Brother George and Me
We briefly interrupt this coup, if you don't mind...
Issue #843 The Choice, Thursday, April 17, 2025
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Every week I find myself trying to decide what is the best worst atrocity to focus on, and then how to present it in a way that (hopefully) makes you as a reader want to pay attention and to better understand why this particular feature of the horror show we’re currently living through might be worth some additional consideration.
The encouraging and thoughtful comments I have received – more in recent weeks – make me feel like maybe I’m accomplishing my goal, and that’s a good feeling. Can’t emphasize how much I appreciate the engagement.
But horror shows can become exhausting, and sometimes you need a break. Meaning sometimes I need a break. Which is why this week I want to write about something completely different. I do promise to return to the horror show next week, if you’d rather not join me on this diversion.
And you’d probably think that a true diversion from the madness would be to focus on something uplifting and happy, but that’s not quite where I’m going with this. Not exactly, anyway. This is more personal.
This is about the recent death of George Freeman, a phenomenal guitarist and a giant on the Chicago jazz scene for decades, together with his brother, renowned saxophonist Von Freeman. He was one of the few musicians still living to have performed and recorded with the great Charlie Parker and one of the very few guitarists—period—who could boast that claim. George died on Monday, March 31, at the age of 97. He was still performing until the very end.
George was my guitar teacher when I lived in Chicago over 40 years ago, during one of the most transformative and turbulent periods of my life. But he wasn’t just my guitar teacher; he became more like a musical father and mentor with whom I shared so much beyond just music.
He gave me my first live performance (tricked me into it, actually, when he ‘informed’ me at the beginning of a scheduled lesson that my lesson for that day was to show up that same night at the Toast of the Town nightclub and perform a song in front of a live crowd after which he walked out).
Later, George gave me my first live gig in the same space where I took lessons from him every Saturday afternoon, at Elsie’s Salon, located right around the corner from where he lived. For that one special night, I somehow managed to round up several young musicians who were much better than me – and who barely knew me or didn’t know me at all - to come perform with me at my first gig. Elsie, who also cut my hair and sometimes transformed her salon into a restaurant of sorts, worked hard to convert her little shop into a one-night-only club where friends of mine and others came to witness me with my very first band. Wine and liquor were served in styrofoam cups. And we actually weren’t too bad, if I do say so. The crowd seemed to enjoy themselves quite a bit.
All of which is to say that in addition to being a journalist, I’m also a musician. Professionally, I have been at it for close to 30 years now, ever since I booked my first paying gig here in Detroit at a place called Sweetwaters not far from downtown.
But years before that first money gig, in the early ‘80s when I was still aspiring to be a full-time musician and writer, I was living in Chicago. I had moved there to pursue my artistic dreams within weeks after graduating from Colorado College with no real solid plan except that I was gonna make it work someway, somehow. I had spent the first semester of my senior year in Chicago on a program called Urban Studies that let me set up my own course of study, so naturally I pursued music and writing.
Within those four whirlwind months, my somewhat flowery, psychedelic writing style died a swift death before being reborn as a creature wearing rhinoceros skin and smiling with a mouthful of sharp teeth. I also managed to make some musical contacts as well. When the program ended, I knew I would have to return to finish what I started, not just as a schooltime adventure but for real. Put it all on the line.
So after graduation, I turned down a job offer from the bank where I had worked every summer and flew back to Chicago. The pastor of our church in Denver, Peoples Presbyterian Church, had to come to the airport with my mother and me to comfort her as I boarded the plane because my decision to go to Chicago with hardly any money, no job prospects, and no place to live after the first three months scared her to death. Makes sense now, but back then, I didn’t see a choice. A dream was calling my name, and I had to answer.
I met George months later after visiting one of Von Freeman’s well-known jam sessions at the Enterprise Lounge on Chicago’s South Side, which was where he held court on Tuesday nights. If I recall, it was near 75th and King Drive.
One night at the Enterprise, once the session was over, I got up the nerve to ask Von if he knew anyone who could give me guitar lessons. He smiled and gave me the name of his brother, George, and then recited their telephone number. It was an easy one to remember. Both Von and George lived with their mother in the house where they were raised on Calumet.
I called George the next day, and he told me to meet him the following Saturday at Elsie’s, where he would see what he could do for me. He gave me the address. That Saturday, I took the train and then the bus from where I was living down to meet George for the first time, where he showed me a few things and corrected how I was holding my hand and my pick.
That was the first of many more lessons to come, but it was also the beginning of a close friendship. He sometimes called me his son, which I loved. From that day forward, we shared more stories and adventures than I have the space to recall here. Maybe I’ll expand on those sometime in the future.
The last time I saw George was in September of 2021 at an outdoor gig in a park in Chicago. A close friend of mine who knew the history of our relationship told me George would be performing there, and so would he.
I hadn’t seen or spoken to George in decades, and I knew intuitively that this would likely be my last chance to see him alive. I only hoped that he would remember me as my wife and I made the four-hour drive from Detroit on that warm summer day.
As he saw me approaching from a distance, his smile stretched as wide as ever, and I knew I didn’t have to worry about that recognition. All those years melted away as we got the chance to laugh and reminisce a bit before he had to take the stage.
Sometimes you really can come home again.
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What a wonderful relationship!