When I was 7, three things happened. First, Dad threw out our TV and read stories to us at night. I can still remember watching his hazel eyes move, bit by bit, across the page. The second was from my crazy Aunt Hazel. Every year she’d pull up in her Caddy, smoking like a dockworker and handing out fives. One year, she got rid of her old player piano. And I learned old-timey stuff from the 20s that I'd never heard before, singing at the top of my lungs. Then Dad got a beat-up snowmobile and he'd take me for rides chasing deer in his overcoat. Never did catch one. Anyway -- I write stories in songs, stories from my Dad, ones that take you to another place on a cold night, and make you sing along. That ain’t a typical bio; I probably should be talking about recording with Bob Babbitt and all the places I’ve played. But you’ve heard all that before, haven’t you?

An hour away from the blues

My mom and daddy both had good voices. Mom would sing songs she remembered from dating Dad, when they would go to the postwar speakeasys on the northside of Chicago, where they'd roll out illegal slot-machines from behind the bar, play Benny Goodman and cut the rug all night long. To this day, I've never seen anybody dance like it, my father confidently leading Mom in these rhythmic ellipses.

I remember hearing Dad sing, too. Dad would sing along to a big band station in the basement while shooting pool with me. He'd always say, "I'm not going to give you any mercy, John!" I always lost, but Dad had played pool since the 1940s for god sakes. But I'm ahead of myself. When I was four we moved out to the country, almost the burbs really, 40 miles west of Chi-town, an hour away from the blues.

Anyway, when I was about 7 years old, three things happened: we got a snowmobile, dad threw out our television and we got a a player piano. I still didn't know anything about the blues (I still don't think I do, actually). But those three things, in some odd fashion, formed the beginning of the storytelling I like to do in my songs. Because instead of TV, dad would read us stories. Stories from nature, stories from history; I can still remember lying next to him on the couch and watching his hazel eyes move, bit by bit, across the page he was reading. Dad and I joined a book club together and every month he'd let me buy a book. Usually I'd buy a book about fighter aces, they were my heroes and they always had the same gun in their planes, a .50-caliber machine gun. Hence the name of my label (please buy the CD, by the way!).

Where was I? Oh yeah, we got the old player piano from my crazy aunt Hazel who every year would drive her Cadillac down from St. Paul to visit, smoked like a dockworker and handed out five dollar bills to us kids. Every year she had a new Cadillac because her husband Eddie had died years before and she was spending the money. Anyway, one year she wanted to get rid of her old Musette player piano and all 287 of the piano rolls that went inside it. The rolls looked like scrolls came in long, narrow, foot-long boxes the shape of butter sticks. You'd pop a roll in and out would come old music. Showtunes, Sinatra singles, I mean old-timey stuff from the 20s that I'd never heard before or since. But we didn't know better, we just learned them and sung them.

Then Dad got a beat up snowmobile that had been in a wreck and he'd take me for rides chasing deer at night. He wore black rubber boots with the zipper up the middle, the kind you wore over shoes. I don't know why I mention that except that whenever I think back on it it seems surreal like a dream that I can't get out of my head: My dad in his silly stocking cap and old overcoat, silouhetted like an angel against the headlight reflecting off the snow, me clinging to his back for dear life and a stag racing across the deserted cornfield in front of us. Never did catch one. I don't know what all this means except that I want to write stories in songs, stories like Dad read at night, stories that take you to another place like chasing deer on a beat up snowmobile, and songs that make you sing at the top of your lungs like a Tommy Dorsey tune blowing outta player piano.

Don't get me wrong, I don't do big band like those cats in Swingers. I write pop and rock 'n' roll and try to give some kind of homage to the blues. Speaking of: you should check out Woodstock veteran Marc Kunkel and his harmonica stylings (or do you call it harp?) on "Birdcage" and "Fly Away" on my new CD "More Stations" that you can listen to here. If you like rootsy stuff, I think you'll dig it. And I know you'll jive his chops, the boy's insane with the carbon dioxide. Well, that's all for now.