In Way Over My Head (Once Again)

A few weeks ago, I walked out of my downtown law office at noon and saw that the company that manages my building was throwing a lunchtime party for its many tenants.

The complimentary warm lemonade and cold nachos on the building's south plaza weren't, by themselves, going to be enough to keep me around. But the party planners did see fit to hire one hell of a guitarist to play for the event, and that sealed the deal for me.

So I skipped lunch, grabbed some free nachos, planted my rear end in a plastic chair and listened to the music.

Even though it was a frigid fall day, the building's hired gun was burning it up on his Gibson ES-335. But while he was busy conjuring up Freddie King, Wes Montgomery, the boys from Steely Dan, and a host of other greats, a largely oblivious work force was going about its mid-day routine. For the life of me, I'll never understand how folks can walk past a guy playing so beautifully and not stop to listen.

In any event, during a break I asked the guitarist his name. It rang a bell, though I couldn't quite figure out why. Turns out he's a longtime member of the faculty at the Old Town School of Folk Music, where I occasionally hang out.

After his set, he and I talked for a few minutes. Seemed like a real nice guy. One thing led to another, and I swooped in for the kill.

"I work in this building as a lawyer, but from time to time I play music in local bars. If you'd ever consider playing a gig with me . . . ."

Now the key to this deal is to let a musician know up front that you're gonna get him paid a decent wage. I've got a lot of friends who are professional musicians, and I know it's a brutal way to make a living. I assured him that if ever I called him for a gig, he'd get paid in U.S. dollars that same evening.

He graciously told me to call him anytime.

Two weeks later, while I was down in Atlanta taking a deposition, I did just that.

And that's why, come Wednesday, November 23, I'll once again be plugging in with a musician with whom I have absolutely no business sharing a stage. A Berklee-educated guitarist who toured the United States with soul great Otis Clay. A guy who's played with Percy Sledge, The Coasters, and The Platters. A guy who's jammed with Otis Rush and performed with the Wrecking Crew's Hal Blaine (the world's most recorded musician).

A guy who has assured me that he knows each of the three chords that I know.

This year, I'm excited to have Chris Winters joining me for my annual after-work, pre-Thanksgiving show at McKellin's Pub (2800 W. Touhy Avenue) in Chicago's West Rogers Park neighborhood.

Chris and I will play from 6-9 p.m., and there's no cover charge. Stop by and request a song or two. Just make sure those songs contain the three chords that I know.

Why the Record Business Is a Mess: Reason #467

The year is 1974. You're a hotshot executive with Chrysalis Records, and somebody's just handed you the finished mixes for "High Life," the upcoming second release by the soulful Scottish singer Frankie Miller. The singer's first album didn't make much of a splash, but this time around your label agreed to let New Orleans music legend Allen Toussaint serve as Miller's producer. The new record features several of Toussaint's tunes, and the master's signature piano playing also graces the grooves.

You close your door, kick back in your office, and give the tapes a listen. You quickly decide the music lacks a certain sheen. You then make an executive decision to ship the tapes to a couple of guys in another part of the country and ask them to remix Toussaint's production.

And since you're a self-important record exec (who may or may not be able to carry a tune, write a lyric, or build a diminished chord), you don't bother to tell Toussaint or Miller that you're having their record remixed. In fact, the two of them don't find out about your decision until the album is in the stores.

Is it any wonder the record business self-destructed?

Sure, Miller was still a young gun in 1974 without a hit record to his name, but Toussaint was already a legend. He’d been writing, producing, and playing on hit songs for fifteen years. His credits included tunes like "A Certain Girl," "Mother-in-Law," "Working In The Coalmine," "Fortune Teller," "Lipstick Traces (On a Cigarette)," and "Ruler of My Heart."

Even though he’d penned most of those tunes ten years earlier, Toussaint was hardly an oldies act in 1974. Just a few years earlier, The Band had asked him to arrange the horns for their live album, "Rock of Ages." And only a year before going into the studio with Miller, Toussaint had produced Dr. John’s album "In the Right Place," which featured the smash hit "Right Place, Wrong Time."

But that record exec knew better than the hit-making musical genius, so he ordered up a slicker remix of Miller’s "High Life," hoping to put a radio-friendly gloss on what was a gritty, soulful record.

The remixed "High Life" didn’t sell many copies, and Miller disowned the record after its release. Toussaint was inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in 1998, and the whereabouts of the record executive are unknown.

In any event, thirty-seven years after the fact, you can finally hear the original mix of "High Life." It’s been released as part of "Frankie Miller . . . That's Who!" It's a bargain-priced, four-disc Frankie Miller anthology, and it’s well worth checking out.

Here's one of the original mixes from the "High Life" record, and it's a stone-cold version of a Toussaint classic.



Post-script: Ten years after Toussaint was inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, I made what will always be considered my greatest contribution to popular music. I was seated about fifteen feet from Toussaint and his piano at the second of his February 2008 concerts at Chicago's Old Town School of Folk Music. Toward the end of the show, with the band still playing, Toussaint got up from the piano and walked across the stage, handing Mardi Gras trinkets to the fans in front. As he headed back to the piano, Toussaint lost his footing and fell off the stage. I jumped from my seat and caught him over my right shoulder in a make-shift fireman’s carry.

The band kept playing. I asked Toussaint if he was okay. He thanked me and said he was fine. The master then walked up the side stairs and headed back to his piano to finish the concert. After the show, he stopped by my table to thank me again. He gave me a kitschy Mardi Gras trinket, which I've kept to this day.

The following week, he headlined during half-time of the NBA All-Star Game in New Orleans.

Long live Allen Toussaint.

Summer Camp, Dead Parents, and Elmo

Never underestimate the healing power of Elmo.

This afternoon I spent my lunch hour in a Roosevelt University classroom talking with 45 kids who, on the surface, seemed to have little in common with me.  Few of them looked anything like me.  Most came from neighborhoods far more rugged than the North Side bungalow belt in which I live. And the vast majority of them would have been hard-pressed to name even two of the four Beatles. 

But as I told the kids, who ranged in age from 10 to 14, we did share one important bond. We belonged to a “club” that, for better or worse, will continue to play a big role in shaping each of our lives.  It’s a “club” that no kid wants to join, but its members don’t have a choice. 

We were initiated into that “club” when, as kids, we each experienced the death of at least one of our parents.  For my money, I told the kids, that meant we had something in common that was far more important than, say, a shared love of the Chicago Bulls. 

The kids and I met because they are taking part in a two-week day camp called “Hands Together, Hearts on Art.” The camp, now in its seventh year, uses the arts to help kids deal (at many different levels) with the loss of a parent. I had not heard of the camp until a few weeks ago, when one of my cousins, who happens to work at Roosevelt, suggested that I share my own story with the kids.

I’m a pushover, so I signed on.

I had thirty minutes to fill. I explained to the kids not only how I gained admission to the “club” – my 39-year-old dad dropped dead from a heart attack at work in 1978 – but also how I spent the next ten years living an aimless, day-to-day existence, all because I saw no point in planning for a future that could be so easily snatched away.  When I asked the kids whether any of them had had similar feelings, a lot of hands shot up.

We then talked about how to recognize and hopefully move beyond such a highly negative world view. I didn’t profess to have a lot of answers, but I did tell the kids this much. At some point in my early twenties, I acknowledged that the life expectancy tables might be right, and there was a good chance that I might actually live to be an old man.

Having made that leap, I then decided to start living life with an eye to the future -- trying to set longer-term goals while still taking some pleasure in the moment. The kids then asked me a lot of great questions, and I answered them honestly. I know some of what they’re going through right now, and I’m rooting for all of them to enjoy what’s left of their childhoods.

Which brings me back to Elmo.

Since the camp is an arts-themed camp, I brought my acoustic guitar with me. I told the kids that my dad had sparked my love of music by spinning his old records for me when I was little, and then telling me tales about folks like Chuck Berry, Johnny Cash, and Little Richard when I was a bit older. To this day, a large number of the songs I perform in taverns are tunes I learned from my dad.

And I was all set to play one of those songs for the campers until I noticed two kids -- one boy and one girl -- on opposite sides of the room wearing Sesame Street t-shirts. The boy was sporting a blue Cookie Monster shirt; the girl had opted for a resplendent red offering from the Elmo collection.

So I called an audible: “Elmo . . . Cookie Monster. Come up here with me.” The kids grudgingly wandered up to the front of the room. I then channeled my inner Elmo and kicked into a rousing version of “Elmo’s Song.”



Ten seconds into the tune, every teen and pre-teen voice in that room was singing every word of “Elmo’s Song” along with me. Not something I’d normally expect from kids that age, but these kids appeared to have gotten comfortable enough with each other over two weeks that they weren’t afraid to get a little silly.

I then blasted through a quick version of “C Is For Cookie” for my buddy in the blue t-shirt, but he was less than impressed.

With the Sesame Street songbook out of the way, I moved back to my dad’s record collection. Before launching into the next tune (a #2 smash for both Bobby Day in 1958 and Michael Jackson in 1972), I told the kids that I’d be happy to have them as background singers and dancers if the spirit moved them.



And wouldn’t you know it -- halfway through the first verse of “Rockin’ Robin,” three of my background singers jumped to their feet, got behind me, and worked out their choreography on the spot. By the time I hit the first chorus, two-thirds of the kids in the room were “on stage” with me, entertaining their friends who were still sitting on the floor.

It was a heck of a way to spend my lunch hour.

Songwriting for Kids

The first wave of students will arrive at my house this afternoon. Today it will be the younger group -- three kids who range in age from about six to nine. A couple Sundays from now, five eighth graders will knock on my door.

Each group is coming over to talk about music. The focus of our meetings will be songwriting. The kids and I plan to meet regularly during the spring and summer, and by the end of the program, each group of kids will have written and recorded an original song.

As part of that process, the kids will have the opportunity to consult -- via Skype -- with my compadre Alan Elliott, a Hollywood composer and arranger (who also makes it a point to work with young musicians in L.A. schools).

Lord knows I don't have Alan's musical talent or training. He scores movies and TV shows; I write and record occasional "odes" to elected officials in the Land of Lincoln. But I'm confident I can still teach these kids something useful.

This whole adventure came about on a lark. Last month, I decided to offer up my services in a silent auction to raise some money for my youngest daughter's public school. To my surprise, a couple of folks were willing to write checks to help out the school (while encouraging the budding Leibers and Stollers in their own homes).

I'm looking forward to working with the kids. I'll do my best to ensure they have a blast. It may be the first time some of them get to hear (and discuss) music by folks like Roger Miller, Smokey Robinson, Cole Porter, Jimmy Webb, and Woody Guthrie.

Who knows? Down the road, they may even allow me to post their finished works on this site. Stay tuned.

Too Big To Fail

Chicago was hit by a blizzard this week, and most of us here in the city were snowed in on Wednesday. I spent part of the day shoveling and part of the day cranking out a song.

I know there's minimal demand for middle-aged white rappers with law degrees, but because I'm not hustling clubs for a cover charge, I don't sweat the realities of the marketplace. On the plus side, I've never had to spend quality time on a hotel balcony with Suge Knight.

I'll blame the following two minutes and fifty-two seconds on my having spent too much time (a) studying Chicago politics and (b) spinning Eric B. & Rakim records in the 1980s. (Apologies in advance to the great Rakim.)



Too Big To Fail
(M. Farmer)

I got a call last spring from Good King Rich
He said the time had come for him to make a switch
He said, “Rahm, you’ve always been my boy”
I said, “Rich, you’ve always been my goy”
Then he started talkin’ about his plan
To slip on out and make me the man
He said, “Here’s the teflon; you’re gonna be a great Don --
Do the dance like my very own Black Swan”
Then I said, “I will prevail --
I got Hollywood cash; I’m too big to fail”

Then I let it be known that I was back in Chi-Town
Measuring drapes and getting ready to throw down
And just like that the field cleared
The wannabes all disappeared
I got rock star money; I can buy my own island
My family wants Thai food, I take ‘em to Thailand
Stay off of my court; I’m playing a blood sport
Whaddup, Winnetka? Bye-bye Bridgeport
No need to vote; I will prevail
I got Hollywood cash; I’m too big to fail

Then I hit the streets with my top adviser
The guy in charge of my hand sanitizer
I smile and wish all the people well
Shake some hands and then get my Purell
They say I’m out of touch with the working man
With my thousand dollar suits and my year-round tan
I say spare me the rap about that neighborhood crap
Garfield Park is just a place on a map
You wanna play ball, put a check in the mail
I got Hollywood cash; I’m too big to fail

Public schools, hah, I don’t need ‘em
Parking meters, lord, I don’t feed ‘em
My big-money crew is gonna rock the downtown
And throw a few bones to the black and the brown
Kiss up to all the right preachers
Send dead fish to the union teachers
Bringin’ it non-stop; rockin’ the hip-hop
Did I mention that my uncle was a city cop?
Mess with me and you touch the third rail
With my Hollywood cash; I’m too big to fail

Happy National Record Store Day

Today is National Record Store Day, and I'm typing this post from my basement bunker, where I'm dwarfed by bookcases loaded down with records and CDs. Thousands of records and CDs.

My shelves make for a great melting pot. Pee Wee Crayton lives right down the block from Ray Baretto, and Dyke & The Blazers are just a stone's throw from the Osborne Brothers. Were my shelves an actual neighborhood, I know they'd host one hell of a block party.

I'll admit it: I own way too much music (and too many books about music, and too many music DVDs, etc.). But it's my thing, and all things considered, it's a habit that hurts no one. My music purchases have slowed down a bit over the last four or five years, but that's primarily because record stores keep closing their doors. I tried to explain two years ago why this trend saddened me, and my opinion hasn't changed.

I doubt that Mayor Daley has declared National Record Store Day a parking meter holiday here in Chicago, but I'll still make it a point to drive over to a couple of indie record stores this afternoon, comb through their bins, and drop a few bucks on good music and quality local businesses. I encourage you to do the same.

Brenda Lee's "Coming on Strong"

"Daddy, can we take Brenda Lee with us in the car?"

It's a question my seven-year-old frequently asks me as we head out the door. Brenda Lee's music has definitely had an effect on my youngest daughter, and I think YouTube should get some of the credit for that. To be sure, my daughter certainly enjoyed a lot of the old Brenda Lee records I play around the house before she ever saw a picture of the singer, and she also knew that Ms. Lee cut a lot of those great sides as a kid. But it wasn't until my daughter saw some old black-and-white videos of the young Brenda Lee knocking out audiences with that big, big voice that she bought in for the long haul.

So if you find that your daughter (or son) is spending too much time with the latest "American Idol" flavor-of-the-month or Disney Channel pop star, take a few minutes, sit your kid in front of your computer, and introduce that child to "Little Miss Dynamite."

Live Music -- Saturday, August 15

Join Chicago guitar ace Stevie Doyle and me this Saturday night for three sets of hard-charging jukebox favorites at Finley Dunne's Tavern, 3458 N. Lincoln Avenue.

Showtime is 9:00 p.m., and there's no cover. We've invited Blago (who lives within jogging distance of the tavern) to join us onstage for a twisted version of Elvis's "Treat Me Nice," and we'll be happy to let him do "Jailhouse Rock" as an encore.

It Was Thirty Years Ago Today . . .

It was thirty years ago today that I hopped the wall along the left-field line and ran around on the field at Comiskey Park during "Disco Demolition Night." I was fourteen years old.

After jumping the wall, it took me about ninety seconds to realize that I was in way over my head. I quickly headed back to my seat and watched the madness unfold. Eventually, scores of Chicago police officers in full riot gear cleared the badly damaged field, and the White Sox forfeited the second game of a double-header against the Detroit Tigers.

But I've gotten ahead of myself.

My brother Mark turned twelve on July 12, 1979. To celebrate his birthday, my mom decided to take her five boys -- then ranging in age from seven to fourteen -- to watch the White Sox play. (Mark has always been a huge Sox fan.) My mom had been widowed about nine months earlier, so even under the best of circumstances, an outing like this, with five kids in the station wagon, meant that she had her hands full.

Unlike me, my mother did not listen to Steve Dahl's morning radio show, so she had no idea that a radio promotion called "Disco Demolition Night" was on the bill between games. I didn't tell her about it because I thought she might cancel the trip from suburban Villa Park to 35th and Shields if she knew something potentially subversive was afoot.

Once we arrived at the ballpark, it had to be obvious to my mom that this was not a typical baseball crowd. It looked (and smelled) a lot more like a cross-section of the lawn at the Alpine Valley Music Theater during a Blue Oyster Cult/Nazareth twin-bill.

Toward the end of the first (and only) game that night, I left my family and wandered out to the left-field bleachers to take a look around. Folks throughout the park appeared to be pretty plastered.

Then, after the first game ended, Steve Dahl blew up a bunch of disco records, thousands of people stormed the field, and all hell broke loose.

As I said earlier, my adventure on the field lasted no more than ninety seconds. By the time I headed out there, people were flinging pieces of broken disco records like Frisbees. These scraps of broken vinyl, however, were more like ninja death stars, and I knew enough to get the hell back to my seat. I saw little honor in becoming a casualty in the "War On Disco."

Before leaving the park that night, I shelled out six bucks and bought myself a black "Disco Sucks" t-shirt to commemorate the event. My mom saw the shirt as soon as we got home, and she immediately cut it to pieces, telling me, "No son of mine is going to wear anything with the word 'sucks' on it. No son of mine is even going to use the word 'sucks.'"

Thirty years later, that t-shirt would probably fetch a few bucks on eBay. It's too bad -- in fact, it downright sucks (sorry, Mom) -- that I didn't get to keep that souvenir from "Disco Demolition Night."

Happy birthday, Mark.

Good King Rich (the music video)

Here's the music video for "Good King Rich," a song I penned right after Mayor Daley's recent trip to Switzerland.




Great thanks to the folks who helped me bring this tune to life.

GOOD KING RICH (words and music by Matt Farmer)

(Spoken Intro)
This is an open letter to the International Olympic Committee:

As you travel the world these next few months
Being wined and dined in five-star restaurants
In Madrid, Tokyo, and Rio De Janeiro, remember this:

You're upholding the proud tradition of your predecessors,
Many of whom allegedly accepted bribes
In exchange for awarding the 2002 Winter Games
To that paragon of urban virtue - Salt Lake City, Utah

(Chorus)

Well, you can scrap that bid from old Madrid
Say adios to Spain
And just say no to Tokyo
With its fancy bullet train

And if you're ill at ease speakin' Portugese
Then Rio ain't your town
Oh, but Good King Rich, he'll scratch your itch
When he throws that cash around

(Verse)

Well, some folks say that it don't make sense
To hold the Games in the 312
They say our city's broke; schools are a joke
Well, friends, that just might be true

Oh, but Good King Rich, he'd rather fight than switch
You know how the story's gonna end
With all the King's family and all the King's friends
Lining their pockets again and again

(Repeat Chorus)

(Verse w/ tag)

From the two-flats and the bungalows
We applaud his every scheme
From a tax increase to a parking meter lease
He's helping us live the dream

Now with a wave of his hand and a line in the sand
He's gonna bring the Olympics home
So damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead
He's gonna get us a velodrome

We can't pay for salt when there's ice on the streets
But at least we'll have a velodrome

(Repeat Chorus (w/ tag))

Yeah, Good King Rich, he's gonna scratch your itch
When you bring those games to town