Had a definitely unique experience Sunday night at Burkhart Underground. To explain it, I have to flash back to 1969, Forest Hills, Queens, NY, to a private club called Jack Farrell's. Farrell had a ground floor apartment with an outside entrance in an apartment building on Queens Blvd. Every weekend, he would open his living room for an off-permit coffeehouse. Patrons would sit on cushions on the floor and on a ledge along three of the living room walls, listening to two folk singers per evening. During the intermission, Mrs. Farrell would serve patrons mugs of mocha topped with whipped cream. There was no PA -- singers performed unplugged. To this day, I don't know if the door charge went to the performers or simply to defray expenses. It was never advertised -- folkies and fans (I had the latter role, as I was not yet a professional performer) just knew the phone number and would call the day of the show to find out the lineup and make reservations. There was no Internet, so nobody had the Farrell gig listed on their websites. I left NYC in 1971, so I don't know what happened to the club, or even if the Farrells are still alive.
Which leads me to Sunday night. There's a guy, Fred Burkhart, in the heart of the Lakeview/Newtown neighborhood here in Chicago (won't give out his address lest I get him in trouble with the zoning Nazis) who has, amid the formal bars and restaurants and shops, turned his home into an upstairs art gallery (and a darned good and eclectic one, I might add) and a semi-subterranean (a mere 6" below street level) art and performance salon in the classic sense of the word.
Every Sunday night, the coffeepot, hot water and incense burners are fired up, the chess sets brought out, the modest but quite adequate PA set up (with live taping capability by Ron the sound guy/poet/guitarist) and a short revue/open mic offered for a $5 donation (which goes solely to cover the all-you-can-prudently consume aforementioned nonalcoholic refreshments).
It's a magical evening indeed -- singer/songwriters, poets, and spoken word artists of all skill levels from tentative neophyte to seasoned pro strut their stuff before an appreciative and attentive audience who come for the entertainment, not to rendezvous or be seen.
And Fred (at 62, somewhere smack dab between me and the probable vintage of the Farrells of NY) presides over it all with a gentle and nurturing hand, delighted to discover and present each new and veteran artist. A deeply religious man (who lets his art and not rhetoric declare his faith) and gifted visual artist, he is also a passionate folk fan, especially of Leonard Cohen. He usually performs at least one song and one poem at each end of the evening, and it is a treat to watch him.
Once every six weeks or so, loyal Burkhart performer Shelley Miller (whose own singer-songwriting career has burgeoned to the point where touring is a necessity) hosts an evening of original women performers called "Chicks That Kick," which is where I was instead of at temple.
The evening led off (after Fred's poetic benediction) with newcomer Shannon Rose, whose singing style owes much to Jewel but whose writing is all her own. Kara Hetz came next, a fellow Ralph Covert songwriting class alum (we call ourselves "Ralphies") whose writing has grown along with the confidence of her vocals. I went next, having to switch songs on the fly when it became apparent that my disintegrating gel nails would take only so much fingerpicking. I did "Canadian For A Day," "Paseo," "Vote Early" (hadda plug the CD), and instead of "We Belong to the World" (my aformentioned fingernail kept getting snagged on the strings), the flatpicked "Kenny Boy/www.bankrupt.com." I switched to dulcimer to close with my "Grandfather's Clock" parody (and was informed I should send that to Japanese radio, as the original is a surprise retro hit in Japan). The amazing Samantha Twigg Johnson came next. She plays a meticulously exquisite classical guitar, sings in a sultry but straightforward and perfectly enunciated alto, and writes clever and wonderfully crafted songs that are like newfound unmarked roads -- demanding that you listen closely to discover the delightful twists and turns of melody and almost Noel-Coward/Oscar Hammerstein caliber lyrics -- that tease you into thinking you're being led into cul-de-sacs that continue down melodic roads. There really is nobody to which she can be compared. She doesn't follow the rules, nor does she break them -- she invents her own. Hard to believe she just started performing -- and that her main endeavor is studying for a Ph.D. in anthropology at -- no surprise -- the Univ. of Chicago (with a mind like that, you were expecting maybe one of the City Colleges?). Shelley Miller deftly and bravely followed, and as always, she was up to the task. FInally, Sabrina Chapadjiev (poet/spoken word artist/singer-songwriter) came out (after a triumphant return from NYC to the room she calls home, and took us all to school.
The evening ended with the open mike -- 2 new student poets, Ron & Fred duetting on a pair of Leonard Cohen tunes, and Sabrina & I spontaneously adding our own interpretations of the master ("I Gave It All For Beauty" from her and "First We Take Manhattan" from me). Believe me, I'll be back. I came home smelling -- instead of beer and tobacco smoke -- of fresh-brewed coffee and sandalwood incense.
(Burkhart
here… thanks Sandy… but that’s Nag Champa you left
smelling like. Next time you’re here, I’ll give you some
unburnt sticks to take home with you!)
