The Singer is a musician.
He's got the passion and riffs of a John Mayer and the optimism of Sinatra's high-in-the sky apple pie hopes.
"You're going to be hearing a lot from me, soon," he says.
Singer plans to gig it for the summer on whatever he can make in tips in his guitar case and encouragement from passersby like me. I threw leftover change from Starbucks in his case, listened to him for a few minutes and then folded a crisp dollar bill under his cell phone.
"I'm from the 95th and Cicero area here in Chicago," he tells me, adding that this area of North Michigan Avenue is going to be home for spring and summer. Come fall, he's heading to California.
Right now, famous names are within a block or so of this gadabout minstrel: Brooks Brothers, Neiman Marcus, Anne Taylor, Saks Fifth Avenue. They're all here in copper on buildings and etched in glass. They reflect a culture that has arrived (they think they have, anyway) and have disposable money to burn. If Singer/Musician has five dollars tops in his guitar case he's lucky. The world passes him by, a few stopping to listen, the business suits on their way to meetings, and the shoppers on the way to the next store and a name brand bag to carry out the door, the contents charged to a card quietly commanding 20% or more interest on the unpaid balance.
Somehow, with music and a plan, Singer/Musician is faring better than all of them.
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