Kind and little incongruities make for a big and strong community.
And so it has been with my beloved FitzGerald’s in Berwyn. Think about it.
When Bill FitzGerald, his brother Chris and their late father Chris, Sr. opened FitzGerald’s in 1980, the working-class strip of West Roosevelt Road was a no man’s land. And they had the idea to create something like a Gulf Coast roadhouse? Smart money might have bet on a disco with 1980 hits like Diana Ross’s “I’m Coming Out” and Blondie’s “Call Me,” perhaps a Berwyn version of the “Stay Out All Night Discotheque” in Stone Park.
But it worked out to something beautiful, a song everyone could dance to.
Bill [...]
A few of our Springfield friends coming to FitzGerald’s in Berwyn (from far left Ruell Chappell, Nick Sibley on guitar, Abbey Waterworth, far right Donnie Thompson (and there’s the late great Bobby Lloyd Hicks on drums).
SPRINGFIELD, Mo.—The unadorned beauty of American regionalism can be heard in the songs of Abbey Waterworth. The 20-year-old musician is majoring in History and minoring in Museum Studies at Missouri State University (MSU) in Springfield. Her voice is as pure as mountain rain and filled with the promise of the morning sun. Waterworth is on the fast train to be to the Ozarks what a [...]
Jeremy Pollack portrait made by James Iska two months ago.
Jeremy Pollack lived in a black and white world which fit him just fine.
His love of noir’, a 1950s love song and the smell of fresh newsprint shaped a colorful life. Pollack died on Nov. 17 after a short bout with pancreatic cancer. He was 55 years old.
His death came just two months after he released “The Hard-Boiled Detective 1,” an acclaimed collection of pulp short stories set in Chicago that he wrote under the pen name Ben Solomon. The writing is tight and rhythmic which amplifies the drama.
July 4, 2011-
The essence of music is deep and free. Like sprinkles of dust underneath blasted firecrackers and cherry bombs there is a distant salsa beat.
An old blue bicycle takes you to a group of men in Humboldt Park on the west side of Chicago. They are across the way from the 16-inch softball players with the sweeping uppercut swings and the pregnant woman with a light white smock snapping in a gentle breeze.
It sounds like the old bicycle needs oil.
The men are huddled under a tree that shades them from a bright blue sky. No barbecue, no beer; just their drums, congas and heart beats. No tip jars.
Just commitment, a promise to keep [...]
