Sweet Home Chicago

It was a quiet crowd and a night of quiet music.

A single performer, a weathered old folksinger who had grown up in the sixties and wore his age on his face but not in the least in his fingers. He held the guitar with a combination of reverence and the ease of an old friend. When he spoke, his voice was deep as a well and echo-y with memory and humor. When he sang, his voice dipped and rose according to his song - dry and satiric one moment, so sad he drew tears the next, and then without any warning, slipping into silliness and nonsense through a haze of laughter and applause. His shy smile and clear pleasure of performing shone. He told stories of his life in Chicago - thirty years in the same apartment - stories of his neighborhood, the German bakery where he so often went, the sights and the people, his first love and how he got over her.

Stories of learning to play the guitar and his father's death, the Cubs, his friendship with Steve Goodman who had recorded "The Dutchman", how he loved the songs and stories of Tom Lehrer, his hero worship of Roy Rogers and having his picture taken with the magnificent Gregory Peck. His audience cheered, clapped, cried and sang along.

He rarely smiled although his tone and face suggested that he might at times - more often his expression was that of a little boy who had told a sly and silly joke - his gaze swept over the small crowd in anticipation and there was mischief in his eyes.The end of the evening came much too quickly and reluctantly we all left for home, better off for a night spent with Michael Smith.