a father, I'm close enough to my kid that they think of me and whether I might be hungry when they go get themselves something to eat with their friends. That's sweet. She loves him." I ended up wandering downstairs and staying late into the night. I ended up sitting at a table with "Ozzy" and a bearded fellow who introduced himself as Ethan Daniel Davidson, both of whom played some amazing music, and Ethan offered me a beer. I sat in the back of Burkhart's basement, drinking beer, listening to the music. As the crowd dispersed slowly, till there were only a handful of us left, Ethan and "Ozzy" and I traded songs. Burkhart stood listening, nodding, swaying with his eyes closed as though the sound was water washing over him. As the night ended, I shook Fred's hand and promised to return. I came back almost every Sunday after that, and met some amazing people in Fred's basement. I've played shows there and eaten home-cooked food in the backyard. Laid on the couch with beautiful girls, discussed chess with strangers, and read Shakespeare in the backyard with artists. I've brought my friends by, to meet Fred and some of them ended up on film. It's become almost a family to me, in a way that I haven't experienced before, and sometimes when I glance at the stack of portraits Burkhart took of his daughter, Trinity, I remember the first time I ever came to Burkhart's. The day I saw someone express their love with a sandwich. The day I found Burkhart's Underground and saw what it meant to be part of Burkhart's family. Mark Bose 2002 Appointment: 1228 N. Noble St. (coach house) Chicago, 60622 (773 348-8536)