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Legendary DJ Richard Pegue still rules the 'waves.

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Richard Pegue eyes the dance floor, quickly calculating how many dancers are up, down, or heading for the bar. It's Friday night at Taste Entertainment, a south-side nightclub, and the joint is jumping, with nearly three dozen men and women slipping and sliding to James Brown's "Funky Good Time."

At the moment this sea of bobbing bodies, some spectacularly attired in chartreuse and cherry red, seems ready to dance forever. But Pegue knows better. Too many people have been dancing too long--they may all burn out at once. Better to change the pace and bring it down a notch. He opens one of three battered wooden cases that hold his ancient 45s and plucks from it--a ballad, circa '65.

Pegue should know the moods and inclinations of the crowd; for over 40 years he's been spinning records at dance parties and radio stations (he hosts the Saturday overnight "dusties" show on WGCI, 1390 AM). He's a legend in black Chicago even if he's virtually unknown in the rest of the city. And on nights like this when he's got it going good, it's as though he can merge past and present, taking his dancers back to the days when they were young and south-side soul ruled the world.

The moment that changed Pegue's life came in 1954, on his 11th birthday, when his grandmother gave him a reel-to-reel tape recorder. Until then he had shown no affinity for music. His mother, Laura, was a beautician; his father, Richard, was a police officer who'd been killed in the line of duty in 1946. Pegue had taken piano lessons for a few years, banging away without much proficiency. If he loved anything it was reading, particularly science fiction. "If you had asked me then to look ahead and predict what I'd be doing now, I might have said I'd be a writer. Believe me, I never could have predicted this."

But once he had that tape recorder, he found himself drawn into the radio world. He stayed up late to catch his favorite DJs. He kept track of the hits, charting the top ten in a notebook at the side of his bed. And he taped what he heard, building a collection of hits, oldies--virtually everything.

These were the days when AM radio was a melange of different accents, voices, and songs. "My favorite station was WGES, a brokered station, which means they'd sell each hour to a different DJ," says Pegue. "You'd hear these foreign-language DJs speaking in German or Polish or Lithuanian and playing their polkas or whatever. And then on came Al Benson, one of the first major black disc jockeys in the city. And man, he was black. I mean really black, really raw, really real. But the man knew the business. He sold his own commercials to pay for the time. He was a promotion machine, always out working dances and parties. Radio then wasn't as sophisticated as it is now. A DJ had to do it all. He had to be out there where he could see and hear and touch his public.

"I loved those early DJs. Benson, Herb Kent--I consider him my role model--Rodney Jones, and Lucky Cordell. I used to visit them to watch them work. I visited my first radio studio, WBEE, in 1957. They had a studio at 62nd and Cottage Grove. This is my connection to Michael Jordan, it's only four degrees of separation--maybe. Russ Vanoy worked there. His daughter is Michael Jordan's wife. Years later I did the weekend fill-in there. You know, in all these years I've never had a regular [full-time] slot, I've never been chained to a chair. I've always been a fill-in man, and that's fine with me."

By 1957 Pegue was hosting dances at churches all over the south side. "I discovered I had a gift--I don't know what else to call it--for hearing the music in my head and heart. It's hard to explain, but it's like the metronome was building in my head. I had good timing. I had a fairly fine-tuned sense of rhythm. I could find that rhythm. I could hear how records meshed together. I had a feeling for that critical break between songs, when one fades out and the other fades in and you have to know in your heart which one will mesh perfectly with the other.

"And I practiced. I taped the songs off the radio and counted down the seconds between the instrumental lead and the singing, and soon I had it in my head. I knew how much time was left without even looking at a clock. I could tell just by hearing where the music was going. I loved doing those dances--I still do. I was doing dances all over the south side before I was 16--me and that old reel-to-reel tape recorder."

By the time he enrolled at Hirsch High School he had a reputation among his peers. "Oh, Richard was cool--he was very cool," says Richard Steele, one of Pegue's best high school buddies and a fellow DJ at WGCI. "He had it all figured out. If you had a group you'd get the female attention. So we had a group, a doo-wop group--the Belvederes. As strict and as straitlaced as that school was in those days--and it was very strict--they gave us the run of the building. They allowed us to walk through the halls singing Christmas carols in doo-wop fashion. It was a time."

After graduating in 1961, Pegue got a job at the old Del Farm at 63rd and South Park. "I was bagging those groceries to make some money, but really what I wanted was to make it in music," he says. "So one day I went to Maurie Alpert's old Met record shop at 328 E. 58th St. He was opening a new shop on Cottage Grove--I asked for a job and Maurie gave me one. That was it. Maurie liked me. I had a good ear. I knew the music his customers wanted to listen to. I had a feel for what was going to be a hit, which is much different than knowing how to make a hit. If I knew that, I'd be much richer than I am."

He spent those days rushing back and forth from the grocery to the record store to his dance gigs and over to Columbia College, where he was taking courses in radio broadcasting. He began to branch out, playing bigger south-side dance venues, high schools, and city parks as part of a revue headed by Herb Kent, the top R & B DJ of the day. Alpert introduced him to Leonard Chess, who with his brother Philip owned Chess Records and WVON. By 1968 Pegue was WVON's music director. He was 25 years old.

"The 60s were a great time for me," says Pegue. "I was producing records for Maurie Alpert's Penny label. I had a doo-wop group, the Norvells. I was deejaying dances. I had my own commercial production company. My greatest commercial was for Fun Town, the old amusement park. It went 'Fun Town, Fun Town, for the kids and you, at 95th and Stony Island Avenue.'"

This was a vibrant time for Chicago music. According to Chicago Soul, Robert Pruter's book on the era, there were 16 venues playing R & B, including the Trianon at 62nd and Cottage Grove, the High Chaparral at 77th and Stony Island, and the old Regal Theater on 47th street. "Up at the Regal you could pay $1.25 and see a movie and a stage show featuring the finest black entertainment of its time," says Pegue.

There were about two dozen record companies in town, including Vee Jay (a black-owned concern that at one point had the Four Seasons and the Beatles under contract) and Chess, whose lineup included Chuck Berry, Muddy Waters, and Bo Diddley. South Michigan Avenue between 11th and 25th streets was Record Row, a string of studios and distributors for dozens of labels. "Chess was funny," says Pegue. "They owned WVON and Chess Records, which put them in the rather unique position of producing records and then deciding which ones get on the air, which I suppose is what some people might call a conflict of interest. Though it didn't seem to bother Leonard Chess, God rest his soul."

From the early 60s to mid-70s the studios churned out more than 300 singles and dozens of major hits, featuring singers from the west and south sides and Cabrini-Green. "In terms of a musical definition, Chicago soul means a certain sound," says Pegue. "It has a regular rhythm--bass, drums, guitar, and then a horn section, anywhere from two horns and a sax to a whole section. Sometimes the horn arrangements were slightly out of tune, but somehow it just blended together.

"But beyond that, there was something special about black Chicago in those days. I think there was a lot of hope and a lot of pride. There were so many black folks coming into the city from the south, every neighborhood had its sound coming from the schools and the churches. There was just so much music being made. And you didn't really have to know someone--you could just drop on in. I went to so many sessions. I went to Gene Chandler's sessions and the Impressions' sessions just to watch and learn. I remember one Impressions session in 1964--I was only 20 years old. They were cutting 'It's All Right.' And in the rehearsal Curtis [Mayfield] explained that he would need some hand clapping. So me and Gene Chandler and a couple of the other guys started clapping our hands. And if you listen you can hear us clapping in the background.

"There were so many studios. Everyone was recording, everyone was looking for a hit. Never knew who might drop in. I remember cutting a record with the Norvells over at Chess's old studio, and they were rushing us along. And I looked around, wondering why in the world are they so anxious to get us out? And the reason they were shoving us out is that some ugly white guys--and I mean, these were really ugly white guys--were recording after us. It was the Rolling Stones. Well, we weren't impressed. Nothing against the Rolling Stones, but we didn't care about who they were--we were trying to make our own hit records. Everyone had stars in their eyes."

In 1965 Pegue wrote and produced his biggest hit, "I'm Not Ready to Settle Down" (it's still requested on WGCI). "It was performed by the Cheers, a local group consisting of members of the Norfleet family, who were gospel singers," says Pegue. "I'd like to say I knew it was going to be a hit, but to show you how smart I was, I had it on the B side of a song called 'Mighty, Mighty Love,' which no one remembers--oh, boy."

When he wasn't in the recording studio he was on the air as backup DJ, subbing for someone or hosting an overnight weekend show that was the forerunner of his current show. As he had stayed up to hear Rodney Jones, Al Benson, and other DJ idols of his day, kids now stayed up to hear him. "I remember hearing him on the overnight show 30-something years ago and he was playing doo-wop songs out of the 50s, and I'm thinking, 'Who is this guy?'" says Barry Bruner, a bass player for various R & B dance bands and also an art teacher at Whitney Young High School. "He's telling who's singing background and which group they used to play in and who wrote the song and who produced the record and what studio they recorded it in, and he says it all straight up, real matter-of-fact, like he's not showing off, like everyone knows all this stuff. You hear guys like that on jazz stations, but not so much on R & B."

Listeners used to imitate his drawl--slow, almost folksy, with the slightest taste of country (though he's lived his whole life in Chicago). Not overtly political, Pegue permitted himself a few subversive wisecracks, just to show he knew a lot more than he let on.

"I got mad like all the others of my time at some of the things going on, but I was too busy working to get involved," he says. "But I spoke my mind. I had my issues. I used to rail all over the city because they didn't put dividers on South Lake Shore Drive. I get so upset that they'd have dividers up on the North Lake Shore Drive and we don't have them down here. What, people don't have car crashes south of the Loop? I used to tell folks to look out for urban renewal. Hold on to your property, I'd say. I'm so sick of poor folks getting moved off the land."

Black DJs like Pegue, not to mention the many black singers and songwriters coming out of the west and south sides in those days, were almost unknown to white Chicago. Of course there were monster hits that crossed over and found airplay on WLS, WCFL, and other pop stations--Tyrone Davis's "Turn Back the Hands of Time," Curtis Mayfield's "Superfly," the Chi-Lites' "Oh Girl." But white Chicago was largely deaf to the sounds arising just blocks away.

"It never fails to amaze me how divided this town is," says Richard Steele. "And it's not as though white people don't like soul music. But they only know the little bit that AM radio allowed them to hear. A guy like Richard's been working in Chicago and they don't know his name. But on the south or west sides everyone above 35 knows Richard Pegue. It reminds me of the political scene in '83 when Harold Washington won and folks woke up on the northwest and southwest side saying, 'Oh, my Lord, who's he?'

"I don't know if it's this divided in other cities. I know in New York it's more of a cross-cultural thing, with whites and Hispanics listening to R & B. But here in Chicago there are no neutral places. Here in Chicago the black and white is all so ingrained. You live in Bridgeport or wherever, and your father told you blacks did this and that's just the way it is, because well, if your father said it then it must be so."

By the late 70s most of the recording action had stopped. Chess went out of business and many Chicago-raised acts moved to Los Angeles or New York. Most of the distributors along Record Row left South Michigan Avenue as that neighborhood fell apart. As for radio, many stations were bought out and became less independent, less spontaneous, their programming driven by formats.

"In some ways what we had here was better than Motown, but it was never consolidated so it didn't leave as permanent a mark on the general public's consciousness," says Pegue. "Motown was a single creation with heavy marketing. I often wonder what would have happened had Sam Cooke not been killed. He had the sixth sense of a businessman. He might have brought it all together and so the Chicago sound would be known as a single entity. But we had all that great music and not many people even knew it came out of this city. They might like this song by Jerry Butler or that one by Curtis Mayfield, but they don't think of it as the Chicago sound. It didn't help that so many of our stars--Curtis, Earth, Wind and Fire--left to make it big. They felt they had no choice. By moving they did the right thing for them, and you can't blame them. There was no organization in Chicago that had the marketing skills they needed."

Pegue remained, his career coming to symbolize the then and now of Chicago soul. He never became the star he wanted to be, never had the hits or made the big money or crossed over. He moved from one station to another, to stations big and small, AM and FM--from WVON to WOPA to WJPC, WVON (again), WGCI, and WLTH (in Gary)--as program director, fill-in DJ, and Saturday night host. As a consultant, he helped put two stations on the air in Mississippi.

In 1987 he returned to WGCI, as the station planned a transformation from all news and talk to dusties. "Richard had a big hand in the change," says Jacquie Haselrig, program director for WGCI. "He and station president Marv Dyson go way back. They looked at the market and found what was lacking, a station that played urban oldies. I mean you had urban and you had oldies, but no urban oldies. To fill that gap we became Dusty Radio."

According to Pegue, the term "dusties" was popularized by Herb Kent. "Herb says he first heard the word used by TV's Dave Garroway, when he was deejaying in Chicago," says Pegue. "But Herb extended the reach of the phrase by using it all the time. To me a dusty is black popular music that you haven't heard in at least seven years. Take a song like 'Rapper's Delight.' It's considered one of the first rap records--you wouldn't think of it as a dusty. But I play it once or twice a year. And whenever I play it I say, 'Yes, you have the right station.' That song came out in '78, 20-some years ago. Time flies, doesn't it?"

In her optimistic moments, Haselrig says she believes that "anybody who listens to radio is our target audience." But even after all these years, radio's audience remains racially divided; few whites will listen to a black station even if they love the music it plays.

According to the spring ratings, WGCI AM ranks fifth among Chicago's AM stations, almost even with WSCR, the all-talk sports station. In some ways the station's like a page from the past, on-air personalities Richard Steele, Lon Dyson, LaDonna Tittle, F.J. Bailey, and Joe Cobb all being veterans of black radio. "We play a wider variety than a standard oldies station," says Haselrig. "Whereas the oldies stations might play the biggest-selling hit by black groups of the 60s, say 'Please Mr. Postman' by the Marvelettes, we'll play 'Please Mr. Postman' and 'The Hunter Gets Captured by the Game,' which didn't cross over but was a major R & B hit."

Pegue is the main backup jock and a consultant who helps set the playlist. "I try to keep a mix of songs from the 60s, 70s, and 80s," he says. "I know some of our listeners want me to keep it slow. They're slowing down--the boogie generation becomes the mellow generation as they get older. You see it in the songs people want us to play. 'It's Your Thing' by the Isley Brothers was a number-one hit, but it doesn't get requested as much as 'For the Love of You,' one of their ballads that never sold nearly as much. The things that rhythmically were appealing to you when you were young don't seem so appealing as you get older. You can't take the loud noises. The older you get the more you want to go to sleep. I call some of these songs adult lullabies. There's one mentality for 13-to-21-year-olds and another for 20-to-26-year-olds, and then you hit 30 and something goes, 'Excuse me, I have changed.' Sometimes the change is so subtle you don't realize it. I remember how important it was to know the number-one song. Every Friday at five Rodney Jones played the top ten, and all the 14-year-olds in Chicago--yours truly included--would listen and mark them down. But when you get older and the world's a reality, all of a sudden the number-one song is 'How am I gonna pay the rent?' Especially if the folks just kicked you out of the house.

"So I view what I do when I'm on the air as a juggling act to mix up the music so those good folks out there hear what they like but they don't fall asleep."

And he continues to play the clubs. Two or three times a year he holds a "dusties record convention" at a south-side church. "Usually he's got 400 to 500 people there. They just line up out the door," says Marty Majewski, an engineering design teacher and outstanding R & B dancer. "He keeps the music going almost without stop. And you'd better be wearing a T-shirt, because after an hour or so you're just soaked."

In 1993 Pegue, Steele, and Tittle started appearing every Friday evening at Taste Entertainment, 6331 S. Lowe. Over the years it's become one of the most popular clubs on the south side, at least for dancers over 30. It's not really a steppin' club--steppin' being eight-beat swing dancing done by partners--though Pegue plays many tunes couples can step to. It's more like a good old party. There's a free buffet of fried chicken, ribs, pasta, and salad and slaw, and a crowd of regulars that includes Majewski and his dance partner Clarice Terry and also Ema Douglas, a retired schoolteacher who knew Pegue back in his grocery-bagging days. "Usually gigs like this last a year, maybe two, but we're into our fifth and showing no signs of slowing down," says Steele. "It's a cool scene. You got all types--truck drivers, doctors, lawyers, whatever. Folks don't worry about who's got what. They don't hassle each other--no hustle, no pickup. I think they like it 'cause there are so few south-side places adults can go to where they can dance and feel safe. It's like family. Once we had a guy call his lady up to the stage. He dropped to his knees, pulled out a ring, and said, 'Will you marry me?' She started crying. It was a moment."

Every week there's a contest. One week Majewski and Terry won a 60s dance contest. Another week there was a Temptations sing-alike contest. Each contestant stood on the dance floor and sang along with a record played by Pegue; at some point Pegue turned down the music and the contestant sang alone. Hooting anyone off-key, the crowd roared its appreciation--with choruses of "Sing it!" and "Sing, man, sing!"--of those who had the beat. The winner walked away with $100.

A few weeks ago, Carolanne Jones, an aerobics instructor for senior citizens, brought down the house in another sing-alike contest with her rendition of Aretha Franklin's "Do Right Woman."

"I had come in second in the Donna Summer singing contest a few months ago when I did 'Last Dance,' so I was determined to do better," says Jones. "I was up against a group of girls who called themselves the Aretha Franklin Singers. They admitted they were drunk. I gave it all I had and the crowd loved me, and when Richard [Steele] announced I won I just went ecstatic. He gave me the $100, but I bought rounds and rounds of drinks and I think I came home with $30.

"You've got to understand I go back with this music. My older sister Roseanne taught me to dance. I remember in 1959 when I was nine and she was trying to teach me how to do the pony. I always started on the wrong foot. She made me practice for hours, going up and down the stairs. So now I go to the club with my girlfriends. They call me the crazy lady, 'cause I'll dance alone if I have to. I don't care."

At the center of the club is Pegue, who works behind the dance floor in a small glass booth crammed with boxes of records, tapes, and CDs. At the end of the night the regulars gather for line dances--everything from the twine to the electric slide--as Pegue calls out the steps.

"I'll vary the music," says Pegue. "There's a lot of steppin', though steppin's nothing new, you know. It's just the latest version of what we used to call the bop and what before that they called the jitterbug. If you know how to bop you've got the basics of steppin'. It's couples dancing to a slower, more stylishly fixed routine. I'll play some steppin' cuts, maybe 'Love's Gonna Last' by Jeffrey or 'Jam Tonight' by Freddie Jackson or 'Can I Touch You?' by Michael Bolton, and then I'll come back with a party song, like George Clinton's 'Mothership Connection' or 'Atomic Dog' or James Brown's 'Funky Good Time,' which is actually called 'Doin' It to Death.' I've been doing dances all these years and the funny thing is I'm not much of a dancer myself. I guess the disc jockey's too busy playing the music to dance to it."

One hot Friday night in early June, Smooth Stone, a local doo-wop group, came in for a few numbers, including "Shop Around" and "Canadian Sunset." Afterward, Steele and Pegue stood onstage and reminisced.

"When they started singing 'Canadian Sunset' I looked at Richard and he looked at me and we said, 'Wait a minute! Isn't that our song?'" said Steele.

"You betcha," said Pegue.

"We used to sing it as the Belvederes back at Hirsch High, mighty Hirsch High."

It happened to be club owner Don Simmons's birthday, and to celebrate dancers had come in shimmering evening gowns and custom-made tuxedos. They drank champagne and ate birthday cake. On a big screen hanging over the floor they watched a Bulls-Jazz playoff game while they danced. As the Bulls raced ahead in the final seconds to win, Pegue poured it on with "Staten Island Groove" and "Mothership Connection," "The Roach" and "The Bump." The floor got so crowded it was hard to move without colliding. Pegue had them dancing the slide, the tap, the bop fly, the pony, the dog, the jerk, the skate; he even brought out Hank Ballard's "The Twist." Every now and then he threw in a wisecrack. "You might not know this, but George Clinton and Bill Clinton are related--they're cousins." Pegue paused for effect. "Folks are keeping it a secret."

The evening closed with a concert by the Emotions, who raced through their old hits and then led a contest in which eight giggling, shrieking women were brought up onstage to sing "Best of My Love."

The next day Pegue was back at WGCI for his Saturday all-night request show. As usual, it was a low-frill affair, a trip back in time to the days of Al Benson. Pegue worked the console, answered the phones, and played commercials that he produced himself. One was a wacky bit for Wallace's Catfish Corner, a west-side restaurant owned by former alderman Wallace Davis; the spot begins and ends with Pegue's wife, Sevina, offering a sultry refrain: "Honey, you know you too fine to be cookin'."

Pegue sat at the console with his wife (known as Outer Drive Annie on the show) and their friend Alvia "Woodie" McNeal, a fine dance DJ in her own right. At about midnight, Ema Douglas, the retired schoolteacher who goes back with Pegue to his grocery-bagging days, stopped in bearing sandwiches.

McNeal and Outer Drive Annie thumbed through Jet, the Defender, and the Sun-Times, giving Pegue a chance to add wry asides. "I told you not to sell your property," he announced on the air, as Outer Drive Annie read an item about CHA plans to demolish the Robert Taylor Homes. "I told you the city's eyeing all that land. One day downtown will start at the Stevenson Expressway and south of that will be the near south side. I'll tell you again--if you own property north of 63rd do not sell it. I repeat--do not sell it!"

Then he played more records.

"That was by Charles Hatcher, but you knew him as Edwin Starr."

And: "That song [by Natalie Cole] was produced right here in Chicago, when Natalie was married to Marvin Yancey, who was a force in gospel here. It was recorded at P.S. Studios, which is next door to Sauer's on 23rd. Or I should say, used to be next door to Sauer's. Now it's nothing but the middle of the McCormick Place parking lot."

As the evening moved on he dipped further into his collection. By the wee hours of Sunday morning he was mixing 1960s R & B with doo-wop, jazz, and blues tunes from as long ago as the 40s. "This is my chance to shine--Saturday nights and Sunday mornings," he said. "Part of the challenge is to move from one song to another, from everyone's up and happy to everyone's slow and sad. How you get there is the key. We've had some monster blends on Saturday night. I went from 'Georgia on My Mind' by Ray Charles to 'Danny Boy' by Jackie Wilson. The way that 'Georgia' ends with those strings--man, it's beautiful. I prepare for that show all week. I make sure I get a nap. If I don't have a nap I'll conk out. Then I sleep most Sundays. It's harder as I get older. But I can't give it up."

In July of 1996, he had to give it up, at least for a while. "My wife and I went to see Independence Day at the River Oaks," he recalls. "There was a line in the movie where Will Smith says something about the mother ship. I don't usually speak out in movies, but the line was so perfect I couldn't resist. I turned to my wife and said, 'He should call George Clinton.' After that, I went down. I had a stroke. They said my heart stopped. I don't know. I don't remember anything. There was a doctor in the house, thank God." He ended up in a hospital in Hammond, then moved to Northwestern.

For a few days his friends kept a worried watch. "We almost lost him. Had it not been for the fact that there was a doctor in that theater, man, I don't want to think about it," says Steele. "I was at the hospital when he came off the respirator and one of the first things he wanted to know was, 'Who did my show?' I thought, 'Man, you gotta slow down. If you come out of near death worried about your show, you better slow down.'"

Pegue spent six months in rehab at Northwestern. "I had to work hard to get it back. I had to work to get better use of my hands to work the console and I had to do all sorts of mouth exercises to regain my speech. I had a lot of time to reflect while looking up at the ceiling. I never appreciated sleeping on my stomach as much as I do now, because I couldn't do it for all those months. I started thinking about all the things I'd seen, all the people I've met. I tell the kids today, 'Pick the flowers while you can still smell them. Enjoy what you got while you can still enjoy it.' Ah, what do they know? If I could get in one of those H.G. Wells time machines, I wouldn't go ahead. No, I'd go back. Give me back the last 40 years. Hell, let me go back to the Regal Theater--the old Regal, on 47th Street--so I could see Billie Holiday and Dinah Washington up on stage. What a time that would be."

In late 1996 Pegue went back to WGCI. Almost one year later he returned to his Friday night gig at Taste. "When I came back to the station, I was slower. I had to work a limited schedule. Now I'm back to a full shift, though there are still things I can't do as good as I used to. Not as fast anyway. I hear the songs in my head, but they don't move to my fingers like they used to. But overall I get it done, and I'm glad for that.

"A year after the stroke I was watching Independence Day at home on the VCR. And when Will Smith said that thing about the mother ship I used the same George Clinton line. My wife looked at me and said, 'I'm sitting here with my fingers crossed 'cause that's when you went down last time.' This time I didn't go down. I guess it went full circle. And for that I thank God.

"You know, when I returned to Taste, they gave me a nice hand. Everyone told me how much they missed me, how the music wasn't the same without me. I guess they saw me being there as a miracle they never expected to see. Some tears were flowing. It's nice to be missed, it's nice to be appreciated. When you're alone in a studio playing music, it's easy to forget how many people are out there listening." o

Art accompanying story in printed newspaper (not available in this archive): Photographs by Jon Randolph.

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