I've shared most of these stories before with friends or online, but I thought it would be fun to gather them here. The details are as correct as I can remember them now, that's the best I can do, but everything here really happened. My friends all have stories like these, it was a goofy time. So...things I remember about the run in Chicago:
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Once I finished a set at the Get Me High Lounge and went outside to get some air. I looked down the street and saw that the hood of my car was partly open and someone was working under it. I yelled, "HEY!" and ran toward the car and the kid took off. He was trying to steal my battery, and in his rush to get out of there he left a yellow flashlight that was a good flashlight, pretty bright. I put it in my glove box. A year went by. Same place, same gig. At the end of the night I went to my car and saw that the small vent window was broken, and the only thing missing was that flashlight.
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I finished playing a wedding once in a banquet hall in the near suburbs. After about 15 minutes I was packed up and started for my car. The lobby was deserted and quiet, but then I opened the door. The parking lot was the scene of a full blown melee between the bride's family and the grooms family. Swearing, fists flying, screaming women, blood, a swirling, drunken fiasco. Then the cops showed up, lights blazing, and blocked the exit. It took an hour to get out of there.
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I got hit on by Chicago's most famous transvestite on stage, in front of everybody, at the Park West in Chicago, and it wasn't shtick.
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A jazz gig at Wicked Wanda's in Wicker Park. I was still driving Chevy Caprices that I got from the State Of Indiana State Police auction. This was before gentrification, the area was decidedly funky. Gig over, loaded out, quiet sidestreet, a few people around. I went to start my car and nothing happens, nothing at all. It's midnight or one. I opened the hood and the battery is gone. Oh, man. Then I hear, "Hey Man, what's happening." Two guys are sitting on the stoop. I say, "Well, it looks like my battery is gone." "Gone? Oh, that's bad." Then, "You need a battery, Man?" I look up, " Yeah." I'm trying to handle this right. "Do you think anybody around here has one?" "Maybe, yeah." So I say, "Do you think $25 would cover it?" " Yeah, that would be ok. Let me see if I can find one here." Five minutes later they come back, with my actual battery, a Sears Die-Hard, and they have a wrench and they even put it in for me, while we're chatting about whatever. They knew I was playing in the Club, and they agreed on half of what I made that night. It's nice that they weren't greedy.

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A sideman date for a private party on the North side, a quintet. It was in a beautiful Victorian house a little South of Wrigley Field. We set up, the guests arrive, mostly men. Drinks are flowing, the boys are having a ball, dancing, laughing, drinking and much more. Partying like it's the last night of the world. They are really great to us, whatever we want, and everyone leaves us alone, after all, we're all adults, and besides, there's plenty of talent on the dance floor. At one point we see one of the hosts bringing an elderly, frail homeless guy in from off the street. He takes his coat, then leads him to the bar, then the buffet table. How touching, I think to myself. Anyway we're rocking it, we're eating and drinking, they are so appreciative, it's really a nice night. A sea of celebrating people, and we're seeing how they let loose behind closed doors, surprisingly un-vulgar, or at least discreet. Then a host asks for the mic. He goes to an adjacent staircase, ascends a few steps and speaks: "May I have your ATTENTION PLEASE!" The room goes silent as all eyes turn to the staircase. The host then says, "PRESENTING..." and sweeps his arm upward. At the top of the stairs is the homeless guy. He's in a beautiful, antique, Titanic-era gown, with a wig, lipstick and makeup impeccably applied, standing up there like Dolores Del Rio, the soul of dignified elegance. The place goes absolutely crazy. The band goes absolutely crazy. The bandleader keeps it together and plays something on piano, I wish I could remember what it was, but it was campy and schmaltzy, perfectly appropriate. Then the guy started descending the staircase to wild applause, screaming, and joyous ecstacy. In 45 years and thousands of gigs, that night is a standout.
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I was a sideman at a wedding. At this gig I had played the ceremony so that meant I got to eat about halfway through this continuous gig (band members rotate short breaks but the band never stops.) There were only three people in the room, me, the band leader, and "Morty," the wedding planner, eating these nice steaks. You could hear the strings in the ballroom. These expensive downtown weddings usually included a group of about eight to twelve violinists who stood in formation on the dance floor and played show tunes during courses. They were elderly and had been doing it for decades, they knew their stuff and they played the role well. But the bandleader had recently pulled a controversial stunt. He was always looking for an angle, so he had fired these guys and replaced them with young, female, inexperienced violinists, exactly one of which actually knew the tunes. No harmony, barely any melody, but hey, chicks in evening gowns, right? So we're in there focusing on the steaks because we have to hurry, and we can faintly hear something resembling "Climb Every Mountain" in the ballroom. The leader leans over to "Morty" and asks, "So how do you like the new look of the strings?" And this is all about letting you know what kind of people these were that made a good living doing these things in the '80's. Morty never looked up, just kept eating, but he said, " Yes, very nice..." a pause, and then, "Except the fat one, get rid of her."
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I saw Lester Lanin naked. Society bands used to hire a "rock guy," who typically didn't know any of the band's repertoire, but who could play and sing medleys of rock and pop tunes, carrying the band with a lot of volume and energy. I was known in certain circles as a rock guy, whatever. Anyway Bob Young called me one afternoon, "Hey, Frank, you open tonight?" "Yeah, Bob, what'd you got?" I'm supposed to work with Lester Lanin tonight in the west burbs but, uh, I'm not feeling well. Can you do it for me?" Bob wasn't sick, he just didn't feel like going out. "Sure, Bob, I'll be there." I had never worked with Lester, but I was open and the money was good. I arrived at the country club in a raging thunderstorm. When I got there, as I suspected, most of the guys were locals who worked society jobs with Bill Scott, who I worked with often, so I knew everybody. Lester and his pianist were stacked above O'Hare, unable to land because of the weather. Joe Vito was there with a trio playing dinner, and he just stayed on until Lester's flight was eventually able to land and he made it to the club. Lester walked in, looked around, saw me with a guitar case and said, "YOU! You're not Bob Young!" I confirmed that I was not Bob Young, introduced myself, and told him I was his rock guy that night. He said, "Well then, young man, come with me while I explain the engagement to you." Everybody rolled their eyes. So as he was getting changed into his tux he starts: "You know, these people went to considerable expense..." (yes, you're famous) "My arrangements are meticulous..." (the band was faking five part harmony, impeccably, all night. No music whatsoever on the flats.) "I do not require guitar on the society tunes..." (Like hell, you ever heard of rhythm guitar? But all right, I can get paid to sit and do nothing.) "And, the most important thing I will say to you..." At this point he was stark naked, not a stitch, but he was so carried away with his sermon that he had stopped dressing. I was seated, he's bent over waving his finger. "You must not play TOO LOUD! My client will not tolerate..." It was surreal, an 80 year old skinny shriveled up guy, clearly thinking I don't know squat, playing the part of the wordly orchestra leader, except he's oblivious to the fact that he's naked as a jaybird. Anyway, 20 minutes later the gig is on. Rick Meyer the trombone player leans over and asks, "Frank, why aren't you playing?" "Lester said not to except for the rock stuff." "So are you ever going to do this gig again?" I smiled and replied, "No, never again," and I went ahead and started playing.
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McDonald's still occasionally uses a fragment of a jingle that was developed years ago known as "I'm lovin' it." I believe I was the first person outside of the organization to hear it. I got a call from an in-house production guy from Mikky D. I had had some live show production experience, and that's probably why I got referred. He asked if I was available to bring my group to a downtown hotel for a big industrial, a meeting of many of the highest volume McDonald's franchise owners outside of the U.S. Then he asked if I could take a new jingle that had just been written and play it at this convo. I said sure, mail it or email it and I'll get on it. He said oh, no, we have to be very careful, it's brand new, we don't want it falling into the wrong hands. What's he worried about, secret agents from Burger King? Anyway, he asked if I was going to be downtown that week and I said yes, I'm playing solo tomorrow at the 95th in the Hancock building. He said, "Good, we'll send a man." Sure enough, the next night I played a set, looked up and I swear, this guy in a coat was lurking in the shadows. We said hello briefly and he handed me a manila envelope. When I got home I opened it and, man, there was almost nothing to go on. Two handwritten staves somebody traced or drew with a ruler, about 8 measures of this melody, some lyrics that ended with "I'm lovin' it," more lyrics underneath. What the hell am I supposed to do with this? So I guess I channeled the spirit of the Hamburgler or whatever, and expanded this thing to about a 45 second loop on a hip hop idea. The gig was a lunch thing for about 90 minutes and then a more formal three hour dinner and dancing thing that evening. I wore headphones connecting me to a director, and I was following a script and playing speakers on and off with short cues. We did, "I'm lovin' it" at the end of lunch, got some thumbs-ups from the brass, so ok. Now here's how the McDonald's organization worked back then: After the lunch part I happened to be backstage. The production guys were thanking me and telling me the gods were pleased, when one of the gods came by. She said to the production people, "This was nice (referring to the room setup) but why don't we go for something a little more modern tonight, shall we?" Words to that effect, I don't remember exactly. Then she walked away. She was telling them that she wanted them to take weeks of planning, organizing, logistics, phone calls, throw it all out and come up with a new look...by that night. Nobody batted an eye, but everybody immediately scattered. And that night, when I got back to the ballroom, they had done it. The color scheme, lighting, and table setups were all changed to black and white from a pastel thing they had in the afternoon. This was McDonald's, money was no object, and I don't even think they were dissatisfied by anything during the luncheon, someone just decided on a whim that the guests would be impressed if they changed it up. I don't know about the guests, but I sure was. The evening thing was looser, it was pretty fun, the band played great. A few days later they called again. They were pleased with what we did and started to describe another project that was coming up. But, anticipating the call, I had thought about it beforehand and begged off. If I was going to develop a relationship with these people I would have had to be on call 24-7. There'd be some traveling, which I wasn't into. Operating budgets were no problem, as referenced earlier. But I'd have to give up teaching, my commercial band, the jazz stuff, everything I was enjoying, and wait for the phone to ring, although it wouldn't be a long wait. I'd be an independent contractor for them, but they would always have first right of refusal, for pretty much the same bread. It wasn't worth it, so I gave then a couple good referrals and we called it a day.
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I studied Jazz guitar with Jack Cecchini for five years, but in another sense I'll never stop studying with him. I really, deeply love the guy. There was a time in my life when I needed someone accomplished and real and respected and absolutely no bullshit, and in walked Jack. I started with him November of '75. I was selling guitars in his store and delivering pizzas, and my immediate goal was to become qualified to teach in his studio. After awhile he started giving me students, and after a few months I had enough to quit the pizza gig, sometime in '77. My room was near the door, his was farther back. I saw many students walk past me down that hall for their first lesson with Jack, then in five or ten minutes I'd see them walk right out. Jack wasn't for everybody. He would tell it like it is. If you stunk, that's what you'd hear, and if you had an ego on top of it he'd go straight at you. Ego wasn't my problem, but I had a very long way to go. And he'd get frustrated and I'd hear it. Here's a typical lesson: I'd teach my students and be scheduled for my half hour lesson with Jack at 6:30. I'd get in there about 10:45. Jack always ran long with his students, real long. He'd be on his third cup of coffee, I'd walk in and he'd ask, "What are you working on, Frank?" Early on there were specific assignments and explanations and demos. A set of scales or a set of chord voicings or he'd want me to learn "Joyspring." But then assignments got more complex to the point where they were far too complicated to get through in any time frame, and I mean in one lifetime. Do something in every key, on every string, starting from every finger...So it became more free form after that. I'd start to show him something and ten seconds in he'd cry out, "Stop!" It was all wrong, it led nowhere, it was poorly done anyway, didn't I hear what he said last week...then I would get the lecture. If he wasn't tearing me a new asshole I'd call these diatribes eloquent. Whatever he spoke of he could back up on his guitar, I'd hear him channel Barney Kessell, I'd hear Joe Pass, I'd hear the Segovia literature, I'd hear the truth. I was aiming so low, these men were serious, I had to up my game. He was really vulgar sometimes, he would hammer a point repeatedly and this would go on for two and a half hours. Thirty minute lesson, good thing I was last. It was like the Marines every week, tear me down, then build me back up, and often drive me home after because it was so late. But he was organized, I got the fundamentals, he referred me to the essential books and records, and he knew it all inside and out. I learned tunes, reading, theory, and I really learned the neck. It was great training. Through him I met George Benson, Joe Pass, George Morel, Ike Isaacs, and all the Chicago guys worth knowing, Johnny Frigo, Joe Vito, Audrey Morris and her husband Stu Genovese, Eddie Higgins, so many great musicians and fabulous personalities. His wife, Eve, was and is my second mother, her kids, Kenny and Debby, showed me the ways of the city. I don't even know how to end this, so I guess I'll just take the horn out my mouth. I love the guy, he changed my life.
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There's more, of course. I have been doing it professionally for 45 years, so there's more, but this is getting long, so perhaps another blog will appear with the road trips, public fights and other memorable characters. It's been a long, strange trip, and it wasn't boring.