Skip to main content

Chizmo Charles

I just heard that we lost the great Chizmo Charles. Damn....this sucks.

For the uninitiated, Chiz was, without a doubt, the Burgh's own King of the Blues. He'd been active in the local music biz for at least 60 years. No one sang like Chiz, nor was anyone that cool.

When I moved back here in 1990, I'd hear his name. He was already a well-established legend. One night, down at the old Blue Note, he was fronting The Mystic Knights...and knocking the place dead. The stage was up on the tiny balcony, and Chiz was down on the main floor, walking around with his million foot long mic cable, singing and shmoozing all the women. He was the ultimate entertainer. My buddy Doc was the guitar player in the band at the time, and he invited me up to sit in on a couple of songs. Chiz never noticed me heading up the steps to the stage. When it came time for a solo, I cranked up and blasted out some crazy, doublestop-filled licks. I remember Chiz turning and looking up at the stage wondering just where the hell that racket was coming from!

He later complimented my playing, and coming from the likes of him, that was a serious compliment. He'd played with everyone.

I'd run into Chiz at The Decade now and then, or at various shows. He was everywhere. When I used to wear my hair in a giant pompadour, he always told me I had the best hair in show biz! He was a riot.

The world will be a much sadder, quieter place now that he's gone. At least he left us some music...and I highly recommend checking it out.

Rest In Peace Chizmo! That great band in the sky finally has a singer!


Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

An Old Photo

The photo was old and scratched up. It looked like it had been handled and mishandled for years, and it probably had. Passed from hand to hand, tucked into scrapbooks, displayed in frames, stuffed into drawers, and rescued again. It had been looked at thousands of times. It was still his favorite. It wasn't historically important. Just a photograph of friends sitting in someone's back garden, sharing a few laughs and a few cold beers. The image was every bit as grainy as the memories attached to it. The colors had faded with age, drifting toward reds and yellows. Time had left its fingerprints everywhere. He was the only one left in the photograph. When his time came, would anyone remember those old glory days? Those years when importance itself seemed unimportant. When photographs weren't taken to prove anything, advertise anything, or preserve a carefully crafted image. They were taken simply because someone thought a moment was worth keeping. There was no guarantee the p...
Post a Comment
Read more

A Bluesy Melody and a Scratchy Photograph

Contrary to popular belief, he wasn't born in the mountains. Nor had he been raised in a cave. His appearance, though, often led people to think otherwise. A barber's chair was as likely a place for him to visit as the moon. I don't believe he had ever shaved. His hair, long and unkempt, looked even longer thanks to his seemingly endless beard, which was braided and knotted at the bottom. If unfurled, it probably would have dipped well below his waist.  His mannerisms and manner, while peculiar, were so only in that he was almost religiously polite. What at first glance might appear stand-offish was nothing more than his attempts at being inobtrusive. He was almost like some Appalachian monk, raised by a society trapped in the past, who occasionally ventured into town. He was extremely well-read and more tech savvy than most teenagers. Utmost, he maintained his privacy. No one knew just where he lived. He came and went at his own leisure, unnoticed by the world until he mad...
Post a Comment
Read more

The American

 In his native America, he'd always had a shady reputation. As a young man, he worked as muscle for hire, worked as a bouncer in gambling houses and brothels, and always had a side hustle moving drugs or weapons. He could always be counted on to find a buyer for stolen goods, too. He was smart enough to see the cracks forming in the government long before most. Within days of the First Attack, he'd made plans to leave the country. Some of his cohorts with Sicilian lineage helped him get to Europe. From there he was on his own. He managed to bring along a tidy sum in cash and jewels. This gave him the advantage of time to form new contacts. He was told time and time again that the capital of Bulgaria - Sofia - would be a good place to set himself up. There were gangs there who could make use of his skills, and provided he kept out of trouble and his name out of the local gossip, he would do fine.  And he did. He pretty much became, as he liked to call himself, a consultant. He ...
Post a Comment
Read more