Uptown is a poor man’s world tour. You might not be able to afford a plane ticket to Nigeria, but if you sit on the curb in front of the Riviera Theatre long enough, someone will walk by in a crazy-quilt kufi and robe. Wait a little longer and he’ll open a restaurant. Whenever there’s an upheaval–a revolution, a civil war, an urban renewal project–you can be sure its victims will end up on Lawrence Avenue, in studio apartments above grocery stores that sell malt liquor and phone cards.
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At noon the last Saturday in April, Scott pulled up to the curb in his peeling, bloodred Chevy. Out he stepped, dapper in a black suit, cowboy hat, and white moccasins. He carried a plastic violin case into the joint, set it down on a Formica table, and lifted out a sagging, jangling contraption that was half tambourine, half key chain. It was the world’s lone set of blues percussive house keys. Scott invented the instrument, and only he plays it.
Scott pulled out a flyer promoting the show. It was a collage, glued together from old Maxwell Street photos, flags, newspaper clippings, CD booklets, business cards, concert posters, and religious paintings. “Frank ‘Little Sonny’ Scott Jr. presents a Chicago blues celebration at noon to at least 3 pm,” it read. “Featuring ‘The Motavation,’ Chicago Reader.” How kind of him. I’d called ahead to tell him I was coming, and now I was on the bill. I ordered a Polish with fries and hid in a booth. Scott sat down and told me his story.
“I’ll be here playing my keyboards tomorrow at 12,” he told me. “And a song about you.”
“If you can’t play Muddy Waters, get off the floor!” he shouted.
“No. We’re gonna play Jimi Hendrix.”
Art accompanying story in printed newspaper (not available in this archive): photos/Nathan Mandell.
