Mondays with Mike: Come on people now. Smile on your brother. Everybody get together…

Over time, I’ve become fonder and fonder of various forms of jazz music. For many years, that would not have included traditional jazz, otherwise known as Dixieland. To me, it was sort of caricature music, the raucous stuff I heard at Shakey’s Pizza parlors as a kid.

The Fat Babies

That started to change after Beth and I got together. As a young man, Beth’s big brother Doug picked up the trombone—and got really good at it. He was playing gigs in his teens—and Beth and her sisters and mother developed an appreciation for tradjazz.

Doug eventually enlisted in the Marines and played in the Corps band. But then there were children, bills, and the whole responsibility thing, and he put down his horn. Beth and I would often go see Doug’s former band mates at places like Andy’s in Chicago, but Doug remained, like us, an audience member.

Until 1996, that is. The Finke clan planned a surprise party for their mother Flo’s 80^th birthday party. In advance, Doug dusted off his horn and worked on his embouchure and got the band back together to surprise Flo. It was a rousing success, and Doug’s been playing ever since.

And, thanks largely to him, we learned about a band called The Fat Babies. They aren’t kids, but they aren’t geezers either. They look like they might be accountants or insurance salesmen in their day jobs, but on stage, they just swing. They play around Chicago pretty often, and we’ve seen them at venues far and near.

Beth’s sister Bev was in town last night, so we headed to Honky Tonk Barbecue in the Pilsen neighborhood, where every Sunday night, some members of the Fat Babies—known as The Cellar Boys—play. For free. No cover. Last night they had a guest singer. I usually don’t like singers, but she was terrific—she dressed and acted the part.

And so did lots of the audience—dressed and acted the part, that is. It’s like that at these shows. Kids with tattoos and piercings dressed in vintage clothing. It’s kind of nerdy but overall, just a breath of fresh air. We’ve seen it in New Orleans, too—young people keeping the traditional roots alive on the street and in clubs.

Anyway, the crowd was a terrific mix of old and young, couples who knew what they were doing putting a show on the dance floor and from our perches at the bar, we could see it all. The couples included men and women, men and men, and women and women. A dashing young Hispanic man in a fedora and three-piece suit approached me and asked, “Sir, is it alright if I hang my coat on your chair—I can’t find a place to hang it.” Another man, after reaching past me to collect his drink, said, “Beg your pardon.” I had to ask him why. “Sorry for the reach,” he said. Civilized and kind. Plus, over the course of the evening, the bartender and I talked motorcycles and compared notes on bikes we’d owned.

Beth, Bev and I had been discussing the state of the world, particularly the recently revealed horrors about the Larry Nassar abuse and the wave of such revelations.

But the music and the scene sort of took over, and at some point, Bev leaned over and said, “Most people are good, don’t you think.”

I’m still not so sure. But last night, that was absolutely true.