The first time I went to Big John's was on a cold Wednesday evening in November 1964. As I walked through the Old Town club's squeaky swinging doors, I heard guitarist Mike Bloomfield and organist Barry Goldberg tear into Green Onions. Big John's was packed. Every table, every bar stool, every square-foot of floor space was filled. Bloomfield's band turned on everyone. It mesmerized me. I went back the next night, and the next-and almost every night until Big John's was dealt a deathblow by the powers that be in September 1966.
During those two years, I witnessed the beginnings of Chicago blues as we think of it today. Not black blues, not white blues-but Chicago blues. Paul Butterfield, Bloomfield, Nick "The Greek" Granvenites, Goldberg, Steve Miller, Corky Siegel, Jim Schwall, Muddy Waters, Otis Spann, Little Walter, James Cotton, Buddy Guy, Otis Rush, Howlin' Wolf, Sam Lay-these were the blues artists, white and black, who made Big John's one of the best blues clubs Chicago has ever known.
Not long after I began hanging out at Big John's, I become acquainted with its manager, Bob Wettlaufer (who earlier had managed the Gate of Horn), and its own, John Haas. One night they asked me if I'd like to work for them-as maitre'd, bouncer, I.D. checker, bartender, waiter, whatever.
Did I really have a choice? I loved the place. At the time, I was on a leave of absence from graduate study in political science at Stanford University. During my last meeting with my advisor that August, he urged me to take a rest from academia for awhile, "to get the feel of my generation." I was 24 years old then, and I felt Big John's embodied that feeling. So I went to work at Big John's.
Big John's was located at 1638 North Wells on the west side of the street, just south of Eugenie and three-fourths of a block north of North Avenue. It appealed to musicians and customers alike. Everything jibed: the long bar with Marsh's caricatures of musicians and employees hanging behind it; the beat up chandeliers with their dim, orange light bulbs; the red-and-white checkered table cloths; the abstract paintings by local artists Gerry Proctor, Jack Beckley, and Danny Morgan; the old upright piano that was always in the way between the service bar and the bandstand; the stage that was never large enough to hold all of the musicians and their equipment; the frantic dancing in the narrow, almost non-existent aisles (and often on chairs); the kitchen in the rear that was open only when the cook felt like working; and the two pool tables in the backroom that always frustrated Chicago policemen looking for gambling-and where Bob Dylan, in disguise, racked 'em up until closing one night after a concert.
Old Town exploded with creativity in the 1960s. Big John's became the hub for most of the area's musicians, painters, writers, actors, sculptors, students, photographers, and models, not to mention every store owner, bartender, and waitress along the Street, as Wells Street was known in those days.
Big John's was where both local and big-name entertainers would go after they finished their nightly performances. It was a favorite hangout for David Steinberg, Peter Boyle, and other Second City players. One night a very young-looking man tried to get in, but I turned him away because he had no I.D. He said he would return with his passport. A few minutes later, he returned, showed me his passport, and I let him in. It was Seiji Ozawa, who was conducting the Chicago Symphony Orchestra at Ravinia that summer. He became a regular, coming by whenever he was in town. And every night a contingent of University of Chicago students made the trek from Hyde Park to Big John's.