To some, it’s still the fanciest mansion in Bronzeville, a castlelike palace with hand-carved oak walls, built for a daughter of Gustavus Swift, founder of the famed meat company. Later, it was a funeral parlor.
These days, it’s the basement that’s the liveliest place, especially on the weekends.
“Y’all give it up for the band,” a poet and host named June June shouted Saturday night. He was urging the crowd to give a big round of applause to a new feature at the Swift Mansion’s below-ground cafe: house musicians.
And they did–just as they whooped for a range of neighborhood poets and singers, notably Kelli Rich.
A vocalist of astonishing range, Rich jumped from jazz to soul, to funk, to scat, which, she explained, “is what jazz singers do when they can’t remember the words.” Her first CD is due out in February.
These are thriving days for the city’s growing network of coffeehouses aimed at, but not limited to, an African-American clientele. When Rich asked, “How many y’all been to a poetry spot before?” most hands went up.
Though built around coffee and soft drinks, the cafes have the feel of the old South Side blues bars, many of them also housed in basements. What’s added is what J. Commander describes as a poet’s sense of black cultural awareness.
At “Some Like It Black,” as the cafe at 4500 S. Michigan Ave. is called, J. Commander is a regular at the open mike, which is turned on at 8 p.m. Saturdays and often runs to ’round midnight or beyond.
He compares the place to the Dark Tower, a bar in Harlem, and later a literary salon, credited with sparking the Harlem Renaissance of the 1920s. It is a place to shape feelings–and express them freely.
“Black! No sugar, no cream. Gotta have the real thing,” singer Rich murmured, as she began her set, explaining that this was the cafe’s “first evening for music–all mixed up with poetry.”
So, she cautioned the drummer, “Slow it down–we want to groove on it.”
For the Swift mansion, the arrival of a hip cafe in its basement is yet another test of its adaptability. Built during the World’s Columbian Exposition, the turreted limestone building became a funeral home in the 1920s. It later served as office quarters for the Chicago Urban League.
These days, its four floors still house a variety of social programs under the banner of the Inner City Youth Foundation, set up by the building’s owners, Maurice and Christine Perkins.
For the basement poets, Saturday night can be tough.
“It takes a lot for me to come up here. I take my words seriously,” said Saturday’s first writer, Trisha.
“Sometimes, I’m from a burst of laughter’s happy tears, in a steady stream of sorrow, the blues,” she noted, in a poem that talked of “silent days and fighting nights,” but also how “sometimes, I’m soft clouds.”
Next, a poet named Phoenix offered verse that praised Jesus, but lamented his modern-day church. His imagery drew knowing interjections of “uh-huh!” and “that’s right” from the crowd.
Later, patron John Burston offered a more scholarly response. “They were saying something effective, something well-versed. I was very impressed,” Burston said. “I’ll be back.”
