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CONFESSIONS OF A NEW AGE MUSIC GROUPIE:

MY LIFE WITH SHADOWFAX

by Joy Greenberg

©2001 All Rights Reserved

 

DEDICATION

For Maceo, Gian and Greg:

That you may experience the love which created you and your father whose spirit lives forever in you .

SPECIAL OFFER: FREE CD OR AUDIOCASSETTE

For a limited time only purchase this BOOK and receive a free CD or audiocassette: Chuck Greenberg's From A Blue Planet. For more information about Chuck's highly acclaimed and only solo recording, please visit:

http://www.chuckgreenberg.com or write: Greenshadow Music POB 2525 Atascadero, CA 93423

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As Shadowfax Sound Guy Stevo used to say when he introduced the band onstage, "This is the most unusual group of guys ever to call themselves a band," and I would have to agree. Of course, my perspective is that of an insider, and therefore necessarily subjective. But, with the luxury of hindsight, I have attempted to put together "The Shadowfax Story"-- at least the one that I experienced while married to founding member Chuck Greenberg. This is not intended to be "definitive" or the "whole" story by any means. I have purposely left out highly technical information such as precisely dated personnel changes and instrument specifications. It is simply MY story, for that is the one I best know and am best at recounting. It is my hope and belief that my unique perspective transcends the average "music biography."

Although Shadowfax ceased performing when Chuck died in 1995, the band's influence on popular music persists. What follows is an attempt to explain with humor and honesty the reasons behind Shadowfax and Chuck's enormous influence that continues, as sales of their recordings attest, despite the intervening years. In the writing of this story, I was moved to laughter, tears, and finally, a sense of closure from the expression of these memories. It is my intention that they will evoke similar emotions in those who read it, just as the band's music does.

Obviously, I would not have attempted the task of writing a story about Shadowfax without the inspiration and collaboration of the band members. Phil, Stu and G.E.-- the three living "Chicago Four" original 'Faxmen-- each contributed their multiple talents to this effort, and for that I am grateful. Among the many others who provided encouragement, editing, and memories are Warren Flaschen, Dallas Westerfield, Steven Lowy, Armen Chakmakian, Steve Gregory, Susan Harris, Suzin Kortokrax, Bill Johnston, Jeff Paris, Rob Mayer and Stanley Burns. Thank you all.

From the outside, Shadowfax's story probably seems fairly ordinary. A bunch of guys share a dream of creating music and "making it." They struggle together to make it happen. Over the years their shared struggle creates a bond between them. They survive a great deal of adversity. They become successful but their creativity is derailed due to the pressures of being a successful touring and recording group. Success and money feed their egos and undermine lifelong friendships. Many of them become involved in drug and alcohol abuse. Internal strife develops. Communication breaks down. Some leave. Someone dies.

It may seem ordinary but it was not ordinary for those of us who lived through it.

It was in the genre of New Age Music, where complicated simplicity abounds, that Chuck Greenberg and his band Shadowfax stood out. Even today, more than five years after Chuck's untimely death, his spirit and work continue to influence many who knew him, if only through his ethereal, emotionally-charged compositions and concerts. With Chuck at the helm, Shadowfax forged new ground in both musical and technological fields with their audiophile recordings and spirited compositions.

I have been lucky enough to be an involved observer of the Shadowfax phenomenon since their early days on the groundbreaking Windham Hill label. As the first "band" on an otherwise solo-performer label, Shadowfax helped establish Windham Hill as the preeminent New Age label.

In the ensuing years, the success of Windham Hill has spawned a legion of knockoffs and wannabes in the field of contemporary instrumental music, but there is only one Shadowfax and only one Chuck Greenberg. Many have tried to emulate their haunting melodies and eclectic rhythms, but none have succeeded, if only judging by the tastes and standards of our three sons, who find it difficult to listen to most popular music because it "all sounds the same." That was the thing about Chuck and Shadowfax: they NEVER sounded "the same." Yet, their tunes are immediately recognizable in a genre that was once characterized as "Hot-Tub Muzak" consisting of mostly mundane repetition. What makes Shadowfax so different?

For one thing, Chuck was a True Master of the Lyricon, the wind synthesizer he helped to develop, that "looked like a vacuum-cleaner," according to Alex de Grassi, but sounded like the "music of angels," says Windham Hill founder Will Ackerman. And Will would know, as evidenced by Chuck's contribution to Will's tune Visiting, which inspired the following:

Greetings:

My name is Adrian and I write you today to send my condolences and to share a short story with you- - a story which could not have been written in the book of my life without the inspiration of your husband.

I don't know the exact year that I first heard Chuck perform, nor can I remember anything else from that same year. You see, I was in my late teens struggling in a rock band trying to make something for myself. It was also around the time my life was in total disarray-- my brothers left the house, my mother started dating again after her divorce, I had reached the point where I no longer knew where I was heading. I was in chaos-- but my way of thinking, composing and direction in life would soon change forever.

I was flipping through the television channels on a warm summer morning in the streets of South Central Los Angeles where I resided at the time. It was a typical morning-- birds chirping outside, my front door wide open to whatever breeze entered my living room, and the sound of cutoff television stations as I continued to find something interesting to watch.

Ready to give up on finding a morning program, I heard a guitar player finishing up one of his music pieces. Well, being a guitar player myself, I wanted to see how this guy thought he was performing on TV and not me. As he finished his song, a huge crowd gave him a warm applause.

He's pretty good, I thought. Let's see what he does next.

As I set my attention to what he was saying to audience, I remember his mentioning, "Please welcome...Chuck Greenberg..."

It was the song titled Visiting.

Many years later, I'm haunted by that song because from the moment I heard it, I was never the same. Chuck's performance was truly overwhelming. His style, presence and display of talent, is something that can't be duplicated. That day, as with many days, he brought life not only to his instruments, but to people such as myself. He inspired me-- he did.

I'm now a composer of film scores and flamenco ballads. I've released my own CD titled A Moment Shared. I have my own record label and produce other artists.

Sadly, I was never able to tell him how he had impacted my life, but I salute Chuck and I thank him for sharing his playing with the world. I'm quite certain where ever he's at...he's just... visiting.

September, 1983

I am sleeping most of the time now that I am six months pregnant. As I awake from my afternoon nap, I am treated to the sounds of Chuck's Lyricon wafting in from our living room. He has invited Will Ackerman over to work on a song for Will's upcoming album. My understanding of how the Lyricon was named is reinforced once again as this exquisite melody dazzles my auditory senses, for it is truly lyrical, particularly as played by Chuck, who gave it such a uniquely expressive quality. I am awe struck by the beauty of this piece and the phenomenon of hearing something so precious right in my own home. It turns out to be the seminal version of Visiting that I am hearing...

Chuck Greenberg, Phil Maggini, Stu Nevitt and G.E. Stinson formed Shadowfax with a vision which had nothing to do with conforming to "New Age" or any other category, for that matter. "We wanted to force listeners to make a decision," as bassist Phil Maggini says. Shadowfax was nothing if not the quintessential thinking man's band.

Explaining just what happens at a good concert and why the audience doesn't just sit home and listen to the recording is not easy. Essayist Susan Sontag says it has to do with what Nietzsche once wrote: "...the Apollonian and Dionysian forces in nature yearn to be joined in some kind of artifact." For the Greeks it was the tragedy. For the Elizabethans it was Shakespeare. For Nietzsche's contemporaries it was Wagner's Ring Cycle.

And for those of us lucky enough to have heard them live, it was Chuck and Shadowfax.

Perhaps it's just the nature of this electronic beast they call rock. Perhaps it was the obvious love of what he was doing and his great sense of humor that shone through. Whatever, it was contagious. Fans flocked to see Shadowfax.

It was definitely a gestalt situation: the whole of Shadowfax somehow surpassed the sum of its parts, as it does in all great bands. Watching Shadowfax perform was a transcendental experience for me, especially when they moved into the jazzier edges of their music. Judging from the mail I still receive from time to time, I was not alone in this elemental, euphoric response.

Brandon Bankston, Shadowfax Fan Club President:

I discovered Shadowfax when I was in the seventh grade. I did my homework with Shadowfax playing in the background throughout my high school career, and haven't stopped that tradition now that I'm in college. Last summer I had an MRI done because of an auto wreck I had been in. I'm not ordinarily claustrophobic, but it can be a bit unnerving to be in a tube barely as wide as you are while loud buzzes and clicks fire off six inches from your ear. I was able to stay totally relaxed (and even almost fall asleep) because they allowed me to bring my favorite tape to listen to while they did the 90-minute scan. I brought Chuck's From A Blue Planet which I had just been given. From the first notes I was transported out of the sterile, loud MRI unit and into a peaceful dreamland. Chuck's music has an effect like no other, and I will be playing it for the rest of my life.

November, 1980

This particular day is memorable, for it is one of those perfect L.A. days-- the kind that makes one understand why it is that so many humans are willing to endure earthquakes, smog, and drive-by shootings to live here. Balmy Santa Anas are blowing, making for ideal surfing conditions at the beach, which is where I find myself today. Not that I am the least bit interested in surfing. In fact, I have spent the day enjoying my newfound favorite pastime: roller-skating on the Venice boardwalk. Having managed to crawl through the emotional wreckage following the deaths of my mother and my relationship with a boyfriend during the past year, I couldn't have selected a more ideal place to enjoy a much needed R&R, or so I think.

A stunning sunset finds me relaxing by the fireplace of my beachfront apartment that I am sharing with two young doctors in the throes of completing their residencies. Why are we by the fireplace if it is such a warm, lovely day? The truth is, it is such a novelty to live in an apartment with a fireplace that we didn't need much of a reason to light it.

With me at this moment are one of my housemates, Doc, and his new girlfriend Piranha Girl. They, too, have just finished skating for the day, and are sipping wine with me while contemplating various possibilities for the evening's entertainment. Doc, an intense, bright fellow, is always fun to converse with. He has a New York sense of humor that I can appreciate, having spent a third of my life there at this point.

So what is wrong with this otherwise idyllic picture? There is something missing: a male companion for me. Piranha Girl seems to have a handle on this thorny issue. In fact, she is an expert in this field, which is how she's gotten her name, as I later discover --something I surely am not. Indeed, I will eventually come to find out that Piranha Girl burns through men the way some people spend money-- without the slightest heed to the consequences of their wanton consumerism.

I ask ingenuously, "Know any nice, available guys around here?" Piranha Girl scratches her head and thoughtfully considers the question. After several minutes of apparently difficult rumination, her eyes brighten as she ventures, "Well, there's always Chuck...," her voice trailing off with what I perceived to be an element of uncertainty. I bite anyway (the last years of my failed relationship with a boyfriend have not been satisfying sexually--and I am eager to make up for lost time.)

"So tell me about Chuck," I query.

"I can't say enough nice things about Chuck," she replies. My interest is definitely piqued.

"He loves women and he's very nice to his girlfriends," she continues. We are beginning to get somewhere, I think.

"But first, I should tell you a few things about him." Uh-oh, here it comes. He's a mass murderer, maybe?

"Number One: he's got red hair." Now, I'd always thought that redheaded guys were dorky-looking --something to do with invisible eyelashes--but I am willing to reserve judgment until the initial sighting.

"Number Two: he's Jewish." Oh, shit-- I have just broken up with an Ultra-Jewish boyfriend-- but maybe this one is not plagued with the same neuroses. After all, he is from Chicago, I'm told, not New York. My hardly scientific research has led me to believe that the further away from NYC a Jew gets, the less fucked up he is.

"Number Three: he smokes." Yes, this is problematic, all right. But, what the heck, I am desperate enough to overlook this for the time being. "But he's trying to stop," she adds, as if feeling the need to bolster his character.

"By the way," she adds, almost as an afterthought, "Do you like music? Because he's a musician." This last tidbit is especially tantalizing. I love music but have never gone out with any musicians before.

"Well," I announce, trying not to sound too eager, "see if you can get him over here, but be discreet." I had my pride, after all. The next thing I know, Piranha Girl is on the phone with Chuck, gushing, "Come over right now with a bottle of wine. I've got a hot one for you." So much for discreet.

Very shortly, Chuck arrives at the apartment, indeed bearing a bottle of red wine and wearing a black shirt unbuttoned provocatively to his mid-chest so that just a bit of his chest hair is exposed. He is definitely a redhead.

I immediately sense that this is a true character. For one thing, perched rakishly upon his head is a 40s style fedora the color of raspberries. Not too many guys can pull THAT off (or probably WANT to, for that matter).

Although he is attempting to be suave, I can tell he is nervous, and somehow I find this endearing. It is truly love at first sight! We drink his bottle of wine together and I offer to take him upstairs to my room for more privacy, and he takes me up on it. We make passionate, first-time love all night long.

We would go on to spend that night and the next fifteen years together, and although I would be exaggerating if I said those were constantly blissful years (for those who knew Chuck well could testify to his ability to be extremely exasperating at times), they were definitely an adventure.  

Chuck was living in a place on Stuenkel Road in Monee, Illinois, during the early '70s. "He was playing with some really strange jazz people," according to his sister Suzin. "It was a really weird combination of people." A musical transformation was literally in the air. With bands such as Chicago and Blood, Sweat, and Tears gaining popularity, Chuck was hearing alternatives to the blues that featured hot horn sections, which seemed to galvanize and inspire his own musical concepts. He and Suzin, who was finishing up high school, began trekking into the city.

Suzin recalls:  

Chuck was getting together with Jerry Smith, a bassist who had been gigging with The Flock. They did some really bizarre things together and it was a real growth period for him. The first time I ever realized that Chuck was making this incredible transformation was one time in the basement of someone's house when they decided they were going to work on With a Little Help from my Friends. Somehow they decided that Chuck was gonna sing, and let me tell you it truly blew me away! He ran rings around Joe Cocker's version! This guy could scream like I never imagined! It was the first and only time I ever heard Chuck sing like that!

Along with the musical transformation that was taking place, Chuck was going through a personal transformation. He began growing his curly red hair into a long, unruly mass, he began smoking pot, and, although he had been raised in a Conservative household and bar mitzvahed, he lost interest in the Jewish religion.  

As Glenn Morrison recalls,

We kept in touch while I was away at school, Chuck always keeping me in his musical loop. He called one day to ask if I could come to Chicago to play on an album! My dreams had come true, I was going to actually play in a recording studio. What a band!

Chuck, Sammy Larafeld, Kenny Gubbins-- this was clearly the second coming of the Paul Butterfield Blues Band. The rest is history... I just wish I could find my copy of K.O. Bossy, I know it is truly a collector's item. 

According to Suzin:

K.O. Bossy started out playing cover songs of the hits, particularly the Kinks. They would do Good Morning Little Schoolgirl and really weird stuff. The guys in the band (especially John and Owen Barranzas) were big partiers and influenced Chuck to join in their laid-back, hangout lifestyle, de rigueur for a happening rock band. They used to play at a coffee house type of club called The Twelfth of Never in Richmond Park.

K.O. Bossy would play there all the time and literally run the place. We would serve the coffee, do everything-- all the owners wanted was a cut of the "door." At one point they decided to add a violin player, but they were still doing all cover stuff-- no one was writing for the band, so they weren't doing anything really original, but they were like one big family. That band really hung in there for quite a while. Glen Dearson (bass) was a really easy-going guy, and Kenny Gubbins was the same-- they all had a good time while it lasted. Sammy Larafeld was a really good drummer and he kept the band going a lot, but he had some personal problems.

The album didn't help propel the band to the stardom they had anticipated. Besides being recorded badly, it was pressed all wrong--every single album was pressed off-center. So when you played it, you got a wah wah wah sound. Needless to say, this didn't do much for record sales. Even so, I can't imagine that band becoming much more than it was. Chuck could never have survived doing that for the rest of his career.

The best part about K.O. Bossy was the friendships that evolved as a result. It was a fun band-- a step above a garage band. Chuck made a lot of contacts-- wherever he went, everyone he met went into his mental "phone book," and whether they wanted him to or not, he would keep in touch with them. He had discovered the advantages of "networking" at this early part of his life.

Glenn Morrison recalls:  

During my college years at Illinois State, Chuck and K.O. Bossy would come to Normal, Illinois, and rock the Red Lion, the local college watering hole. I would rest up during the week preceding the band's arrival because I knew my brain and body were in for some punishment. Boy, could those guys party!

Bill Johnston remembers meeting up with Chuck again at a record store in the Park Forest Plaza:

It was an outdoor mall, the center of 1950s life, slowly going seedy as the indoor malls drained the life blood of commerce from it.

Chuck was working at the record store and also delivering pizzas. He told me he'd bought some land and that he was playing with a band called K.O. Bossy. (I didn't find out 'till 1997 that K.O. Bossy was the name on the back of Curly Howard's bathrobe in a Three Stooges short, I believe called A Milking We Will Go, when the stooges enter Curly in a milking contest. He enters the ring, he's got K.O. Bossy on the back.)

One of those hanging out with Chuck was Warren Flaschen, who, although two years ahead of him at Rich East High School, had not actually met Chuck there.

As Warren recalls:

One night I decided to order pizza from Romano's. This guy delivered a pizza, and it turned out to be Chuck. We got to talking as he was handing me the pizza and taking the money. When all was said and done, he had come in and eaten the pizza with me!

Chuck delivered pizzas for a number of years. I was putting concerts on at the junior high at the end of the street. Chuck was playing around-- we were all part of the music scene. Later, he was playing with the McIan-Forest Stage Band, who went on to tour with the Bee Gees as their backup band, and when he returned from the Bee Gees tour he went back to delivering pizzas again.

This was when he wrote his first memorable song, It's a Long Way from the Kitchen to Philharmonic Hall. Years later, when asked about the Bee Gees tour, Chuck didn't have much to say about it or them, and he would never allow it to be mentioned in any publicity about Shadowfax or himself. However, it must have made some kind of impression on him because when I went browsing through his scrapbook I found all kinds of memorabilia such as press releases and even a Christmas card from the band.

Warren continues:

We saw each other through the music scene; Chuck was playing sax. He started coming around to the Situation Lounge in Steger, now a 7-11. The Yazoo Shuffle Band was playing there, and they were a big hit. Their main coterie of fans was a gang we called The 143rd Street Snipers: the Twins, 'Nig,' Bacon, 'Get High.' G.E. Stinson and Phil Maggini were in Yazoo.

The 143rd St. Snipers were only as marginally menacing as their name sounds, although there was one time at least that the Twins got into a scrape with the law. As Chuck told it to me years ago, it seems that one of the Twins (who later became a Jesuit priest, ironically) decided to make a quick stop at the corner liquor store one Friday afternoon. Only, instead of paying for his purchase, which was a six-pack or something equally absurd, he absconded with it. The clerk had a clear description of the culprit, and soon there was a swarm of cop cars around the place. Unaware of what had created the disturbance, the other Twin (who later became a prison guard--more irony?) pulled up to acquire fortifications for the upcoming weekend. Noticing a commotion, but not having any reason to be concerned, he strolled blithely into the store, only to be immediately ID'd and apprehended. The authorities eventually discovered their case of mistaken identity, but Chuck was under the impression that the innocent twin went ahead and took the rap for his brother.

Warren recalled:  

I knew Phil because he was from the neighboring town of Homewood and used to show up at some of the gigs I was promoting around town. There was a place called the 'Valley View Young Adults Club' out in Frankfort, a town of about 1500 back then. Just north of town on I-30 was where they had this club, which was kind of like a country club without a golf course or tennis courts.

The guy who owned it had a son in this band called 'Friends' that Phil played bass in.

Anyway, about this time we (Friends) were booked with a band called Mama's Bootleg Blues Band, which was our first introduction to G.E. Friends came on first and did a Paul Butterfield tune, then G.E. came on and said, 'We're gonna open with a song the first band did but we're gonna play it the RIGHT way.' Eventually, G.E. and Phil hooked up in Yazoo, and Chuck started coming around and jamming with them." Even though Chuck played a more jazzy than bluesy sax, they all liked each other and a strong bond began to develop.

Yazoo's demise came about mainly through lack of funds to support the band members, but it didn't help that G.E. would often get disgusted with the audience. "There was one night in Bloomington," recalled Warren, "when someone just stood up and screamed-- went wild-- following one of G.E.'s solos, but it really wasn't a very good version of it, and G.E. walked to the front of the stage and spit on the audience. Thereafter he was nicknamed "Spit."

With Phil, G.E. and Chuck jamming together the need for a keyboardist and drummer arose. The problem was solved when Warren began taking recording engineer classes in Chicago.

Warren remembers:  

I got to know the teacher of the class and told him about the project and how we were looking for a keyboard player that played Mellotron and a drummer. It so happened that Doug Maluchnik, who lived in New Jersey, had inquired about this course. We called him up, he came out and auditioned for the band, we decided it would work, and he joined the band. At first he "commuted" between Crete and New Jersey, where his family lived, but eventually they all moved out. 

While Doug had never met Stu Nevitt, he had heard of him. At that point Stu had moved from New Jersey to Miami and was playing with a jazz group and taking lessons from the same guy who taught Bruce Springsteen's drummer, "Mighty" Max Weinberg, but soon he was in Chicago.

With the addition of Doug and Stu to the fledgling group, the as-yet-unnamed Shadowfax was complete.  

Around the time in the early '70s that the incipient Shadowfax began jamming together, Warren, Phil, and another friend Bobby Murray moved into a farm in Crete that would eventually become known as the Triple B Ranch.

It was a cold winter night when they hauled their stuff over, but they were thrilled because the place was so nice. It had huge rooms-- the living room measured at least 18 by 30 feet and its wood floors glistened, accented by knotty pine paneling. It had a bedroom area 16 by 28 feet and another room that later became known as The Black Hole of Calcutta Lounge, which was Bobby's bar/room, complete with imitation Tiffany lamps and bar, brown vinyl couches, chintzy plastic stuff hanging from the ceiling.  

There was a stairway leading up to the top floor where there was a carved moon and stars, so of course it became known as The Stairway to Heaven. Their nicknames 'Honey Bear'(Warren), 'Sugar Boy' (Bobby) and 'Pretty Boy' (Phil) were immortalized forever when Bacon, who was delivering tombstones for a living at the time, had one done up for them with their three "Boy" nicknames-- hence, The Triple-B Ranch. When they moved in, the total rent for the four of them was $195 a month, and they were on 80 acres. They could make all the noise they wanted without bothering a soul. This feature led to many parties, still notorious relics from the past.

The sudden availability of one drug in particular had as profound an effect on the social scene in Crete as it did elsewhere. Quaaludes had been introduced by Rorer as a feel-good-first-before-you-fall-asleep-pill for seniors in nursing homes, but it wasn't long before young Americans discovered their potential for sexual enhancement. Yes, they put you to sleep, but before doing so you caught the greatest, "buzz" you could imagine! They made your body tingle all over while stimulating tactile sensitivity, prolonging orgasm, and making you believe you were in love with the universe, so they became the natural choice for parties that usually ended in mass orgies. It's a good thing this was pre-HIV, or the Baby Boom population would be significantly less of the demographic bulge that it is!

At any rate, 'ludes abounded at the Triple B, thanks in part to a friend from the southside. He was one of the Snipers who had a doctor father. A lot of his father's sample drugs would get sent to his house, and the 'lude Sniper would intercept them. He would always open the packages first and try them out to see what they would do-- something like a human guinea pig. So in the course of his trials (and errors), he came across Quaaludes, which came in the mail in those days, along with...AN ORDER FORM!  

'Lude Sniper began getting Quaaludes for nine cents apiece, which he was only too happy to share with his friends. As elsewhere, many parties at the Triple B were a direct result, or culmination, of the mass ingestion of Quaaludes.

Besides partying, Phil, G.E., Stu and Chuck were rehearsing seriously in the basement of the Triple B-- a part of the house that became known as "Big Burn Studio." The band finally acquired its name during this period.

Remembers Phil:

In the early '70s we finally got our first gig booked at Luigi's, a scummy little bar in South Chicago Heights, but still had no name for the band-- it just was never a huge priority to us since we had been in such a perpetual state of rehearsal, buried down in Big Burn Studio. I got a call from the club owner the day of the gig. He needed our name for his billboard, so suddenly we were pressed. I just started going through my bookcase, thumbing through books for a simple, direct name that would due the job. That's when I grabbed Lord of the Rings, and "Shadowfax" popped out of the page. I hadn't read the book yet, but discovered on the page that it was Gandalf the Wizard's enchanted horse and it seemed to fit. The guys agreed, and I called Luigi and told him he had a band name for his billboard.

When we got to the gig, he had misspelled it "SHADOW FACTS," but the club was already open and overflowing with people, and he wouldn't change it. I don't remember anyone suggesting the name to us or naming the band for us, it was purely an eleventh hour decision on our part.

Shadowfax was born.

In 1978 things were looking bleak not only for Shadowfax, but for any music lover who was not enamored of that latest marketing blight, disco. This had to be one of the darkest hours of our cultural history. I mean, a little of it would have been fine. But, as Chuck so often said, "shit fills a vacuum." When radio jumped on the disco bandwagon to exploit the craze, the sound became a generic, characterless thump-thump-thump.

Whatever Shadowfax was into, it was decidedly not disco, however hard-pressed one might be to give it a label. The weird, sometimes meandering (albeit in a fascinating way), totally unique brand of music they played was simply not the current musical flavor-of-the-month, and if you couldn't do a respectable cover of Night Fever, you could pretty much forget getting any gigs. Although they had produced the popular album Watercourse Way on Passport Records and were having success playing the club scene, they could not seem to keep the momentum going.

Also, there was this little problem of lack of sound equipment and a keyboardist. The expensive P.A. had vanished, along with the band's sound manager, both later surfacing at the Park West, a Chicago concert venue. It seems that Shadowfax's sound manager needed a "dowry" to ensure obtaining his new gig as House Sound Man, so, without asking, he installed the Shadowfax P.A. there. Keyboardist Doug Maluchnik opted out of the band too, responding to spousal pressure to leave the extreme insecurity of the music business for something more economically stable back home in New Jersey.  

With no work and no sound system, Shadowfax fell apart. However, as G.E. says, "None of us felt the band was over."

Chuck had his old job repairing horns, but was chafing at the lack of music opportunities in Chicago. He began California Dreamin', and the concept of a move to the land of gold records, Grammies, and recording contracts started to gel in his mind. He convinced Phil to make an exploratory foray to L.A. in the fall of '78.

Phil says, "We decided to drive our rental car from San Francisco to L.A, just to check out the coast and combine business with pleasure. Chuck wanted to stop every five minutes along Route One to take pictures. Eventually, it got dark and we ended up driving 70 mph through Big Sur, missing the whole thing, just to get into town at a decent hour. But, we felt in our guts that L.A. was the place to be."

Once back in Chicago, Chuck started making plans to move to L.A. permanently. Warren Flaschen was sent on a scouting expedition to try and shop the latest tapes that had come out of Big Burn Studio. As Warren put it, "I couldn't get anyone interested in it at the time, it was so outside and different from anything else that was being done. The band had evolved into a non-melodic mode which consisted of 'how fast can we play, how out can we get, how many time changes can we rip through.' The response from the labels was, 'We might take a chance if they'd played with Miles Davis...'"

Undaunted, Chuck decided that he would take the plunge and move west. However, there was one major obstacle: money, specifically the lack of enough of it to finance this endeavor. In typical Chuck fashion, he somehow managed to turn this monumental personal quest into a kind of universal life theme which all of his friends (not necessarily willingly) were forced to experience along with him.

Margaret Grimes Wallace remembers: 

He was always there--in and out of our lives for the big changes--loved the good news, commiserated with the bad--but always Chuck. In 1979 I was living in a rental home in Chicago after a year in Philadelphia where I had been in graduate school at the University of Pennsylvania, trying to get my M.F.A. I had liquidated my savings and we had sold my home to pay for my first year and I was desperate to return and finish my degree but we had no idea how to finance it.  

Chuck at that time was desperately trying to return to California. Each of us felt that it was a career necessity to make our moves.

Anyway, it was Chuck who emboldened me and encouraged me and explained how we could leave our jobs and get unemployment, thus making me eligible for financial aid. We were terrified, but took his advice. A year later my life had changed completely. I had my degree; soon I had a job in a Connecticut university. I got my paintings into a 57th Street gallery, and my career was transformed. All of this I owe to Chuck's combination of sound advice and courage. He always believed you should do what was right regardless of the risks.

Chuck took his own risks and seized the opportunity to finance his move when his cheapskate employer at the music store began bouncing his paychecks. Realizing that this was one of the few ways to quit and still be legitimately eligible for Unemployment Insurance, he did just this. By the end of 1979, he was ensconced in new L.A. digs, having been preceded by Phil and Warren, who set up camp at what would become a western version of their Steger haunt, The Triple B, affectionately dubbed Boys Town.  

In typical fashion, it was Chuck's uncanny shopping skills that saved the day when they moved into Boys Town. They had no fridge and were trying to figure out how to fit acquiring one into their already full day of schlepping. Not to worry--Chuck did one of his famous garage sale numbers and managed to come up with a fridge that not only was in perfect condition but cost only 35 bucks.  

I can only surmise that this was some kind of inbred, genetic trait, this attraction for bargains and sales which seemed to be a core part of his fiber.

One of his sons is like this too-- at the age of eleven, Greg cannot pass a garage sale sign without salivating and gesticulating, and one of his favorite pastimes is scanning the newspapers for coupons, just like Dad did.

Chuck became an expert at arising early on Saturday mornings to scour the neighborhood for garage sales. Since arriving in L.A., he had become adept at finding used horns, rebuilding them, then reselling them at a profit. He also fixed horns taken in by the local music stores and had developed a flourishing home business which allowed him the time to cruise Hollywood at night with Phil, trying to make the scene and connect with other musicians.

In 1980, Chuck and Phil were attempting to put a band together. Chuck had written a couple of rock tunes, Sensory Overload and Elevator Racing, which he had recorded with Phil and some other musicians. Sensory Overload was composed in his Santa Monica apartment one night while listening to the multitudinous cacophony of sounds emanating from outside his window, a stark contrast to the quiet and peacefulness of the rural Illinois he had left.  

Elevator Racing came from a dream. Interestingly enough, David Letterman did a skit a few years later on his show where they actually did race elevators. But then, Chuck always was a visionary.  

As easy as it was to love Chuck, living with him was a real challenge. In fact, I sometimes felt like I was domesticating a wild beast. While focused totally on his art, he could not be bothered with the trivial and mundane details of maintaining a household. As a result, I took on most of the duties: paying bills, cleaning, cooking, etc.--anything that might be distracting from his music. It was difficult for me to learn to compromise my expectations, for I had a hard time living amongst chaos. This would always be my foremost problem with Chuck, for he never did interest himself in tidiness.

Chuck did, however, figure out a way to pay the bills while striving to make it as a musician-- his horn repair business, cultivated while living in Chicago, continued to flourish. One time he worked on Clarence Clemons' sax. It was a rush job since Clemons was in town with Bruce Springsteen and needed it for a gig that night. He was so grateful to Chuck that he sent him a pair of tickets to the show. I was thrilled-- Springsteen was one of my favorites. But Chuck gave them away-- he was rehearsing with the band that night and wouldn't let them down, not even to hear The Boss.  

One of the first characters Chuck and Phil hooked up with was South African expatriate Robit, a very creative artist who wrote songs and played guitar. Robit was actually more of a poet/lyricist than musician. Although Robit sang and played guitar, to me it sounded like Bob Dylan on a bad day with laryngitis.

As Phil put it:  

Robit was a master of the "abused folk song." There soon evolved a microcosmic musical community that could provide work for a lot of people. The timing was perfect--it became a "little engine," allowing everyone to play and record with each other. We became creatures of habit, starting a rehearsal schedule, forming a day in-day out experience, knowing the process was essential to our growth and viability as musicians.

Through this musical network came Chuck's Big Break.

Alex de Grassi had established himself as the premier solo instrumental guitarist on the seminal New Age label, Windham Hill. As label cofounder Will Ackerman's cousin, Alex was in an influential position with the label, something that did not go unnoticed by Chuck. It was indeed a propitious meeting during which the two hit it off immediately, becoming fast and permanent friends. Chuck then laid down such a perfect Lyricon melody against Alex's guitar that an instant classic, Clockwork, was born.

Alex recalls:  

In 1973, when I was 21, I spent the summer playing music in the streets, subways, and folk clubs of London. That's where I met Robit, who foresaw a connection, introducing me to Chuck.

Chuck and Robit drove up to San Francisco from L.A. in Chuck's vintage '65 Chevy Belair, Ruby. The bumper sticker read "another shitty day in paradise." Chuck pulled something out of a case that looked like part of a vacuum cleaner. It was a Lyricon. We recorded two pieces. Everybody went apeshit.

Indeed, they did. It seemed that all who heard Chuck's Lyricon were enchanted. Alex's album Clockwork scored a big hit on radio and at retail, as well as with the powers at Windham Hill. As a result of it's success, Chuck was emboldened to propose an album to Will Ackerman, who initially believed that Chuck wanted to do a solo project. Chuck's task became convincing Will that what Will really wanted was an Shadowfax album, something he managed to accomplish without Will ever hearing a single Shadowfax note.

Chuck sensed that Will would not approve of the "outside," heavily electrified, screaming-for-attention tunes that had been recorded by Shadowfax on Watercourse Way. It just didn't jibe with the primarily acoustic, mellow, laid-back sounds for which Windham Hill was gaining recognition.

And, Chuck knew better than to invite Will to a showcase and see the band live-- that would have been an invitation to disaster, undoubtedly sending the self-avowed hater of electronic music running for cover.

As Alex commented, "The Chicago Four: G.E., Phil, Stu, and Chuck-- a scary bunch, seemingly drawn together as much by fear and loathing as love for each other." No, meeting and hearing Shadowfax was definitely not the way to get a deal with Will. But, somehow, Chuck figured out how to convince Will that Shadowfax would be the perfect ensemble addition to the label's roster of solo artists. Chuck could be very persuasive, and he was a consummate salesman.  

Will Ackerman remembers it this way:  

Suddenly there was this indescribable, ethereal sound. Alex and I were sitting in a park in Silicon Valley, listening to the title track of his next album, and here was this unbelievable sound, the music of angels. Alex told me that the angel responsible for this sound was one Chuck Greenberg, and that the instrument was called the Lyricon. When Chuck joined Alex in concert at the Great American Music Hall, I was there, and there was that sound of angels again. I spoke with Chuck after the show and he promptly told me about his group, Shadowfax, and it was decided, more or less on the spot, to record a Shadowfax album.

At first, I was incredulous that Chuck would want to go to all the extra trouble to get the band back together-- remember, at this point I had never heard them play together.

"Why bother with them when you have the chance to do your own thing?," I wondered.

"Because I will always have the opportunity to do my own thing, but I may not always have the opportunity to work with this band. And, we never finished what we started out to say."

After hearing the results of that first Windham recording, I understood what he meant. There was something transcendent and magical that happened whenever this group played together. The whole was somehow greater than the sum of its parts. When I listened to their music, I couldn't help but be transported to a different, more elevated plane of existence-- a place where time stood still and all cares and worries were at least momentarily suspended.

Chuck composed most of Shadowfax on the baby grand that filled up the living room of our Santa Monica apartment. He would write the melodies, tape them, and send them to G.E. in Chicago, who would add the chordal parts. Sometimes they would even compose over the phone together. There was suddenly an intense mutual interaction that had only existed minimally before. Chuck had metamorphosed into a responsible guy who was doing all the right things to get the job done. It also didn't hurt being in the right place at the right time.

Meanwhile back in Chicago, G.E. was composing tunes alone also. Between the two of them, he and Chuck came up with all but one (penned by Phil) of the compositions for Shadowfax. Despite their previous experience as hard-rockin' electronic wizards, G.E. and Chuck made a conscious decision to create an acoustic album for Windham Hill, knowing, however unspoken, that this was what the label wanted. This was no problem for G.E. since he had already composed a wealth of tunes on his acoustic 12-string guitar. Indeed, he welcomed the freedom presented to him to traverse new directions musically and to investigate the work that was being done at the time on the ECM label with the likes of Ralph Towner and Oregon.

Recording Shadowfax was an incredible feat. By promising to self-produce the record, Chuck had made an attractive, inexpensive package for Windham Hill. He had put together a budget of $12,500 which we raised by soliciting funds from friends and acquaintances. Using part of the inheritance from my mother, I became an investor as well. In return, we investors were given a "two-for-one" deal. In essence, each investor would be paid back from artist royalties earned off the record until they had received double their initial contribution. It proved to be a sound investment: within a year we investors had recouped and capitalized upon our initial investments.  

We acquired a new roommate during this period. G.E.'s physical presence was now musically necessary, so he came out from Chicago to work on the album, staying with us until he could find his own place. It was fun having him with us-- he was intelligent, articulate, and funny.

One time the smoke detector in our apartment went off in the middle of the night, possibly from cockroaches or other vermin running around inside it. This had happened before, but it was particularly unnerving to have it happen while sound asleep. Chuck lurched out of bed, ready for combat with the ear-shattering foe. G.E. arose also, to see what the hell was going on. He opened his door to the hallway just in time to see Chuck swinging wildly at the offending device. The effect of this astounding sight was augmented by Chuck's nudity, compelling G.E. to believe he was having a prehistoric dream featuring Australopithecus. It really was a comical sight, the mere thought of which sent us into fits of laughter for a long time afterwards.

Chuck managed to get drummer Stu out from Chicago, also, tearing him away from his C&W gig and ensconcing him as the latest inhabitant of the nefarious Boys Town. Although Stu had demurred at first, when told that Weather Report drummer Peter Erskine was considering the gig, Stu changed his mind. Stu remembers Boys Town for its Godfather marathons and "theme days." "One day it might be 'Hawaiian' and we would all dress accordingly."

Soon G.E., Phil, and Stu were rehearsing with Chuck, preparing the new tunes for recording. Since funds were tight, Chuck really had to search to find a studio that would fit his budget. They ended up at Studio America in Pasadena-- extremely primitive as far as amenities were concerned, but sporting the necessary equipment to do the job to Chuck's specifications.

It was hard to believe that Chuck had never produced an album before, it came so naturally, even if it exacted such a high emotional price. Musicians don't take easily to direction, and it required all of Chuck's patience and diplomacy to achieve the recording he desired. High sound quality was important to him-- he wanted to please himself and all the audiophiles he knew were out there, and Windham Hill was building a reputation for crystal clear recordings as well. Fan response to Shadowfax was overwhelming.  

Christine Schoonover:  

I have never written a fan letter before and tend to disapprove of any type of "idol worship." I am a student at the Conservatory and have been searching for music that speaks to me, that is deep and meaningful, and that is timeless. Now I have your music to inspire me and console me. Thank you, Shadowfax.

Debra Thornton-Betti sent her praise directly to Chuck with:  

Never before have I experienced some of the highest life-principles through music, but your performance seemed the essence of beauty and truth and moved me beyond words.

Paula Kullberg was inspired to compose:

From H.S. Alexander Abel came:

I have never found so much comfort and peace as in this record. The music's beauty is totally hypnotic; you are unable to resist the complex unity of rhythm and melody. It is an experience as if a magician has put a spell on me. Every time the needle hits the record I am drifting away, unable to do anything but listen. Congratulations for composing fantastic music, which will set a mark in musical history.

As Chuck had expected and predicted, there were many who appreciated the superior sound quality as well as the music.

In a letter to the band, William A. Huston rhapsodized:  

I have purchased 'audiophile' recordings for twice the price that have not sounded this good. How can I express in words the joy that I felt when my stylus caressed the grooves of this record for the first time! There was no detectable surface noise. The music was so clear that it seemed each instrument occupied a distinct position on the frequency spectrum. And the music: wonderful!"

Those first tunes were so radically different from any music that was being performed or recorded at the time that it was not surprising they evoked such emotional responses. Chuck had been careful to soften and restrain the harder edges of Shadowfax so that they would produce a sound more tailor-made for the Windham Hill catalog. This meant that all the tunes on Shadowfax were melodious and gentle, with subdued rhythms-- virtually the antithesis of what the band had formerly been doing live back in Chicago, and in so doing created yet another genre of music: a precursor to the format of radio programming that would become known as "New Age."

The favored hit selection from Shadowfax turned out to be 1000 Teardrops. A lovely, lilting tune featuring a haunting Lyricon melody, 1000 Teardrops went on to be included on several Windham Hill samplers. It was, and still is, one of the most popular of all Chuck's and Shadowfax's tunes.

Critical acclaim was equally ecstatic, despite the universal inability to categorize the music.

Leonard Feather, the late jazz critic for the L.A. Times, wrote:  

Classifying this album is a tougher task than appreciating it. It is not free, folk or funk, not classical and minimally jazz, and not primarily improvised, though some cuts have a strong, loose rhythmic pulse.

Some of the confusion lay in the discrepancy between the laid-back, acoustic style of the record and the band's forceful, electronic style on stage.

While Chuck was mindful of the need to give Windham Hill a record that would fit in aurally with the rest of the catalog, he, and the band, felt that performing live was another matter altogether.  

Although there had been a concerted effort to tone down the more boisterous rock and blues predilections of the band for its new record, they felt they had carte blanche to allow the "Rock Monster" that lurked inside their collective psyche out, and in concert this band really rocked! Even Will Ackerman, when he finally heard them live, had to admit to liking it.

Nonetheless, those who would become familiar with the music through the recordings would end up invariably lumping it in with the rest of the Windham Hill artists into that seminal category dubbed "New Age," a term forever loathed by Chuck because he believed it to be essentially a misnomer. Many listeners somehow considered "New Age" to be a reflection on some collective spiritual nature of all the musicians, a belief that Chuck was quick to debunk whenever he could.

Since Shadowfax was never a primarily acoustic band, Chuck thought it ridiculous to categorize them with the likes of Scott Cossu, etc. Chuck was especially incensed when the backlash to New Age Music began seeping into music reviews with comments like "hot tub music" and "yuppie Muzak." As far as Chuck was concerned, the problem lay not with the concept of New Age Music per se, but with the attempts to use it to define a cultural lifestyle, religion, or event. He objected vehemently to the fact that perfect strangers were making assumptions about his personal beliefs and attitudes based upon what kind of music he played. These assumptions persisted until the band left Windham Hill some years later.

New Age notwithstanding, Shadowfax found themselves with a hit record on their hands and the need to promote it. This meant putting together a touring band and tour. Since no one else was either interested or so inclined, booking and road managing fell to Chuck. As G.E. had put it, "I can't even balance my own checkbook."  

The Lyricon may have been "something that resembled a vacuum cleaner," but it certainly didn't sound like one. Indeed, in the hands of Chuck it became an ineffable, esoteric entity-- "unique" does not even begin to cover it.

It all began in 1972 at a serendipitous meeting between Chuck and Bill Bernardi, an engineer who had recently co-invented a revolutionary new musical instrument. The venue for this serendipity was the Chicago National Association of Music Merchants annual show. NAMM shows are an essential staple to all serious musicians, and Chuck was no different. All the "latest" and "greatest" in any musical equipment and related products are found, and the most productive networking achieved, at the NAMM show, so it was with great interest that Chuck discovered Bill and his weird "electric flute."

The milieu in which these events took place is described by Phil:  

We were rehearsing at the Triple B and it was before the basement studio was built so it had to be very early 1970s. I do remember this though: G.E.'s writing was very riff-based and very electric and aggressive. I think Chuck felt a bit ill-equipped to hold his own in this very intense, high-watt musical environment. He needed a new voice to express himself, and to compete with the level of angst in the little room-- the windows covered with mattresses-- that was the precursor to Big Burn Studios.

When he came to rehearsal one day he was just flipping out about this "fucking spaceship" of an instrument he had seen at the NAMM show. He was elated and totally animated while he described what he thought was the answer to his prayers. He worked with a prototype for a while and continued to develop the instrument with Bill as required by the music: a breath controller and then a bending reed to match G.E.'s blues-based sitar-inspired riffs. It was always a trip to see this weird futuristic instrument, with a red bandana tied around its end to absorb Chuck's spit before it had a chance to run down the long silver shaft and short out an electric key pad.

I know it seems unimpressive now in this techno day, but back then, we had never seen or heard anything like it before. Bill Bernardi invented it with the idea that it was a sort of "electric flute" to be played in an orchestra and would allow the musician playing it to be heard in the back of the hall. He never in a million years thought someone like Chuck would come along, plug it into a wah-wah pedal and an echoplex [delay], and be heard around the world.

It was Bill Bernardi and another engineer at Computone, Inc., Roger Noble, who first asked themselves what might happen when they crossed a wind instrument with a synthesizer. In 1971 they applied for a U.S. Patent on an "Electronic Wind Instrument" and three years later the first mass-produced wind synthesizer, the Lyricon, was born.

The Lyricon combines a "Boehm-Type" controller (the instrument part that the musician manipulates) and a synthesizer (the part that actually generates sound) into a single, transport-friendly unit. The fingering system is identical with most flutes, clarinets and saxophones. Anyone who plays these instruments can adapt to the Lyricon, at least in theory. In reality, it is an extremely complex and difficult instrument to learn-- a factor which contributed to its failure to gain widespread usage.

While the Lyricon plays similarly to a saxophone, there are two notable differences. First, the Lyricon's reed does not vibrate-- it only measures pitch.

The player creates vibrato and pitch bend by changing the position of his jaw against the reed in the Lyricon's mouthpiece. The player has full dynamic control of the instrument's volume using only his breath.

Second, the keys are actually switches and the bass clarinet mouthpiece only serves to give the player the "feel" of a horn. The Lyricon has a range of seven octaves, three on the instrument and transpose switches on the control panel. Although there are some standard synthesizer controls that shape the sound, most of the programming typically done when using a keyboard synthesizer is done on the Lyricon by just playing: loud, soft, bright, mellow, whatever the player feels feel like doing.

There were three Lyricons manufactured by Computone, Inc., in the 1970s. The original Lyricon was a wind controller which drove a computer that generated overtones. It came with a deluxe plush lined case, and had a shiny chrome finish and an elongated bottom piece. It used a form of additive synthesis, where the player dialed in the amount of overtones he or she wanted, and then blended that with the wind-overtoned section. This model had a key switch for a fundamental of G, Bb, C, Eb or F and a range switch of low, medium or high. Combined with two octave-up keys, it had a functional six octave range. It also had glissando, portmento and "timbre attack," something rather like chorusing.  

The sounds were very expressive and there was quite a bit of control over the actual sound. The downside was that, like early synths, there was no way to "save" a sound. So the first Lyricon players had to know the way the dials should be set for a sound, and hope they approximated those settings. Other problems included its being incapable of controlling any other sound source than its own computer, and adding more of the top overtones could give it a very "buzzy" sound.

The reason there are few Lyriconists extant are two: Lyricons are no longer produced, and they are, as mentioned before, extremely difficult to play. Chuck learned to play his essentially by trial and error-- adjusting the knobs and testing the audial result-- a time-consuming process at best which necessitated years to develop, all the while relaying his findings to Bill for incorporation into future Lyricons.

I'll never forget the first time I heard Chuck playing a Lyricon. After we first met, I had been pestering him for months about his music, but for some reason kept putting me off whenever I'd asked him to play. He claimed to be a musician, but I had never heard him play and I wanted proof. Finally, he pulled out an audio tape of some classical pieces he had recorded as a duet with Linda Nardini on Oberheim synth.

Blown away does not begin to describe my reaction. Although I considered myself a music fan, I had never heard the likes of this before. There was no doubt in my mind that Chuck was on to something here. I sensed a formidable, and marketable, talent. I knew then and there Chuck was going places.

*More information about the Lyricon may be obtained from these websites:

David Rees

Greg Noble (fellow Lyriconist and co-inventor Roger Noble's nephew)

International Wind Synthesis Association

Early 1981

Chuck and I were now spending most of our time together and decided it would be sensible to live together. There was only one problem, and it was a very sizable one: Piranha Girl. Piranha Girl, so named due to her familial relationship with The Piranha Sisters, four daughters of a prominent Illinois doctor who were bred and raised to "eat men alive," leaving quivering lumps of dysfunctional protoplasm in their wake. If I were to move in with Chuck, it would mean extricating Piranha Girl, since she was still Chuck's roommate.

Now, Piranha Girl had an ideal situation and she was not eager to change it. In Chuck she had found the perfect roommate: someone who was discreet and not given to telling tales. Although we gave her six weeks to find a new place, it became apparent that we were going to need something tantamount to exorcism to rid us of her presence. Those were two hellish weeks when all three of us were living in the same small apartment.

Piranha Girl would alternate between her sweetness and light persona (in the hopes of convincing us to let her stay) and her darker alter-ego.

While Doc wanted to marry her (and ultimately did), Piranha Girl was reluctant to move in with him. It would have put a large crimp in her style. She finally wheedled and cajoled another paramour to let her move in with him, beginning one of the more infamous periods in the already notable career of the house on Marcasel, fondly known as Boys Town.

Now, ironically, an AA meeting place, it would have been hard to find a den of more iniquity and depravity than Boys Town. Entering Boys Town was like taking your life in your hands: you never knew what danger might be lurking behind those perennially closed curtains, or what disease might befall you if you touched anything. The first time I ventured inside, I was afraid to sit down-- it was the sort of place where you couldn't be certain that there weren't booby traps or, at the very least, whoopee cushions awaiting you. And then there were the inhabitants of Boys Town: Warren, Ronnie, and Little Boy-Boy (Phil), with a homicidal African Grey parrot named Diablo and mean-spirited cockatoo (Hitchcock) thrown in for good measure.

Warren and Ronnie seemed very pleasant and nice, actually. They appeared to be responsible and sociable. But, Phil could be very intimidating and loved to put me on the spot. Years later, I figured out where this was coming from-- that he viewed my presence as a sort of threat to his friendship with Chuck-- but at the time I deduced he was just an asshole.

One of Hitchcock's better tricks was his skill at cleaning Chuck's teeth following a meal. Chuck would stroll over to Hitchcock's perch, which was prominently located in the dining room. In fact, his and Diablo's perch consumed the entire dining room. Chuck would open his mouth really wide

and Hitchcock would crawl inside, picking contentedly at the remains of Chuck's latest meal. This was at once repulsive and fascinating to observers, a paradox not unlike the psychiatrist Melfi's conflict with her patient Tony Soprano.

Diablo could "talk," but only on his own terms. One time when Diablo was home alone, the hapless UPS man made the mistake of attempting a delivery.

"Whaddaya want? Whaddaya want?" squawked Diablo.

"I'm just trying to deliver a package," responded the UPS man.

"Nobody home. Nobody home. Go away, go away," Diablo continued until the poor UPS man finally drove away in frustration.

Whatever possessed Phil to allow Piranha Girl to move in, we'll never know. Perhaps it was some misguided attempt at domestic tranquility, now that his running partner Chuck was out of commission. At any rate, what with the perennial "emotional baggage" schlepped by PiranhaGirl, Phil definitely should have known better. PiranhaGirl had now finally maneuvered herself into Phil's house. At least she was out of mine.

Of course, completion of the first Shadowfax album meant touring to promote it. 

For the first tour, which featured such "hot spots" in California as Chino and Cotati, Chuck rented an Itasca Winnebago. We had to use my American Express card since no one else had credit. I was more than a little nervous about putting my meticulously cultivated good name in jeopardy, but I needn't have been. Chuck made sure every penny was repaid.

Besides the Chicago Four, Shadowfax's ranks had swelled to six with the addition of keyboardist Jared Stewart, percussionist Adam Rudolph, and violinist Jamii Szmadzinski. To keep expenses down, Chuck had it figured out that some, but not all, of the guys could sleep in a hotel room, while the rest could share the Winnebago, using the hotel to shower. By the time seven guys (there was also a roadie) had finished with the hotel room, it required virtual fumigating and remodeling!

Despite the hardship of the first tour, it was deemed a raging success, particularly since each member got to go home with a hundred bucks in his pocket. Chuck's emergent and formidable business acumen, which now included ad hoc booking agent, had made it possible to end up in the black, even though on-the-rise instrumental touring bands were not doing so at this time in the early '80s. It was something he would always take great pride in-- that he had never booked a money-losing tour.

Adding to the financial success of Shadowfax was the critical acclaim. Concert reviewers and fans everywhere were praising the band's musicianship, once they got over the shock of hearing the tunes in their highly electrified stage versions. These early sets were comprised of cuts from both Shadowfax and Watercourse Way along with tunes which had been previously written but never recorded. One of these, New Electric India, was a G.E. composition that was far too rock-oriented to be included on Shadowfax but always brought the house down when played live. It proved to be a stunning showcase for G.E.'s wailing guitars and Jamii Szmadzinski's virtuosic violin, the latter performing an awesome, explosive mid-tune solo.

The Windham Hill years on the road were especially fun. Shadowfax did several tours with Will Ackerman, Michael Hedges and Alex de Grassi, and by the end of each tour it became customary to play tricks on each other. One last show happened to be in Philly. They arranged for the T-shirt salesgirl to speak "dirty" directly to Will through the monitors when he got up to open the show. Will didn't know if the audience could hear her, and he got so flustered he left the stage. SoundGuy Stevo had to reintroduce him, and he managed to collect himself enough to walk back out and play.

Next on stage Michael Hedges, who always stuck a piece of incense in his guitar and lit it on stage.  

As Stevo remembers,

We managed to find a trick exploding lighter and when he asked for one to start the incense, Chuck handed him the trick one, which caused the incense to explode in his face with a big bang. He wasn't hurt, just surprised, and immediately plotted his revenge.

So when it came to the part of the set where Shadowfax played Shadowdance, they switched on the strobes behind a translucent psychedelic curtain which extended the full length of the stage behind them, lighting their instruments. Unbeknownst to the band members, Michael came out and stood in front of the lamps, casting his shadow on the curtains, and "shadowdancing" to the song.

Chuck noticed about two-thirds of the way through, then the whole band turned to watch him, bringing the house down.

Finally, it was time for the last song, Brown Rice. Michael had secretly picked up five pounds of brown rice, and every time G.E. sang the words "brown rice," Michael threw a handful onto the stage-- a great trick until some rice got stuck in Chuck's Lyricon console, and every time he pressed a certain key it would stick. It took me a really long time to clean the rice out of it after that, but it was worth it!

Perhaps the most entertaining part about touring with Shadowfax was the audience reaction. In the many years they performed, at least 15 times they'd have couples come up to them before or after the shows and tell them about how theirs was the only music they ever made love to.

This happened one night when they were playing in the Grand Ballroom of the Wyndham Hotel in Austin. This guy had come up to Chuck before the show, saying, "You've just gotta meet my wife--she loves your music so much!" So the band went on, with Chuck at stage right and the keyboardist at stage left. Sure enough, this guy and his wife had planted themselves behind one of the speakers and were sitting Indian-style, groping each other with the girl in the guy's lap. Chuck noticed first and turned to stare at them. Pretty soon the girl had her head in the guy's lap and the whole band was watching them, although they were hidden from the rest of the audience. They groped during the whole show, with Shadowfax watching them and managing to keep their composure, consummate performers such as they were!

The Early Winnebago Tours were generally highlighted by Chuck's notoriously poor sense of direction. One time, Adam Rudolph had picked up driving duty somewhere in the middle of the San Joaquin Valley, in transit from L.A. to Santa Cruz for a gig there. The Valley is known for its intensely dense tule fog, and it was so thick that night that we were forced to drive at a snail's pace. What should have been a three-hour trip was already four, and we were still stuck in the Valley.

After it seemed like we had been going in endless circles for a long time, Chuck realized we were not on track at all and took over the controls. We finally straggled into Santa Cruz at about two a.m. Chuck, thinking he knew what he was doing and where he was going (usually a fatal mistake), headed the RV down a residential street, trailer full of gear in tow.

Suddenly, looming up ahead was a very big problem: a train trestle so low that we could not pass under it without decapitating the RV! The only other possible move was to back up through an extremely narrow, curving street-- not the most pleasant prospect at that hour, but the only available option. We did ultimately extricate ourselves from this predicament, but not before awakening the entire neighborhood and acquiring a police escort.

I was so mortified I hid in the loft of the RV, hoping no one would see me, pretending to be a kidnap victim, with a line ready in the event of my being discovered: Honestly, officer, I've never seen these guys before in my life! The standing joke thereafter would become that Chuck had been lost in more cities of the world than anyone in the universe!  

For all his lacking a sense of physical direction, Chuck more than compensated for it with a profound sense of spiritual direction. Moral issues were never a dilemma for him: he always recognized the right ethical choices, even if they meant personal loss. "After all," he would say, "I have to look at myself in the mirror the next morning." For this reason, he was always trusted implicitly by everyone, including record company executives, who would say things like, "He was one person in the music business I wouldn't need a contract to work with."

Windham Hill had opened an office in L.A. with Paula Jeffries in charge of promotion. She and Chuck became instant, fast, and permanent friends.

Paula says:

When I met Chuck, I knew I could trust him as both a friend and business associate. Of all the artists I had come into contact with, he was the most professional and understanding. He knew how to make the "machine" work. He pushed through, made things happen, and did it all in a way that was totally cool-- everyone could have fun. And, he was supportive of me as a human being.

When I thought I'd lost my friends forever, he was there.

I learned a lot from him-- not just business, but life. He was like a rabbi, not by preaching, but by doing and being. His family became my family.

I never met anyone like Chuck before or since. He was the kind who could accomplish things that others couldn't-- making everyone be at ease-- supporting someone when they were down and out-- encouraging. He wouldn't not be your friend just because you couldn't help his record.

He understood the business better than anyone. If he got upset about something, it would usually have to do with interfering with his music-making and turning people on to it. He was successful because of his sincerity-- he never stopped thinking about his music-- 24 hours a day-- always creative. For 13 years I had the privilege of knowing him and what a blessing it was. We talked every day-- he was always charged with energy, and made everything so exciting.

Chuck always had something funny to say, no matter how disillusioned or tired he might be from the day's events. He used to stay at my house while he was recording in L.A. and his family had moved away. One time he returned home and I asked him, 'So, Chuck, how was your day?' He replied, 'It was long-- but at least it was long.' It became a standing joke in our house, with 'long' being substituted with any other adjective we wanted.

Other music execs concurred with how easy it was to work with Chuck. Somehow, he created such an endearing persona that everyone loved to hear from him, and welcomed his phone calls. I don't know how he did, but I certainly wish I'd paid more attention. I could use some tips on dealing with the music business, i.e. how to be the Quintessential Squeaky Wheel.  

Brad Pressman, Sonic Images Records:  

Chuck Greenberg touched a lot of people both socially and in business with his music. I personally miss him already because I spoke to him as much and sometimes more than anyone outside his family, five-six times daily. His voice is still with me but the air around his record label is quieter and without a daily dose from the man himself.

Chuck and I spoke about life, liberty, and the pursuit of high record sales and critical acclaim. We spoke daily, ate Italian food once in a while and got together for meetings and to see the band live, an event I've cherished as a fan since 1985 and through 1994 when the band and Sonic Images got together. Chuck and I made most of the decisions about the album and he always was so into making things work no matter what it took. He seemed to have two trains of thought-- his family and his music. He spoke daily of both with genuine love and emotion.

I miss him for his sense of humor, for his wisdom and for his music and that's how most people who've heard his music feel. His contribution to the music world is immense, spanning 20 plus years with eleven Shadowfax albums and one solo piece of work.

Thanks, Chuck, for all these great albums; I need them to carry on and know that your music and memory will never be lost.

Thanks for being here, thanks for pointing me in the right direction when I went astray. Thanks for including me in your decisions and giving me pieces of your wisdom. It was a case of the A&R guy having less experience than the musician and the musician usually won. We had a good run of it and we never gave up at any cost, right? I learned a lot from you and I keep you in my mind when making decisions. Your generous praise and guidance will never be forgotten and I appreciate our friendship more than anything. Hear you soon, Buddy.

This "warm and fuzzy" feeling was not necessarily mutual. Chuck made sure he had a contract for any dealings with record companies, and used the legal expertise of Steven Lowy to ensure that he got the best deal possible. In the beginning, Windham Hill was not used to negotiating with someone so tenacious as Chuck, particularly an artist. In fact, no artist had ever "thrown" a lawyer at them before. Prior to Shadowfax, artists were offered standard contracts whose terms they could accept (if they wanted to record) or reject, meaning no recording deal. Windham Hill had managed to do well for itself largely because its contracts had avoided payment of mechanical royalties.

Not that having a contract with Shadowfax's last label Sonic Images mattered one iota: it still screwed the band. Aside from one payment of mechanical royalties from the original shipment following release of the Live album, Sonic Images has never sent even a statement, let alone a check. And yet, label exec Brad Pressman acknowledges there has been quite a number of sales. If truth be told, Windham Hill, for all its shortcomings, is the only label that has sent statements and royalty checks on time and in conformance with contractual requirements.

The success of Shadowfax had enabled the band to go into production on a second album. For material, they didn't have to look too far. Intuitive businessman that he was, Chuck had been thinking about all those old Watercourse Way masters over at Passport Records.  

Although Watercourse Way had been out for eight years by now, the band had never received a dime in royalties. Chuck knew that there were many copies out there, however, and that the demand for them would increase with the release of the new Shadowfax album. He also astutely believed that if Shadowfax turned out to be a hit, there might be a renewed interest in the band's first album Watercourse Way. However, he wasn't willing for Passport to be the beneficiary of any newfound success, particularly since he felt that Passport had burned the band for nonpayment of royalties.

So, Chuck devised a scheme to buy back all the old masters. He knew he'd have to move quickly, i.e. before the release of Shadowfax, because once Passport suspected it might be able to gain more mileage out ofWatercourse Way, the price for the masters would go up.  

It worked-- Chuck made them an offer and Passport was only too happy to rid themselves of what they perceived to be a "dead horse." On the very day that the Billboard review hit the stands raving about Shadowfax, Chuck was collecting the master tapes from the Passport warehouse and blithely walking out the door with them.

Gaining the rights to Watercourse Way turned out to be more significant than even Chuck imagined at the time. In addition to re-releasing it en toto, Windham Hill selected one of its cuts, a lilting Chuck/G.E. duet called Petite Aubade, to be on the first of their Winter Solstice series, which went on to achieve Gold Record status. It also made it possible to "borrow" those tunes which the band felt were basically worthy but which had not succeeded as well on Watercourse Way as they had expected. For this reason, the title song from Watercourse Way along with Song for My Brother were selected to be rerecorded for the second Windham Hill Shadowfax album, Shadowdance.

As with Shadowfax, Chuck and G.E. shared song writing duties on Shadowdance, with the exception of a piece by Don Cherry which was a medley of two tunes, Brown Rice/Karmapa Chenno. G.E., Phil, and Chuck were big fans of Cherry's music and had been performing Brown Rice live, traditionally as the closing number of their set. It was the only non-Shadowfax-composed tune they ever recorded or performed, and likewise one of the few with lyrics. Nonetheless, it was a testament to the band's arranging skills: a consistent and perennial show-stopper, its rap-like (before it was in style) nursery rhyme lyrics growled out by G.E. and backed by his searing guitar, and Chuck's screaming tenor sax that built to a crescendo, with Chuck switching to a wailing Lyricon pushed forcefully by Phil and Stu's rhythm section.  

Shadowdance became another showcase for Chuck's burgeoning production genius. Although it cost slightly more than Shadowfax to create, he brought it in on time and under budget. In addition to the seven touring band members, he enlisted Emil Richards again, Michael Spiro and Mickey Lehockey to beef up the percussion. The title tune from Shadowdance went on to become a featured number live, usually receiving the greatest recognition and applause whenever they performed it, and deservedly so, as it combined all the best qualities of Shadowfax: catchy melody, rhythmic beat and interesting assortment of instruments.

Virtuoso studio percussionist Emil Richards had filled up the whole room at Group IV Sound with his esoteric instruments from all over the world, and the result was astounding. Shadowdance became a consistently sought tune by filmmakers, t.v., and radio shows as background music, and after ten years, it is still being used by the Monterey Bay Aquarium for its "dancing plankton" exhibit.

The band was also now able to afford a better recording studio when they set out to do Shadowdance, finding in Group IV the perfect place--financially, personally, and technologically. Years earlier, Chuck had performed on a movie soundtrack at Group IV and managed to cut a deal for himself through the owners to use the place at night, traditionally "dead" time, at a bargain rate. If it hadn't been for Angel Ballestier and the rest at Group IV, it would have been impossible to cut such high quality records for the price. So began an illustrious multi-record liaison.

Shadowdance was an immediate hit, and because touring was recognized as an effective means to promote record sales, more of it ensued. I was lucky enough to get to tag along on some of the first road trips. Chuck, ever the intrepid manager/business person/booking agent for the band, continued to arrange for a rental Winnebago to cart the guys and their equipment around. Since gig fees were still rather minute and Chuck was concerned about everyone making at least a few bucks, he stuck to renting one or two rooms in a motel and taking turns sleeping in the Winnebago.

By the end of the road trip that was one odoriferous Winnebago!  

Despite the relative discomfort of the sometimes no-star accommodations, in some ways, those were the most fun times I ever had with the band. The interim between the first Shadowfax album Watercourse Way in 1974 and the second in 1982 had not been the most productive musically for most of the band members. Attitudes were now upbeat as everyone was thrilled to be making a living again at what they loved doing the most: making music. G.E. Stinson concurs that these are his fondest memories with the group as well. "We were at our closest as a band, having been reborn, and the new opportunity to play made everyone happy."  

Birthing an album was not unlike a ritualistic courtship/marriage/family thing for Chuck. In the beginning of the creative process, he would doodle around for awhile on his winds and keyboards until something caught his fancy, melody-wise. Or sometimes it would be a rhythm that would captivate him. Whatever, once he got something down that he liked, he would rhapsodize about it ad nauseam (the wooing), then, eventually, ask my opinion. I learned through the years to answer very carefully. If I were too enthusiastic, he would scoff, "You're just saying that." On the other hand, if I weren't at least as equally enamored of a tune as he, well, of course I just didn't have the "ears" to appreciate good music.  

Once he was head-over-heels with a new piece, he would obsess over it, fine-tuning it to get it just right. This part of the process could take days, or even weeks, and sometimes he never did get it just the way he wanted it. That's when I knew the "honeymoon" was over. Frustrated and full of self-recriminations, he would start ranting about how he couldn't write anymore and would be better off as a Cellar Rat at Wild Horse Winery, or some other menial job.  

Chuck had punched down and pumped over during one "crush" when things were slow with the band. Although he never overcame his fear of heights, and thus was a bit pathetic as a "winery assistant," he enchanted all the other Rats with his humor and dress code. After wearing one of his favorite T-shirts, which depicted a slovenly, beer-swigging, cigarette-dragging Gumby, during his first day on the job, he was thereafter dubbed Scumby.

As he reached this low point in the musical birthing process, he would usually "call in the troops" for help. He loved writing with G.E. and often commented about how he was the most accomplished composer of the group. In the beginning this had led to many fine collaborations on the early albums, including Wheel of Dreams, Watercourse Way, Ariki, Distant Voices, Ritual (with Phil), and Petite Aubade. Later it would be young Armen Chakmakian who provided just the right collaborative magic.

Sometimes, half-finished tunes might lie gestating for a while before suddenly exploding like Phoenix from the ashes/tapes. Many times there were tunes that Chuck liked but knew were not Shadowfax material. These he set aside for future solo projects. Much of From A Blue Planet developed this way.

In 1984 and the band was touring to support Shadowdance. They had arrived at a small east coast college town and Chuck and Phil decided to warm up by downing some schnapps, one of Phil's favored liquids at the time. Thus fortified, they grabbed a local newspaper to see if anything had been written up about the band. What they discovered was a college review authored by a student, Alex Angel, who had written, "Shadowdance...is a blend of weak instrumentation and boring songs, forming the base for musical garbage... the music... is simple and unbelievably repetitive. There's nothing interesting here--it all sounds like background music of a terrible B movie, possibly called If I Urinate on Your Sneakers, Will You Still Call Me?...This results in an uneven, bland sound which rendered Sam, my pet bullfrog, comatose halfway through the first side."

Although certainly not the first, nor the last, unappreciative review that Shadowfax would receive, for some reason it had an enraging effect upon Chuck and Phil. Phil became so pissed off that, strengthened by the schnapps and galvanized to action by who knows?-- latent primeval urges, he ran over to the curb and literally ripped a parking meter out of the ground. Chuck was astounded. "No one will ever believe this happened!" "Yes, they will--we're takin' this back and showin' 'em!" screamed Phil.

The problem became how to get this thing back to the hotel. Renting a cab was out of the question, so there they were, skulking down back streets with their prize. After smuggling the meter into his hotel room, Phil began swinging it wildly around the room as if it were some sort of trophy, tossing it finally onto what he thought was an empty bed--except that it wasn't. Jamii was fast asleep until almost being decapitated by a flying parking meter.

Fortunately (for Jamii as well as the band), most reviewers were considerably kinder, however confused, than Mr. Angel.

Leonard Feather was favorably impressed enough to write in November, 1983:

Shadowfax is the group most representative of a new idiom aborning. It is not jazz (improvisation seemingly plays a secondary role) and despite the electronic effects, it is not rock. Forget about categories; it is new and worthy of serious study.

Equally confounded was Billboard, which made it a Top Album Pick for the week ending August 27, 1983, while stating, "...this fusion ensemble...taps enough rock, jazz and Third World elements to straddle more conventional commercial jazz format...they could even lure rock play." Jazz critic for the Cal State Long Beach student newspaper Rich Spindel wrote, "Exquisitely produced, Shadowdance is at once immediate and accessible, yet there is much to sustain a detailed aural inspection of each chart."

Undaunted by the inability to categorize the band and their music were their audiences, who responded ecstatically to Shadowfax's records and live concerts and were prompted to write about their reactions. "Audio painting" was a phrase used by one. "I have never heard anything like it before," wrote Patricia Lehmann. "I congratulate you on a rare and beautiful piece of art."

Although Chuck was making a concerted effort to refrain from using the band as a "star vehicle" for himself, many responses were directed particularly towards him. One concertgoer sent him a cocktail napkin, on which was written:

Chuck was beginning to discover that the connections he was making through the business activities he handled for the band were resulting in the general impression that he was its leader, however informal or ad hoc that designation might be.

Journalists, agents, and label executives alike were naturally gravitating towards him for information, and even referring to him as "Mr. Shadowfax"--something which he never really sought but treated as another responsibility nonetheless.  

As Stevo put it:  

Chuck was the flux. Everyone had a key part, but it was only under Chuck's direction that all the parts fit into the puzzle. Chuck was the 'glue;' he 'made the machine.' A lot of what he did was important to the band and to the individuals. It would have broken down long before it did were it not for him.

Unfortunately, instead of appreciating the hard work and time involved in cultivating and conducting the business affairs for the band, it seemed that several of the members began chafing at this distinction that inevitably was to create a rift.

Contributing to this isolation also was the fact that Chuck and G.E., who had by necessity been composing most of the music for the group, were now earning song writing royalties for their efforts, thanks to A&M Records taking over the distribution of Windham Hill and requiring the payment of mechanicals as part of the deal. The heretofore noncontributing members were now regarding composing as a financially lucrative endeavor, a perception that was reinforced when A Thousand Teardrops was selected by NBC to be used as background music for their Up Close and Personal features that were broadcast during the '82 Winter Olympics. Of course, Chuck never composed music with the express purpose of making money-- he wrote because the band needed material for their recordings. However, feeling left out and desirous of augmenting their incomes as well, the current non-composers decided to jump on the song writing bandwagon. Suddenly, a writing frenzy materialized.

1985 had seen Shadowfax returning to the road to support their latest album The Dreams of Children and the reissue of Watercourse Way.

Management responsibilities had eased up somewhat on Chuck now that they had an agency (Variety Artists) to do the booking for the band and could finally afford to hire a tour bus and equipment truck. Variety Artists head agent Bob Engel was impressed with Chuck's business abilities.

"Every band wishes they had a Chuck Greenberg," he says. "Chuck was a more than capable businessman and an exemplary artist--something you rarely find in one person."  

It seems that humans were not the only ones entranced by Shadowfax's music.  

Cindy Ward sent the following:

The strangest thing happened at work the other day-- I just have to tell you all about it...

I'm the dolphin trainer at Six Flags Over Georgia in Atlanta, and the park isn't open yet--and I was doing a practice session with the dolphins. I had a couple of tapes with me to play over the loud speakers-- Shadowfax, Shadowdance, Michael Hedges' Aerial Boundaries, and the Police's latest. I played all during the session-- but when I got to Shadowfax-- the animals stopped working and stuck their heads way out of the water to listen. I'm familiar with this position, because they do it when I'm talking to them-- they have pinholes on the sides of their heads, and have to raise themselves way up out of the water to hear--and damn if they didn't do it for your music!

I had to stop, because they were so enthralled with the music, they just wouldn't listen to me! So consider yourselves famous! You beat out a herring! I think you are incredible, but so do Alfie and Schooner, so the next time you are in town, come by and play and swim with them, okay?

The band did just that, turning the event into a cute sound bite for CNN. Sure enough, when Chuck played his Lyricon, Alfie and Schooner swam over and hooked their heads over the edge of the pool, seeming to listen intently.

There were other memorable tours as well. Variety booked turned out to be a gambling boat in Fort Lauderdale. The boat would cruise three miles out to sea where gambling restrictions did not apply, and entertain its customers with live concerts.

As Sound Guy Stevo remembers:  

They had to do two shows because they couldn't hold everyone at once. The union stevedores were technically required to move the equipment at a cost of several thousand dollars. The promoter decided it would be cheaper to hire a local crew--the only problem being how to sneak past the stevedores, who would not take kindly to being cheated out of their work. They had to get all the gear into the boat at four a.m. so the stevedores wouldn't find out (the stevedores came on at five).

Unfortunately, they soon discovered there was no other way to get the stuff off the truck, so they opened the hold and drove the semi right onto the boat. Now they had to get the gear up five to six floors, using an elevator that only held five people. They ended up unloading it piece by piece--a slow process which worked okay until they got to the mixing consoles, which wouldn't fit. So they had to take them back down the ramp to the dock, across the gangplank, and past the stevedores, who figured out immediately what was going on.

The shows went great, and by ten p.m. the boat had returned. We managed to get everything back down to the hold and onto the truck except the mixing consoles, which had to be taken back across the gangplank. The stevedores were waiting for us, arms across their chests, shoulder to shoulder. They had pulled the gangplank, and refused to put it back until the promoter coughed up $5000. He had no choice at this point. It ended up costing him twice what it would have, not to mention all the extra work and time, if he'd just let the stevedores do it in the first place.

Stevo would remain with Shadowfax until their last performance in 1995, even though he could have made more money going out with other bands.

"Out of all the people I've worked with," he says, "these guys were the best because it was a family, never a job. We were doing what we wanted, and it was a lot of fun."  

Although I was definitely not a "virgin" when it came to drugs, knowing Chuck widened my chemical horizons considerably. In fact, when I first met him, he was participating in a UCLA drug and driving experiment that paid him money for the "job" of taking pills and alcohol. He got me enrolled and together we would drive over to some warehouse-cum-laboratory in Culver City where they would stick us behind a driving simulator and test our reflexes. We had been given either Ativan or a placebo, and on the last day they gave us screwdrivers to down in three minutes, at eight in the morning. Much to their consternation, both Chuck and I tested higher post-vodka. Evidently, we were throwing off their results. In hindsight, I have wondered if this suggested a greater-than-average tolerance for chemicals...

Whatever, this and other events taught me that, in case there was any doubt, the drug gossip surrounding musicians is true. As Stu recalls,

Chuck and I had been roommates for many years in Chicago. I remember my girlfriend at the time, The Honey Bee, and I had taken some MDA, known as "The Love Drug." It had the sexual effects of Quaaludes, but was not a downer. Anyway, the Bee was very vocal during sex, especially on MDA. Chuck had been in his room, smoking his pipe and listening to us. He came out later and said to me, "Wow, that must have been like returning a kickoff a hundred yards for a touchdown with all of the Soldier Field fans (where the Chicago Bears play) screaming!"

For whatever reason, and I have my theories (availability, lack of structure in life), they are chemical consumers, and to be around them is to live within a chemically altered ambiance. But I had no idea just how crucially it would figure in my future until this one particular day.

I had known Chuck for about six months. We were not living together yet, but we were spending most of our time together. Chuck was a popular guest everywhere he visited, and my place was no different. One day, my roommates and I decided to throw a big party on Venice Beach where we resided. Featured prominently amongst the appetizers were some recently acquired magic mushrooms, a popular hors d'oevre of the times. A few hours after consumption, there were some pretty spaced-out partiers wandering around. Chuck was one of those who had gotten especially high, and at one point was hallucinating heavily. As the sun set we watched footprints in the sand metamorphose into slithering snakes. Chuck began to interpret this as an omen of doom.  

"I think I'm dying," he whined mournfully.

No stranger to mind-altering substances myself, I recognized this as a classical psychedelic phenomenon, and whipped out my well-worn copy of Timothy Leary's The Psychedelic Experience. I began reading excerpts to him in order to convince him that he was not PHYSICALLY dying, but experiencing ego death. Fortunately, it worked, and his panic subsided enough to enable us to drag ourselves over to our favorite haunt Zucky's (now gone) for something to eat.

Afterwards, convinced that I had saved his life, Chuck decided to "reward" me by proposing marriage. I believed it prudent to suggest that he wait to see how he felt after a good night's sleep. As I drifted off that night, I remembered what a psychic had once told me: I would marry at the age of 32. And then I panicked: "Oh, my God! What have I gotten myself into now?"

November, 1981

...It is my wedding day, and everything that might have gone wrong has. First of all, the rings we ordered have not arrived, despite assurances from the salesman to the contrary. This actually is not much of a tragedy since I had wanted to custom design them anyway. We had selected some from the store because speed was of the essence.

Secondly, the flower arrangement is not ready, although the florist does manage to get my fresh orchid hair ornament to me on time.

Thirdly, and most potentially disastrous, is the absence of our non-denominational cleric from the local Santa Monica church that specializes in interfaith unions. While waiting for him, we start on the champagne. There is also a five-pound Hershey bar from my ex-boyfriend that we snack upon. In attendance are Chuck's mom, Best Man Phil, and my sister Jill with her husband Don.

Several people knock unexpectedly on our door as we wait for the errant reverend. First is Warren, making the rounds in his limo. He has been driving Brian Wilson around for a while and is on a break, so he decides to drop by. When Chuck opens the door and Warren sees us all dressed up, his chin nearly hits the ground.

Next is Jungle John who shows up, as usual, unannounced, becoming Mom's "date" for the day. In no time we are all very tipsy, except for Mom, who can be seen looking worriedly towards the door in all the photos commemorating this fittingly chaotic event. Chuck is her last child (and oldest) to tie the knot, and she is not about to go back to Chicago without witnessing its resolution. Forget that I'm not Jewish-- Mom has long since given up on that requirement, as her three other children have already married gentiles. She is mainly relieved that I am at least female! Not that Chuck has ever indicated any other sexual preferences, but when Number One Son remains unhitched until the age of 31, it's nice to be able to put those concerns to rest.

Finally, after several hours, it dawns on us that we were going to have to go to Plan B if we are to get married at all! But, what Plan B? As some of us discuss the logistics of getting to Las Vegas, Don, the only one with any problem-solving skill left at this point, begins calling the little wedding chapels that proliferate along Santa Monica's Lincoln Blvd. Amazingly enough, on a day when many businesses are closed, he finds one open! And yes, Rev. Lynch (honestly, her real name) will be only too happy to help out. No marriage license? (Rev. No Show has it). Not to worry, Rev. Lynch can provide us with a confidential one that is just as legal as the regular one, she claims. I am skeptical, but what the heck, I think, whatever satisfies Mom at this point. We are invited to come over right now!

Soon all seven of us are piled into Blue Bomber. Fortunately, we have only to travel a few blocks. As we stumble through an atrium-like room filled with plastic plants, Rev. Lynch quickly sizes up our situation and admonishes us for not behaving more respectfully regarding this hallowed event, but it is impossible to keep straight faces with Chuck cracking jokes right and left! He is truly in rare form this afternoon.

Eventually, the good reverend asks us if we prefer the "traditional" or "Native American" ceremony. We decide on the latter, trying hard to get a grip. I don't remember much about the ceremony, except that we're all crying by the end of it.

After the ceremony, we drive to our favorite local restaurant, Le Petit Moulin, again piling into Blue Bomber. Chuck and I spend our honeymoon night at the Sheraton. I recall that someone has supplied us with Quaaludes. We make full use of them.

The following morning, Rev. No Show calls in a fit of anguish over his lapse of memory. "Did they manage to get married?"  

"Yes," Mom hisses, "No thanks to YOU!"

When I go to legally change my name and need a copy of the marriage license to do so, I find that indeed, it IS a Confidential Marriage Certificate, which truly lives up to its name, supposedly set up to accommodate Hollywood stars who have already set up housekeeping together and don't want anyone to know they are not officially wed. All one must do is sign a statement the couple has been cohabiting, and voila, they qualify for a Confidential Marriage Certificate! Only the two marriage partners can legally acquire this information and only in the Land of Lah, as Chuck would say...

Besides a new album, 1983 brought a new arrival to the Greenberg family. It was somewhere in Marin County-- Cotati, I believe, that our first son was conceived. Chuck would refer to him as our "Winnebaby," since it had been "our night" for the RV. I had been hoping for a girl and had already

selected a name: Elea Claire (after my mother, Eleanor Claire). Chuck, rightly so, had complained about the unfairness of excluding him from the naming process, so we compromised and made a deal: if our baby were a girl, I would get to name her. If a boy, Chuck would be the namer. When the amniocentesis pointed towards "boy," Chuck began to gloat delightedly and to torture me with all sorts of monikers that were more appropriate for pets than people.  

"How about Spot? What about Skippy?"  

Not wanting to feed his perverse satisfaction at winning the naming contest, I tried not to let my consternation be too obvious-- Chuck would take any negative responses to his name ideas as encouragement.

One day he came home and asked, "How about Maceo?"

"I like that!," was my immediate reply. Pretty soon, all the guys in the band were calling him "Maceo," and even if I'd wanted to, I could not have changed his name. Maceo he was. A true highlight for us would be the eventual meeting with his namesake, Maceo Parker, when he was two years old.  

Chuck was a nervous, if not downright reluctant, father-to-be. Although we had been married over a year, and I had made clear my intentions as far as parenthood was concerned, he initially felt he had somehow been tricked into fatherhood.

"But, Chuck, I told you I wanted to start a family!"  

"Yes, but does it have to be NOW?"  

"Well, I'm 34, and I'll be almost 35 when the baby comes. When did you want me to do it? When I'm 90? Besides, you were the one who said, 'Fuck the diaphragm!'" There was a lot of sulking and recrimination at first, but eventually he came around and even began to exhibit some excitement. He also agreed to attend childbirth classes with me. Knowing his erratic schedule, I prudently asked a longtime friend of his and newly of mine, Dallas, to accompany us to these classes to ensure that at least one of them would be present to coach me for Maceo's birth. 

As Dallas tells it:

The classes had about eight pregnant moms and their coaches and most of them were pretty serious and uptight. Not at all like us.

We would be silly and laughing about things and being generally irreverent. The rest of the class would be taking notes. This was not the most fun group of people to be with two hours a week. They needed to lighten up and have some fun. One night when Chuck was with us the teacher had us all lie on the floor to do some relaxation exercises. This was not all that easy since it was such a little room and with so many very large stomachs there was hardly any space to lie down, much less relax. So the teacher gave us relaxation instructions and told us how to breathe slowly and deeply. The room got really quiet and still as she turned off the light when all of a sudden Chuck called (with perfect timing), 'All right everybody--GROUP GROPE!!'  

I laughed so hard I thought I'd pee in my pants and get thrown out of the class. It was the most fun we'd had in the whole time being there and it was just what the group needed. That laugh relaxed us more than any amount of deep breathing exercises could have. This was so typically "Chuck"-- always able to relieve a tense situation with his inimitable humor.

Luckily, when it came time for Maceo to be born, Chuck was in town. We both came to the hospital to help do the coaching because it seemed that two coaches would be more help than one. And Joy needed it. She had a very long labor with some major pains in her back for about 18 hours. Chuck helped rub her back most of the time and he made lots of jokes. Pretty soon the room took on a party atmosphere. The guys from the band came over. Warren, Jungle John, Phil and Ron were there. Everyone wanted to be there for the birth of the first "Shadow-brat."

Eventually, the nurses kicked everyone out and they ended up on the front steps of Santa Monica Hospital drinking Crown Royal together. Phil was particularly moved by the experience and composed Maceo, which would wind up being recorded for a later Shadowfax album, Too Far to Whisper. 

Thus fortified, Chuck returned just in time to see my being wheeled off to the delivery room. He was an excellent coach, although I think his role as photographer was more to his liking--having a camera between himself and the copious body fluids emanating from me was more comfortable. He never could stand the sight of blood, real or imagined. (He didn't like watching movies that were even remotely gory. He refused to watch Platoon in the movie theater and I caught him on more than one occasion hiding behind the couch to avoid such sights on video.)

Despite his initial reservations, Chuck was a caring and excellent dad. He did, however, inform me that he would not be changing any diapers.

"My dad never did and I don't plan to either," he said.

Otherwise, he was a useful baby-sitter, except for one notable day. Maceo was about three months old, and Chuck had just returned from one of his Las Vegas jaunts with "the boys." He had been up for about two days and nights gambling and rabble-rousing. When he finally returned home, I was anxious to get out of the house to do some grocery shopping.

I had put Maceo down for a nap and told Chuck that if for some reason Maceo awoke, just give him a bottle. I then set off for the store, only a few blocks away. Finishing my shopping, I had been gone maybe 45 minutes and was heading home. As I drew closer, I heard the unmistakable wail of a baby in great distress. Sure enough, it was Maceo, and by the time I reached him he was so distraught that he was livid and drenched in sweat.

When I went looking for Chuck, there he was sound asleep on our bed, snoring peacefully.  

Yes, 1983 had proven to be an eventful and rewarding year for Chuck both personally and professionally, capped by Cash Box voting Shadowfax Best New Jazz Group. Billboard followed suit, naming Shadowdance 20th Best Jazz Album. An Evening With Windham Hill Live, featuring many of their solo artists, garnered third Best Compilation by Various Artists. Chuck's presence on Clockwork with Alex de Grassi and Visiting with Will Ackerman had helped propel the success of this early "sampler."

In 1984 the band went back to Group IV to record its third Windham Hill album, The Dreams of Children. The lineup had changed this time. The Chicago Four had decided to seek a new keyboardist. They did not have to venture far to find David Lewis, who lived only a few blocks down Santa Monica Boulevard from the Greenbergs.

Dave had performed with Ambrosia, experiencing some success in the L.A. area. Furthermore, he had the "right equipment," meaning he possessed the necessary instruments to play the kind of music Chuck, et al., had in mind. He was equipped with a Yamaha DX7 and a memory moog-- key elements that would enable the band to record and perform the complex pieces they were composing at the time.

In coming up with a title for the new album, Chuck was obviously influenced by his fatherhood. He had entitled a magical, lullaby-like piece featuring the Lyricon The Dreams of Children and was so proud of this particular track that he would thereafter claim it to be his "masterpiece." It was to become the album title as well.

Taking an active role in all facets of record production, Chuck managed to come up with the cover artwork for The Dreams of Children also. We had taken a drive up the coast to Big Sur when we stopped at a lovely spot where there was an art store, the Coast Gallery. Big Sur once had been the home of Henry Miller, who just so happened to be one of Chuck's favorite authors. Unbeknownst to Chuck at the time, Miller was also a gifted watercolorist whose art was on display at the Coast. As we explored the dozens of prints by Miller, Chuck suddenly became excited and animated.

"Hey, check this out!" he yelled to me from across the gallery. When I walked over to see what he had discovered, I found that it was a print of a primitive-looking watercolor by Miller entitled Childish Dreams.

To Chuck it was nothing short of serendipity-- a weird deja vu that was fraught with symbolism and meaning-- and he just had to have it for his album cover. This proved to be easier said than done, for part of working with Windham Hill involved dealing with Art Director Anne Ackerman, Will's erstwhile wife. Anne was not especially open to outside suggestions for cover designs. She had carefully created a classic "look" for her label that consisted of pastoral photographs and was not eager to digress from the established norm.

As persuasive as Chuck could be, he had a hard time winning Anne over on this one, particularly since she cherished her role as in-house artistic expert. Eventually, however, he did prevail, by virtue of vetoing all the alternative options. I think he just wore Anne down with his thinly disguised scorn for what he dubbed the "broccoli" covers, i.e. the traditional bucolic scenes of trees and landscapes favored for most Windham Hill packages. If nothing else, Chuck knew how and had the skills to get whatever he wanted from most people. 

Dreams of Children proved to be the most compositionally cooperative album thus far. Besides tunes penned by Chuck and G.E., alone and collaboratively, there was one by Dave Lewis (The Big Song) featuring his "wall of sound" synth work, and an upbeat track by Phil (Shaman Song) which had been written during a party in our West L.A. apartment living room. We couldn't fit the baby grand into the room, so Chuck used our kitchen counter bar as a stand for his electric keyboard. Phil had come to visit, seen the keyboard, and ended up working out the melody for Shaman Song while the party swirled around him.

Chuck's rhythmic, catchy Lyricon composition, Another Country, which was also the leadoff track, turned out to be the "hit" off the record, receiving airplay on both rock and jazz stations. G.E. felt that it was the band's best work, "compositionally, the most evolved and technologically proficient-- we really knew what we were doing." It went on to become a regular set-opener for the band.

Critical acclaim for Dreams of Children was ecstatic. BAM magazine, producer of the Bay Area Music Awards, bestowed the band with a Best Jazz Album Bammy. The trade Performance Magazine awarded them Jazz Breakout of 1984 from their Readers' Poll. Leonard Feather again waxed rhapsodic over it and the band's Beverly Theater (L.A.) concerts of February, 1985: "Shadowfax...reaffirmed to an intensely receptive audience its stature as the most original and creative new electronic group of the last decade."

Cash Box called Dreams of Children:  

...heady, sweeping, world music from the guys who can make stone flutes go hand in hand with memory moogs. The ages, and genres, come together here, and while much of it is romantic and evocative, there is plenty that is powerful and muscular. A tonic for sore ears.

From Pentagram came:

The Dreams of Children... is everything a truly great album should be. This is an absolutely incredible blend of rock, jazz, folk and various ethnic styles of music. A highly recommended masterpiece.

Down Beat's John Diliberto added, "Shadowfax is a composer's band, with meticulously wrought compositions that are played (and recorded) with an unerring precision."

The Pittsburgh Press wrote:

Shadowfax has found a way to move ahead with its distinctive sound without moving away from it. The Dreams of Children, the group's third album, is easily its best. Chuck Greenberg...calls it "the most cohesive album the band has made yet." It is not only cohesive, but aggressive and exciting. By blending jazz and rock influences with folk rhythms, the group displays an exciting eclecticism... If there is one dominant voice in Shadowfax, however, it is that of Greenberg's woodwinds. Whether on soprano sax, flute, or the mysterious-sounding Lyricon, Greenberg spins out lines of fluid melody. The Dreams of Children shows that Shadowfax is a band that's not growing older, but growing better. 

As thoughts of the band turned to touring once again, an unfortunate change in personnel became necessary. Jamii Szmadzinski was a brilliant violinist who had contributed inestimably to the success of the band, both on record and on stage. His animated solos during live performances always elicited excitement and were perennial crowd-pleasers. Furthermore, he and Chuck were good friends who related personally as well as musically. They had met while working on a soundtrack at Group IV. However, Jamii had developed a serious personal problem which was ultimately interfering with his ability to maintain his commitments with the band, and was causing extreme volatility in his personality. On one occasion he had gotten so wired that he had taken one of his very expensive bows and flung it across a hotel room, shattering it.

On another occasion, he became upset with Chuck when he attempted to discuss his "problem," and tried to throttle Chuck. The last straw was when Jamii failed to show up for a photo shoot which had been rescheduled just for him, after he missed the first one, offering what Chuck considered to be an exceptionally lame excuse ("traffic"). Truly heartbroken, Chuck would say it was the hardest thing he'd ever had to do, but he had no choice-- Jamii had become a liability and had to go.

Finding a replacement for Jamii wasn't easy. As in any band, it was important for players to mesh both musically and personally. With a big summer ('84) tour looming up, Shadowfax eventually settled upon Steven Kindler, who came down from his home in S.F. and stayed with us while the band rehearsed the tunes that they would be taking on the road. Kindler sported an impressive background, having played with the likes of Jeff Beck and John McLaughlin's Mahavishnu Orchestra. While his chops were indisputable, once out on the road he presented an egocentric persona both on and off stage, regarding Shadowfax as more or less a "backup band" for himself, which didn't sit too well with the rest of the group.

By summer's end Kindler had completely worn out his welcome and was asked to leave. Naturally, the odious task of firing him was bestowed upon Chuck, who was further disgusted when Kindler, pleading for his job, wrapped his arms around Chuck's knees as if he were making obeisance to the pope.

The tour with Kindler was memorable in several ways. In Oklahoma City the band found itself hotel mates with some Republican conventioneers. Chuck, who had always been very interested in politics, had gotten very drunk in the hotel lounge and began insulting every Republican he could find. When he finally returned to his room and passed out, some of the other guys thought it would be funny to stack every available piece of furniture on top of Chuck to the point that if he had moved an eyelash, the whole mountain would come crashing down on his head. Fortunately, someone took pity on him and, fearful of injuring him, removed the chair and stool mountain towering over him while he slept.

G.E. remembers being in a funk the whole tour from the news of the death of Oregon's Colin Walcott, who had been one of his idols, which made him even less tolerant of Kindler's megalomaniacal antics. Despite the interpersonal squabbles, the band looked and sounded as meticulous and professional as always, a fact that can be seen in the live video produced at what was once Doc Severinson's club in Oklahoma City. Plans are currently underway to release this video to the public.

The summer of 1985 saw the reissue of Shadowfax's fourth album for Windham Hill, Watercourse Way. Released to little fanfare, it generated renewed interest and sales, if mainly for its historical perspective on the band's music.

Chuck, as usual, oversaw all the production details and although compact discs were making their entrance onto the market, he was adamant about pressing only records and tapes. He felt that even with remixing and remastering, the sound quality was still not up to par, and its inherent inferiority would only be highlighted on a CD. As an added plus, since there was very little studio time involved, Watercourse Way was relatively inexpensive to produce, meaning that royalties would begin accruing almost immediately.

Those reviewers who took the risk and published their comments about Watercourse Way indicated a range of reactions from surprise to confusion.

The Washington Post wrote:

Watercourse Way...represents the storm before the lull. Right from the start, beginning with The Shape of a Word and G.E. Stinson's tortured guitar solos, and continuing until the art-rockish climax of the last track, Song for my Brother, it's obvious that this is not just another musical sedative from the popular West Coast label Windham Hill. Eventually, though, you may find yourself wishing it were. 

To the contrary, the San Diego State University Daily Aztec reviewer wrote:

While their live performances are stupendous, their spontaneity has not always transferred well in vinyl. However, Watercourse Way may be their best album, with all the energy and enthusiasm of a live performance captured.

With each successive Windham Hill album, Shadowfax had attempted to more closely replicate the drive and energy of their live concerts, without alienating the growing and devoted audience they had so carefully cultivated with their recordings. When it came time to go back into the studio for their fourth go-round (fifth release including the reissued Watercourse Way, Chuck was feeling extreme and conflicting pressures as the band's producer.

On the one hand, the label powers wanted a variation on what had already been successfully accomplished-- based on the premise "if it ain't broke, don't fix it."

On the other hand, Chuck was being pressured by his bandmates to allow them more freedom, especially in terms of contributing compositionally. While the band had been set up essentially as a "democracy," with each member theoretically having equal say artistically, Chuck's position as interface between the label and the band had made him the ultimate decision-maker. Although it might be most democratic to allow equal representation compositionally, the fact remains that not all songwriters are equally gifted. Chuck found himself in the unenviable position of passing judgment on a submitted tune by either rejecting it or spending an inordinate amount of valuable time trying to make it acceptable and recordable.

In fact, Chuck's business duties for the band had become so time-consuming that he had not been able to do much composing himself. So, when it came time to record, Chuck was able to contribute only one tune, Streetnoise, to Too Far to Whisper. He had also come up with a lovely Lyricon melody for another tune, but had gotten stuck finishing it. After submitting it to G.E. and Phil, they were able to collaborate on the first and only three-way credited tune by Shadowfax, Ritual, which would prove to be one of the most popular tunes the band would record, especially considering it was never performed live. The private environmental group, The Nature Conservancy, selected it in 1992 to be used on a soundtrack for one of their promotional videos, A Stitch in Time, which featured a clip about the rain forest.  

This association with the Nature Conservancy would prove to play a fateful role in Chuck's destiny, for it was on Santa Cruz Island, where Chuck and I had been invited by the Conservancy as thanks for his contribution to their videos, that he died.

Ritual must have generated strong "rain forest" images in other listeners as well, for Ralph Knasinski compelled to write:

Recently I completed a painting based on your composition Ritual. The four panel, fourteen foot long work was the result of three months work by myself, my wife, and my daughter. Since hearing Ritual evoked such a strong, clear image of a rain forest I had no choice but to create this painting. My wife and daughter translated the music into musical notation which I then converted to color values and shapes. The painting was the main work at my Masters of Art Exhibition at the University of Wisconsin, Madison.

Enclosed with his letter was a photograph of his painting.

The rest of the new album consisted of Stinson (2), Maggini (2), Lewis (2), Bisharat (1), and Nevitt (1) compositions. As an interesting change of pace, two of the tunes featured vocals: G.E.'s What Goes Around and Phil's Maceo. The album took its name from the other G.E. tune, Too Far to Whisper.

Recorded and mixed once again at Group IV, Too Far to Whisper was released in 1986. Joining the band's nucleus of four were (again) Emil Richards with his percussive "entourage," Adam Rudolph, Morris Dollison (an old Chicago blues buddy who had recorded with them under the moniker Cash McCall and lent vocals on Maceo), violinist Charlie Bisharat--hired to replace Steve Kindler, and-- adding some spatial-sounding background vocals-- Haralambi A, aka recording engineer and sometime SoundGuy Harry Andronis. Charlie injected a new enthusiasm and flair into the band. A recent USC grad where he once had considered pre-medicine, Charlie, like Jamii, added considerable virtuosic talent and youth to Shadowfax.

Although the reviews for Too Far to Whisper were favorable and lauded the obvious musical diversity, the whole recording process had been enervating and disappointing for Chuck. While having a "democracy" was all well and good for the individual band members, they were incapable of forming any sort of consensus--someone ultimately had to make the final decisions. As producer, Chuck felt he was that "someone." This meant he was in charge of determining which tunes would make the "cut" and be recorded, out of the many that were being brought in to rehearsal. As far as Chuck was concerned, it didn't matter how many of your own tunes made it onto the record-- if it didn't sell well, you weren't going to be raking in those coveted mechanical royalties. In other words, 12% or 50% of zero was still zero.

And, in order to sell well, Chuck believed there had to be well-crafted tunes. However, the rancorous rank and file refused to recognize or respect Chuck's opinion and critical role. They seemed to look at song writing as something anyone could do, and Chuck felt that the others thought he was being selfish about restricting their individual contributions. In attempting to please and appease everyone else, he ended up failing to please himself, leaving him feeling extremely disillusioned. He vowed never to produce Shadowfax again.

The studio was not the only place where internal rivalries and competitions were brewing. Concerts were being turned into forums for one-upmanship, manifested by on-stage "volume wars." In an attempt to be heard above everyone else, one guy would turn up his amp, then someone else would have to do the same thing, and by the end of the show it was so painfully loud that some in the audience complained or ran defensively from the room, hands clapped over their ears.

Nonetheless, Too Far to Whisper gained airplay and generated decent sales, if not to the same levels of the three previous Windham Hill releases. The title track received the most attention on radio, emboldening its writer G.E. to bring more songs with lyrics to the band. G.E. was inspired by the South African political situation at the time and had written a song called Ashes and Dust reflecting his passion. While Chuck and Phil did not feel the material was right for the band to record, they did make concessions to Greg as far as playing the song live. This would lead to a fateful turning point in the destiny of Shadowfax.  

The year is now 2000 and Maceo and I are watching the old Oklahoma City Shadowfax video from 1986. Phil is wearing that hideous striped jacket that Chuck and I hated so much, but Chuck couldn't really say much about sartorial splendor, since he's wearing a black flight suit that makes him look more like a rotund mechanic than the star-on-the-rise status he was enjoying at the time.

"Mom, when was the band at its peak?" Maceo asks.  

"Well, right about the time of this show, probably," I answer.

"So, what happened?"

"Well, I remember vividly the Universal Amphitheater gig they did. It was sold out and the band was playing great. Then, towards the end of the set, they went into a new tune by G.E. which had lyrics, something never before included in the Shadowfax repertoire. Even though your father had warned me they were working up new material, I was unprepared for the overwhelming negative response I felt as I listened to the opening bars of this song. So I did the usual thing when the band went into one of those rare tunes I didn't like: I got up and went to the bathroom.

"In the meantime, the band segued into ANOTHER new G.E. song, equally unappealing. Ya know, Mace, few can pull off protest songs without sounding preachy, which your dad had thus far carefully avoided with the band. G.E. is a great guitarist and songwriter, but these were not his finest works.

"As I attempted to return to my seat, I felt like a salmon swimming upstream, there were so many people pouring from the hall to the exits. I guessed they weren't enjoying the new stuff either. And why, oh why, did the the band put this new material at the END of the set? Even I knew this was a risky proposition. If the audience didn't like it, they would leave the concert feeling cheated. On the other hand, debuting new material near the beginning of a set gives the band a chance to recoup some excitement by the end, in the event that the new stuff is not well-received. I learned later that this was also G.E.'s idea. It was disastrous, and your dad knew it. He believed that this gig marked the beginning of the end for Shadowfax."

"What did Dad do?" Maceo wanted to know.

"He knew the band had blown it and he was mortified," I said, launching into the whole sordid affair that ultimately ended in the dissolution of the original incarnation of the band.

Shadowfax was in another period of transition. They had recorded several albums on Windham Hill and your dad had produced them all. He and G.E. had composed most of the material, until the new inclusion of songwriter royalties, never before paid, suddenly prompted feverish activity from the other band members, who were bringing in many of their own tunes for the band to work up. It had become your dad's job, as producer, to select the tunes for the next record, but others felt he was unable to be objective since his own tunes were being considered as well. Your dad ultimately decided he would have to relinquish producing duties because the others were giving him such a hard time.

Several of the band members mistrusted Windham Hill and wanted to label-shop to find a better deal. After all, Windham Hill had contracted directly with your dad, not Shadowfax. Some of the guys seemed suspicious that Chuck had set things up for his personal benefit rather than that of the band. Against your dad's better judgment, but outnumbered by the rest, the band signed a deal with Capitol Records, who offered a far more lucrative contract than Windham Hill, despite the fact that Shadowfax had helped put Windham Hill on the map as far as selling records goes.

To further compound matters, an irreparable rift within the band occurred when Capitol, along with Chuck and Phil, made it clear that they were not interested in G.E.'s South African protest songs and the decision was made not to include them on the new recording. Consequently, G.E. found it difficult to maintain a positive attitude throughout the recording of Folk Songs for a Nuclear Village and when the album won a Grammy that year for "Best New Age Album," G.E. refused to attend the awards ceremony.

"What were the Grammies like, Mom?"

"Oh, what a party G.E. missed! Highlights were the haunting, exquisitely lovely ballad sung by Sarah Vaughn which I've tried for years to find on a CD, meeting Bonnie Raitt, whom I've idolized for years, as you know, and boogying the night away to the Neville Brothers. The lowlight was Metallica, but you might have liked them."

"Gimmee a break, Mom! Even I know they suck!"

Wow! This kid is handsome, smart, and athletic, AND has good taste in music? Maybe we done good, after all, Chuck!

"Your dad's most memorable experience," I continued, was meeting Pharoah Sanders, one of HIS idols, at the Grammy Nominee Reception the night before the Awards Ceremony. When we returned to the Biltmore later, your dad decided to write an acceptance speech. In the event the band won, he didn't want to sound like an idiot."

I got up to fetch the memorial album I made for each of our sons after Chuck died, and handed it to Maceo to read. I find it poignant still:

All of us in Shadowfax have tried to create music with quality and integrity. We felt if we stayed true to our musical vision, we would find an audience. It has been a long road from where this band started to this stage and we would like to thank everyone who made the journey possible. And, we thank all of you for honoring us with this Grammy Award.

"Isn't that a great speech? I must admit, Mace, it always brings a few tears when I read it."

"Yeah, Mom. I still can't believe G.E. wouldn't go."

Save for the absence of G.E., there was little visible evidence at the Grammies of the intense intra-band turmoil that was tearing Shadowfax apart. Then, in yet another blow to its fragile stability, as the result of an internal shakeup at Capitol typical of the record industry, the band found itself without a label-- summarily dumped-- Grammy notwithstanding. After all, it takes the same amount of energy and $$ to promote, for example, Michael Jackson as it does to promote Shadowfax, but the returns are much greater on Jackson. So big labels look for big sales and big stars.

Making the Grammy album had been tortuous for Chuck, even though he was not technically the producer. Capitol had hired a guy who spent most of his studio time on the phone or eating carrots, and whose main function was to keep the band from killing each other, while objectively deciding which tunes would make the final cut. Watching someone so inept make $50,000 doing what Chuck had always done for free drove him nuts.

G.E., who was on non-speaking terms with Chuck as an expression of his sense of betrayal at Chuck's failure to understand and support his protest songs, became more and more negative and aloof.

G.E. says:

I felt the band was stagnating creatively. We were repeating ourselves... I kept pressuring the band members to introduce new elements and influences into the compositions... I was considered a pain in the ass and overly critical... the members of Shadowfax had stopped communicating with one another. We were all to blame.

Chuck was crushed. He felt personally rejected by G.E. and felt that G.E.'s continued presence had become a threat to the viability of the band. Chuck began having episodes of insomnia, knowing that the decision to separate from G.E. would have to be made or the band would not go on.

When Capitol dropped Shadowfax, the lead went out of their pencil; all their momentum evaporated like so much hot air. The thought that a label could so easily dump a band that had won a Grammy for them had never crossed their collective mind. They went scrambling for an new label, ending up on Private Music, now a part of the BMG conglomerate which eventually bought Windham Hill as well. Shadowfax released one album on Private Music entitled The Odd Get Even. It would be the last recording with G.E.

Not since having to fire Jamii Szmadzinski had Chuck faced such a difficult task in terms of personnel management. After all, Chuck and G.E. had been friends-- very close friends-- for 15 years. Above anyone else in the band, Chuck valued G.E.'s extraordinary creative abilities, and often praised him for being the best composer in the band. But G.E. was committed to branching out in writing protest songs with lyrics, the antithesis of the innovative instrumental sound Chuck had been carefully cultivating with Shadowfax.

Chuck finally solved the G.E. problem by using the opportunity provided by the fact that, once again, unhappy with Private Music, the band was label-hopping. By mutual agreement, new contracts with EarthBeat! would be signed leaving G.E. out of the "mix." It had been an unendurable ordeal for Chuck, and he would never get over the unbearable loss of G.E.'s fraternity and musical collaboration.

Of course, it was difficult for G.E. as well. As he says, "I was also crushed by the loss of my friendship with Chuck and I take full responsibility for my part in it. I withdrew from the relationship completely which was very detrimental to the band."

Stu says:

Even though I know we all played a part in the breakdown, I wish I had, to paraphrase Frank Zappa, just shut up and played my drums. Probably the most damage I did however, was that although I may have acknowledged responsibility, I never TOOK responsibility for my marijuana addiction and diabetic health care. One of the things that really impressed me about Chuck was that he was once as big a pothead as I was but managed to give it up for the sake of Shadowfax.

After he moved to L.A. he stopped smoking pot and that's when he really started getting his life and music business chops together.

I'm now on an insulin pump and my health has never been better, but I still haven't come to terms with my addiction. My irresponsibility has led me to where I am now.

There were also a lot of outside influences that came into play as we started climbing the musical food chain. Some of these were real, some were paranoid delusions.

I used to play with a great pedal steel player in Chicago named François D'Lux (Richard Lux). He used to say there were two kinds of band members: lead stars & rhythm pukes. Although we were NEVER made to feel that way by G.E. or Chuck, I think that both Phil and I were made to feel like that by some business people. We felt some of the label people would have been happier with a Chuck and G.E. duo. I didn't deal with that very well. Subconsciously I took it out on Chuck and felt an outside producer would give us a more "pop" sound with the rhythm section a little more prominent ("shut up and play your drums!...")

I also spent too much time trying to become a drum star like the guys I idolized.

Chuck and G.E. were always encouraging Phil and me to write for the band. I didn't for a long time because I knew I wasn't even near their league as far as composing. The first tune of mine that we recorded, Slim Limbs Akimbo, came out WAY better and much different than I had envisioned. Chuck, G.E. and Emil Richards did a masterful job of arranging and producing that.

I think that it's natural to want to try and make some money via publishing and Chuck always made sure everyone in the band was represented with tunes. It did "dilute the writing gene pool" but by then the band's biggest strength, the creative and business sense of G.E. and Chuck COMBINED, had eroded badly.  

Phil remembers:

Shadowfax to me has always been essentially a quartet. Personnel were added to accommodate performance and flesh out musical ideas, but as long as the four of us were at its core, we could be fairly confident that what ever came about musically would be true to our collective vision.

Over time, contributions of added personnel were integrated into our soundscape and more often than not enhanced that vision. For example, the marriage of Charlie's violin with Chuck's Lyricon often enriched the timbre and ultimately the accessibility of Chuck's lovely melodies.

When the opportunity to reform after our hiatus during the '70s presented itself in the form of a recording agreement with Windham Hill, we took a serious look at our situation. We had been this "electric fusion monster quartet" in Chicago-- the complete antithesis of Windham Hill music.

Will's interest in recording Chuck was based upon Chuck's essentially acoustic approach to Alex's record. To accept this offer on the basis of Will's perception, completely ignoring the nature of his label's musical direction, and to present him with an electric manifesto, would have been unfair to him and deal suicide for us.

Fortunately, we had a card up our sleeve, and one we could play without any negative sense of compromise or loss of musical integrity. There had always been an acoustic side of the band that we very much enjoyed but was never allowed to come to fruition.

We simply took advantage of the opportunity to explore it further, creating a discipline for us that was at once challenging and creative.

G.E., Chuck and I composed music befitting the situation and we were all soon dug in deep at Joe's Studio America recording our first Windham Hill record. Will loved the record and we were on our way.

The opportunity to go to Capitol to record presented a situation similar to the one at Windham Hill. We had a very enthusiastic head of A&R in the person of Tom Whalley who had arranged for a very profitable agreement with us based on his perception of who Shadowfax was. He had been following the band through the Windham Hill years and felt he could take us to the next level-- a goal which had become more elusive as years went by, partly due to a growing frustration on our part with Windham Hill's disinterest in our ideas, particularly the recording of a live record which we thought would help present a side of the band never captured in the studio.

This and other personal dilemmas caused a fracturing of the collaborative vision that had always furthered our process before.

G.E. was struggling to find a way to continue to participate as well as pull the band into much needed fresh air. He had, to a degree, already disenfranchised himself, however, and his individual writing effort was pulling him farther and farther away from anything previously recognizable as Shadowfax.

What we lacked at this point was the previously discussed "card up our sleeve"-- the one that would point a way into our new recording opportunity with Capitol and would unify the group with a common discipline and creative direction.

I worked with G.E. on his songs in an effort to try to make them all they could be. We worked hard on the vocals, I remember. I wanted to be sure that if it became apparent that the songs would not make it on a record, it could never be said that we didn't try as hard as we could to realize them. In hindsight, to insist on such a "left turn" in musical direction at such a pivotal moment was an error in judgment. We owed Tom Whalley the same consideration that we had given Will Ackerman, and to present this "surprise" in the form of music that was a radical departure from what he was expecting in his first live concert experience of Shadowfax only amplified his confusion over signing us.

It was backstage at Universal after that concert that a meeting occurred between Chuck, Tom, and Bobby Engel (of Variety Artists, booking agent and one-time manager for the band) in which Chuck and Bobby assured Tom that those new vocal songs didn't represent a change in musical direction. At this point, Whalley needed some assurance. The deal was in jeopardy. Upon hearing of this, it represented a "kangaroo court" situation in G.E.'s mind and created a huge rift between him and the band, making recording difficult and resulting in his eventual departure.

G.E.'s leaving greatly saddened me. The quartet was no more, and to me it was questionable whether to continue or not with the project, but then I remembered seeing a dog once with only three legs, and he seemed to be getting along all right, so we decided to forge ahead.

I'm happy we can now all count ourselves as friends after so much drama. Chuck would have wanted it that way. Life is too short, as they say. That, regrettably, and to my profound dismay, is his message to us all.

Despite, or perhaps because of, the mounting tensions within the band, touring had an equalizing effect on everyone, as anyone who has traveled with large groups of people can testify. Being on the road seems to bring out the best and/or worst in those involved. Although the stress of being an entity as opposed to a disparate group of individuals was often exacerbated by being on the road, being an entity was and is essential for the type of ensemble band that Shadowfax personified. For them, it was like being married to six guys at the same time without being able to "kiss and make up" (at least not with these guys). As a result, anything that contributed to the unity of the band was a welcome addition. 

Hello, Loretta!  

It seems there was a night after one gig that Jamii and Phil ended up at the club owner's place, who promptly crashed, leaving them stranded. They looked around the house for some way to escape their predicament and instead discovered a life-size, anatomically correct, inflatable female doll.

Immediately dubbed "Loretta," the problem of how to get her and them back to the hotel presented itself. Getting a cab wasn't too difficult, but getting back to their rooms unnoticed was. The image of the "three" of them surreptitiously sneaking into the hotel is interesting to contemplate.

At any rate, Loretta was an instantaneous hit with the band. Everyone became extremely solicitous of her, making sure that she was adequately, if not decently, attired. She would acquire a new wardrobe at each destination and had quite an extensive lingerie collection at one point. Some wag contributed gaffer's tape for a set of garter belts. As Phil said, "Loretta was a unifying thing for the band. She gave everyone a project, like the "tree of life." By his account, Stu's attraction for Loretta was based on his perception that her mouth formed a "voiceless, pleading, ohhhhh."

Eventually, it was obvious that some unnamed persons were beginning to take Loretta just a little too seriously. They were paying a little too much attention to her current fashion. She had taken up residence in the Lizard Lounge part of the Winnebago, but was exhibiting signs of wear and tear. Gaffer's tape soon had to function as more than holding up Loretta's stockings-- it had to patch some of the leaks to which she was succumbing.

Now, the Lizard Lounge was sort of a road version of Boys Town. Its walls had been papered with porno pictures in a sort of X-rated collage, enhanced by stage lighting gels that gave it a permanently green, otherworldly glow. Definitely a "Guy Thing."

Sadly, Loretta was beginning to resemble an old tire. Eventually she was so disgusting she became relegated to the roadies, in a demonstration that even the music business has a pecking order. Once doomed to the roadie truck, she was never to be seen again, typical of all relegations to roadiedom. The roadie truck was like the Bermuda Triangle: once something disappeared into its recesses, it vanished forever.  

Chuck LOVED old cars, especially Chevies. In fact, I've never been certain that his lust for Blue Bomber, the '55 I inherited from my maternal grandmother, was not the real reason he married me. He prided himself on the collection of "beaters," as he called them, that he had run through over the years. When I met him he had recently purchased "Ruby," the latest in a long line of vintage vehicles to be operated by Chuck. Ruby was a candy apple red '65 Belair coupe that had been owned, literally, by a "little old lady from Pasadena" and was in near-mint condition, at least until Chuck got his hands on her.

Chuck was legendary for his inestimable skill at acquiring beaters-- old cars that still had some life in them but would be totally run into the ground by the time he was finished with them. Ruby was still in great shape when I first "met" her, but within a year she was trashed, victimized by Chuck's neglect and Little Boy-Boy's rage one night. I don't remember what set him off, but it probably had something to do with Piranha Girl.

Anyway, Phil began taking his aggressions out in the back seat of Ruby and by the time he was done, her headliner had been completely shredded, hanging like seaweed from the interior ceiling. 

Then one day Ruby was hit by another car on the passenger side, making it impossible to open the door, forcing passengers to slide across to the driver's side to exit her. Piranha Girl turned this unfortunate occurrence into an opportunity to give the guys a little thrill. To heck with sliding across the seat-- she simply climbed out the open window, long legs first! The effect was especially provocative when she was wearing short shorts with no underwear.

Many Chuck stories involve wild rides in whatever beater he was driving at the time. Longtime pal Bill Johnston was living in Park Forest the summer of 1970 and working on the railroad when Chuck called him up and asked if he wanted to go up to Chuck's Wisconsin property for the Fourth of July.  

Says Bill:  

Mark Bernstein and one of Chuck's land partners, Pat Caporetto were also going. I said, "Sure, as long as we're back on Tuesday, and head north."

Chuck came by to get me at my parents' place. He drove up in a 1950 Pontiac pickup truck with 'IVAN WALKER AND SONS, MONEE, ILLINOIS' stenciled on the doors. I asked Chuck about the truck and found out he'd purchased it that very day. "How much did you pay?" I asked. Chuck laughed at me and said, "$75. Isn't it great?" It was not an auspicious beginning to our trip.

It was not exactly great; it was rusted out along the panels, and it smoked something terrible, but it's 1970, we were all crazy, and we'd all read On the Road. We got in the truck. Actually, Pat and Chuck got in the cab; Mark and I piled in on the sleeping bags in the back, and we began our journey all the way to the northernmost border of Wisconsin at six p.m. in the evening.

The truck was blasting out tons of blue exhaust, but the motor sounded okay, so we settled back, Mark and I cracked a bottle of wine; we settled in for adventure. The truck apparently couldn't do more than 55 mph, so we figured it might take a while to get there; at one of the rest stops we picked up some sandwiches and stuff, and my mother, of course, had packed us two weeks of food.

We drove up I-90 up around Chicago and into Wisconsin, and it was at the Stoughton exit, about 50 miles from the border, that the adventure started. The oil pressure gauge suddenly dropped to zero, and we careened down the exit and made it into the first filling station off the Interstate.

We discovered we were down a gallon of oil, which suddenly brought the huge blue cloud behind us into perspective. We discovered the Ivan Walker got 20 miles-per-gallon and 50 miles to the quart. We bought four gallons of bulk oil, and headed off, again in the pollutionmobile.

Around midnight we drove past Stevens Point and picked up two hitchhikers, who got in the back, and I got up front with Chuck, who's afraid to let anybody else drive the truck, because he doesn't know if the steering will go, or some other disaster will overtake us, and he wants to be driving when it happens.

Under some questioning I found that his first story about how much he paid for the truck was not quite true. It turned out he paid $50 for the truck and used the other $25 to bribe the safety inspector at the truck inspection station to give him the tabs to drive it. Needless to say, this was information I could have done without.

By 3:30 or so, I was punching him in the arm to keep him awake, while he was singing a song called Down Home Chinaman on the Farm. He was a tired Greyhound driver, and we were only to Tomahawk, where we stopped to let off the hitchhikers, add more oil again, have some sandwiches, wine, and rollyerown. By about five a.m., we were in Minocqua, where, as the only vehicle on the road, we attracted the unwanted scrutiny of the Minocqua police, who followed us all the way through town, just to make sure we were leaving. At least it woke up Chuck for the last 80 miles. We made his property about 6:30 a.m.--a 12.5 hour drive.

The property was beautiful, and we played around on it for the balance of the day, then took ourselves over to Ursula Schram's, who owned a farm nearby. She let us sleep there for the night, in a room she was remodeling. We laid out our sleeping bags and passed out on the floor.

Sunday, we got a good breakfast at some cafe in Ashland, played at Lake Superior, where there were 15 people on a beach below the cliffs, and where one guy said he'd never seen so many people on the sand at one time. We slept at Ursula's again that night.

Monday, we started back and stopped at a Paul Bunyan restaurant in Merrill(?). It was an all-you-can-eat place, and we got our money's worth-- PLUS there were three incredibly beautiful Wisconsin babes working as waitresses there and we had a great time flirting with them and found they were all quite ready to run away with four crazed hippies in a 1950 truck. It was information we stored for later.  

We started back early to try and get in early, and I don't remember much about the drive back until we hit the Interstate just north of Schaumburg, where an ex-Marine Illinois State Trooper pulled us over because he didn't see any license plates. When he saw the applied-for paper in the windshield it pissed him off and he gave us the tirade we were backing up traffic for miles and kicked us off the Interstate for no good reason, other than we offended his sensibilities.

On the highway we now had to use, there was a Schaumburg Policeman waiting for us, who pulled us over again, checked Chuck's license, the safety inspection sticker, then asked if Chuck had flares and reflectors. Well, actually Chuck DID have flares and reflectors, and the cop was REALLY pissed about that, so pissed I almost laughed, which would have been a BIG mistake, but he had to let us go, so we went and Chuck spent the rest of the trip going back to that supreme moment when the cop asked for them reflectors and Chuck said, "Sure," he had reflectors and dug them out of the panels boxes of the truck and fried the cop's ass.  

"He thought he had me when he asked for flares AND reflectors, Bill, but I had HIM on that one." For someone like Chuck who easily fixated, that was a big moment.

That was the first trip we made to Wisconsin, but it wouldn't be the last-- Chuck made at least two more trips up there in the Ivan Walker-- and all the trips were bizarre and incredible.

Jeff Paris is another old friend from Chuck's Prairie State College days who was impressed with Chuck's notorious skills in business and with beaters:

One time Chuck and I were relaxing in Haskell House, a converted residence serving as the office for our college newspaper. That year I was the editor of the paper and Chuck and I liked hanging out in the office when we ditched classes. The first Earth Day was coming up and we both wanted to do something special.

To help himself think, Chuck pulled out his flute and began improvising. I lay down on the floor and fell asleep, lulled by Chuck's melodious flute. When I woke up, the room had filled with people who'd heard the music coming from Haskell House. An accidental Pied Piper, Chuck had drawn in the people we needed to help us come up with an Earth Day event.

After some brainstorming we decided to do an anti-pollution movie. We had no funds to do it with, but we could all lay hands on 8mm movie cameras. Before the meeting broke up, Chuck delegated himself as the money man and left.

A couple of days later Chuck called me and said he'd figured out how to raise the money. He'd gotten hold of a student senate rule book and therein found the solution. He'd discovered that any campus club with a faculty sponsor and at least three members serving as club officers was entitled to $125 of the student senate's money. Chuck reasoned that if we formed five or six clubs, we could all belong to the different clubs, but in different capacities as club officers or members. The key was in getting sympathetic faculty sponsors to play along with the gag and to get our clubs recognized at the next senate meeting. If we missed that meeting, it would be too late.

Chuck wasn't interested in carrying through on the mundane details, so I took up that part. We managed to get our bogus clubs recognized and pooled the money to buy film and pay for processing. This was my first experience with Chuck's business skills.

Chuck directed the movie and worked one of the cameras. He also directed the post-production editing as well as organizing the music and time-synching the audiotape. The twenty-minute film debuted on Earth Day and over the course of the day was seen by more than 2,000 people. Some months later we mailed the movie and the audiotape to a production facility that was going to sound-stripe the film for us. Both were lost en route. Only a few still photographs remain.

When we'd completed the editing of our movie "Ugliness Kills," we were ready to do a soundtrack. The entire movie crew wanted to participate and we made arrangements to use some high-end audio equipment owned by the brother of the star of the movie. We all piled into a Volkswagen bus filled with stacks of records, musical instruments, slide projectors, and various pieces of audio gear. It was late in the evening when we left to get the taping equipment.

About halfway to our destination, the driver pointed out that a squad car had been following us for the last mile. It had been tailing us closely and wouldn't allow any cars to get between us. There was a sudden blur of activity as we all consumed whatever drugs we happened to be carrying. Once the drugs were ingested, we breathed a sigh of relief until one of our group blurted out that he'd brought along stolen audio-visual equipment.

While we were digesting that bit of news along with the drugs, the flashers on the squad car came on and we ended up being detained in a deserted parking lot. Within minutes we were surrounded by a collection of local, county, and state police. None of them would tell us why we'd been stopped. We were ordered to stay in the van but to leave all the doors open. We sat like that for quite some time, scared, cold, and blitzed on a variety of drugs.

"I'm bored!" Chuck complained. "Let's have a sing-a-long!" He launched into "Michael Row Your Boat Ashore," a song I knew he absolutely hated. Giggling like nervous schoolgirls, we all joined in. The half-dozen or so cops looked tense for a few moments as guitars were twanged and various musical instruments began appearing from bags and pockets, but then they relaxed and began to laugh as we serenaded them.

Halfway through "Kumbaya," we found out why we'd been stopped. A very pissed off state trooper screeched into the parking lot and stomped over to the van. "These aren't the guys," he said, turning on his heels and leaving. It turned out that some criminal types in a van just like ours had tried to kill him with a shotgun during a traffic stop. That night, anyone unlucky enough to own a red VW van had been stopped and surrounded by cops.

Before he let us leave, the officer who first stopped us began asking questions, but he was more interested in what we were up to than in busting us. Like the other cops, who were now waving goodbye to us as they left, he'd been disarmed by Chuck's impromptu hootenanny. Within minutes we were on our way again, in search of the nearest restroom.

Chuck's luck with policemen didn't always work. One time, giving the finger to an impatient driver honking his horn behind him at a stoplight, Chuck didn't bother to look back at who was honking. Two very irate cops stopped his car and cited him for a variety of safety violations before giving him a lecture on the dangers of flipping the bird at armed policemen.

At the time, Chuck never owned a car that had any business being on the road. One summer day Chuck called me and asked if I could help him run an errand. He wanted me to follow him to an auto junkyard. His latest car had developed suspension problems and he wanted to be rid of it.

I had a firm policy of never getting into any of Chuck's cars, standing still or moving. They were instruments of imminent disaster. So when he called I tried to beg off, figuring the safest place to be was always two highways away from the one Chuck was driving on. Chuck was a hard man to say "no" to, and I ended up at his house inspecting the ailing deathmobile.

The deathmobile was of unknown origin. The word "collage" comes to mind, as it seemed to be constructed of disparate car parts. It looked Japanese and there was a Datsun logo on one side panel, but the hood ornament belonged to an Alfa-Romeo, if I recall correctly. A sea of rust, all the car panels had detached from their welds.

When Chuck engaged the engine, I was surprised not only that it started, but that the engine sounded good. Chuck floored the accelerator a few times and, tires squealing, headed off to the junkyard with me following behind. When he swung onto a curving expressway ramp, I was amazed to see the body of the car shifting left while the frame and wheels went right. Everything settled back into place once he had it pointing straight. He drove fast for several miles before veering off of the expressway. This time everything shifted in the opposite direction.

A half-a-mile short of the junkyard and going about thirty miles an hour, the deathmobile suddenly dropped its nose while dark smoke started pouring from the wheel wells. Chuck managed to get it stopped and when I came up to see what had happened, he was laughing and pointing at the shock absorbers and mounts, now protruding about four inches through the top of the rusted front panels. The smoke came from the tires rubbing against the car body.

Undaunted, he jumped back in and drove slowly to the junkyard, thick clouds of dark smoke trailing behind. When we arrived, Chuck tried to turn into the entrance only to find that his car no longer turned. The junkyard had to use its tow truck to bring it in the last hundred feet. When Chuck asked the yard manager how much he could get for the deathmobile, the man, shaking his head in disbelief, replied "Well, after we deduct the towing fee, I figure you owe US about twenty bucks."

* * *

Not long after Chuck and I began to hang out together, he introduced me to an extraordinary woman named Ursula. Ursula had bought a farm in northern Wisconsin and was getting ready to move there. She invited us to visit.

Some weeks later Chuck and I drove up to her place, expecting a few days of pastoral bliss in the northern woodlands. What we got was three days of backbreaking toil and some of the best cooking on the planet, prepared by Ursula on her wood-burning stove; fueled by logs chopped to perfection by Chuck.

It wasn't all work though, and Chuck and I did find time to do some exploring. On our first trip into Hurley, Wisconsin, we stopped for a burger at a local diner. The native telegraph was up and running. Soon we were surrounded by a group of curious teenagers who'd never seen the likes of us before. Chuck, hair and beard a maelstrom in red, his barrel chest thrust out, drew most of the attention. He was a true exotic in their eyes. Not only did he look like a crazed hippie but he was a rock musician too! In the early seventies Hurley was a cultural backwater. As one of the boys said in answer to Chuck's question about what they did to entertain themselves: "We drink beer and fuck. Sometimes we go out to the dump and watch the bears feed on garbage."

Some years later we found that boy's answer to be true. Curious about the bears, a group of us found ourselves on the access road to the dump. In every bush, on every tree leading into the dump, hung women's underwear and condoms.

Chuck and I became enamored with northern Wisconsin on that first visit. So much so that before we drove back to Illinois, we had Ursula's real estate agent show us some properties. We'd asked to see properties with houses on them, but didn't see anything we liked. Finally, the agent suggested we check out a piece of river property. It had no standing buildings, but it had three-quarters of a mile of river frontage along seventy-seven acres of meadow and woods.

Once we saw it, we knew we had to have it. The price was only a hundred dollars an acre, but at that time, those were big numbers to us. On the drive back, Chuck and I spun scenarios on how we could buy the property. Halfway down the length of Wisconsin, we realized that between us we'd never be able to raise the funds quickly enough.

By the time we reached Illinois, we'd worked things out. We would find land partners. Chuck had several friends who might be interested and I had a few friends who might go for owning land in Wisconsin. Within hours of our return, we were both evangelizing the glories of northern Wisconsin to our friends. Not too many days later, we all made the trek north. Prepped beforehand, the real estate agent took us on the same tour of disappointing properties, ending with the river frontage. We signed the contract and made a down payment the same day.

"We're land magnates now," someone said as we surveyed our new domain. "More like land maggots," Chuck joked, pointing at himself and our little ragtag group and then at some scruffy new owners cavorting in the meadow. And land maggots we remained, despite a changing roster of owners over the years.

Chuck retained his ownership in the land for quite a while, relinquishing it only when he finally realized his "hippie dream" of communal life would never come to pass, some 15 years later.

One of the things that attracted me to Chuck was his irreverence. It got him into trouble on a few occasions, especially as a kid-- like the time he hit the principal with a snowball. The resulting punishment (cooling his heels in the office) taught him to be more careful, and as an adult he was the ultimate diplomat. He was especially adept at handling fellow band members and assorted music biz types. Chuck had the uncanny ability to get people to do what he wanted them to, and make them think it was their idea.

Danny Goldberg is a prime example. Danny impressed Chuck with his sincerity and honesty like no other music executive had before. He wanted to record Shadowfax on his fledgling Gold Castle Records label. Despite having won a Grammy for Capitol, the band had lost their deal with them, and had subsequently put out The Odd Get Even on Private Music to lukewarm sales, and were having severe bouts of internal strife.

Chuck was having such a hard time keeping order that, once again, an outside producer had to be found for The Odd Get Even, an agonizing and frustrating situation for someone like Chuck who had worked so hard to keep it all together. As a result of the difficulty he was having getting the band to accept and "work up" his own compositions, Chuck vowed to do a solo project using all the material he had accumulated, and in Gold Castle he had seemingly found the ideal home for this project.

What Chuck didn't know at the time was that Gold Castle had never paid a cent in royalties to its artists, and when the time came to pay Chuck what was owed him for From A Blue Planet, his solo album, the label went bankrupt. Chuck was furious-- at Goldberg, but mostly at himself for trusting Goldberg in the first place. Then, he thought up a brilliant solution: he offered to take the thousands of CD's and tapes of Blue Planet that he discovered existed as stock at the warehouse in lieu of the owed royalties. Goldberg accepted, and they managed to part on fairly good terms, although Chuck remained bitter about the experience for a long time. So bitter that when we saw Goldberg at the Grammies a few years later, haggling with an usher about changing his seats (they had placed Goldberg in the back of the Shrine orchestra section along with the rest of us "peons"), Chuck was delighted at Goldberg's obvious upset.

Phil Maggini remembers another time right after signing the deal with EarthBeat! Records when he and Chuck went out to grab a bite at Louise's on Ventura Blvd. in Sherman Oaks. As they stood at the bar drinking wine, who should walk in but Goldberg. Chuck, without missing a beat, went right over and shot the shit with him for a few minutes as Phil muttered expletives under his breath. When Chuck came back to join Phil, he commented that they had exchanged pleasantries, and although it was tense, they had smiles on their faces when done. Phil said it was a lesson in maintaining bridges that he never forgot.

And, Danny never forgot Chuck for his grace in handling the Gold Castle debacle. After Chuck's death he sent a ten thousand dollar check to me and my sons with a letter which read:  

Chuck was unbelievably kind and gracious to me during the Castle Records period which was a very costly and embarrassing business failure for me that was the low point of my career. There was no other artist who had the kind of personal sensitivity he had to me. I never felt I really earned the friendship he showed me but I certainly appreciated it. Knowing what a lovely person he was, I am sure he is surrounded by light.

How odd that, although I listen to our local NPR station only occasionally, I find myself hearing a recap of this year's Grammies and how winning one does not ensure wealth, and who should be interviewed but Danny Goldberg. He was speaking philosophically about being canned from his latest executive job running Polygram, sounding not the least perturbed, knowing that in the true tradition of the music biz, he would soon find himself recycled into another CEO job. Such is the music biz, which has it's own form of karmic entropy.

The World According to Chuck  

• Never burn your bridges.
• You can catch more flies with honey than with shit (on his tactic of dealing with me, especially. That, and tapping on my teeth. How can you stay mad at someone who taps on your teeth?)
• There's nothing that a bottle of Crown Royal won't cure (from old friend Paul Russo).
• You can live in your car but you can't drive your house (in reference to the importance of having a good set of wheels-- from Cash McCall).
• Don't do anything that might prevent you from looking at yourself in the mirror the next morning.
• Sometimes you don't have to get out of bed for the shit to fall on you (from "Old Herb").
• Shit fills a vacuum.

Chuck's music was perhaps inspired by nature as much as anything else. He did enjoy living and walking in the mountains and trees, so long as he didn't have to work too hard at getting there. One day I forced him to hike up the trail that leads from a nearby campground to a midpoint where there is a spectacular view of the Central Coast. After huffing and puffing the few miles of switchbacks to this view, we stopped to gaze out over the verdant hills and azure ocean beyond. I exclaimed to him, "Now, wasn't that worth it?" With his inimical humor he replied, "Yes, but if you could just airlift me here and let me walk down it would be better." But, he did appreciate nature, however oddly he expressed it, as in an early Eco-Eco composition:

And Chuck could be moved to song by a beautiful view. I'll never forget the first time we drove up the road from Lihue to Hanalei in Kauai. As we rounded the last bend before being greeted by that magical vista of craggy mountains dropping majestically to the bay, Chuck suddenly broke out into a rendition of Bali Hai that was saved from potential corniness by his hilarious falsetto, complete with vibrato. Longtime friend Nancy Kulp, who was traveling with us, and I immediately cracked up and giggled the rest of our way to Princeville where we were staying that trip. It was only one of many times that Chuck made me laugh so hard I wet my pants and got tears in my eyes. I still do, only the tears now are not from laughter.  

As Nancy says:

I could write a book,

but these are my special memories of that

unique, one-in-a-million man,

Chuck Greenberg.

a musical genius, a pioneer,

one of the great characters of the world,

a good father and husband.

 

I remember:

how the emerging group Shadowfax were all such good friends to me, like brothers,

in Illinois in the '70s

Chuck, Stu, G.E., and Phil

I loved them all in magic, eerie ways;

they haunt me still.

(isn't it a miracle to keep friends for over 20 years?)

 

I was there when...

this Grammy-winning group was just newly beginning,

being created in a grand old farmhouse in the Midwestern corn fields

called the Triple B Ranch.

(Maybe dreams do sometimes come true.)

Chuck lived for his dreams and music,

A true, dedicated artist.

I often felt our human, humdrum, everyday life

was too much,

or not enough for him.

 

I remember:

Chuck as an amazing Christmas tree one Halloween;

we plugged in his lights and he was the

Smash of the Party.

Chuck, when he got his first apartment,

inviting Curtis and me to celebrate with baloney sandwiches

and champagne.

Chuck, then later vegetarian, absolutely wrecking our kitchen,

cooking an incredibly

delicious meal.

Chuck, who felt the magic of Kauai, Hawaii

with many happy escapades to Paradise

(and only he could express it in his own, inimitable, dramatic way

singing Bali Hai to the green majestic mountains.)

Chuck, who always made me laugh

and be glad to be alive, what a gift.

 

I heard a jazzy blues song the other morning, a Keep on Truckin song and I thought it

would be a perfect way for Chuck to go out...

a great celebration down the streets, New Orleans-style.

(Imagine him now connecting and communing

with all the musical greats

in all walks of music,

who have gone before him,

jamming in the Great Beyond!)

 

Ha! I like to think of myself as the #1 Shadowfax fan,

and I always will be, you know...

Their music is in my head

and their pictures are all around;

they are a part of me.

 

We mourn and grieve the loss of this incredible man,

our dear, departed friend...

too soon, too soon.

 

Chuck will live on in all of us

(especially Joy, Maceo, Greg, and Gian, who collectively are one of

Chuck's greatest creations.)

His vivid, vital spirit will never fade.

 

Chuck will live on in all of us,

and for this we are grateful.

Others have described a special harmony with the outdoors that they feel when listening to him. From one of our neighbors came this message, "...when we go out in the afternoon and sit on our deck, we will think of Chuck. We will miss his music filling our little valley. We will listen for him in the wind, and the sounds of nature."

Jaegs and I are walking briskly through Times Square after parking his Honda in Midtown Manhattan, having left the relative tranquility of his upper Hudson Spuyten Duyvil apartment on our way to meet Mindy for lunch. The three of us are old friends from our Columbia days of thirty years (can that be?) past. They stayed, I left, but have returned for a visit.

POWER WALKING more aptly describes our activity, since I have rediscovered that speed, or PACE, is what it's all about when negotiating the streets of New York City. Keeping up with everyone is paramount; once you begin to lag you're doomed. We arrive at a crosswalk as a caravan of pushcarts charges through the intersection. "Move dat fuckin' shit, Eddie!" yells the guy at the end. Is this scene being staged by Woody Allen for my benefit? It couldn't get any more quintessential NYC than this, I think to myself.

The perennial plight of the out-of-towner takes on Goliath proportions in Gotham City. Although it is a hot summer day, in my pastel shorts outlet outfit with the Jones NY tags, I am DEFINITELY out of place amongst the blacks and browns of the locals. If I want to avoid The Tourist Look, I'll have to change my wardrobe.  

The other thing I notice immediately as being different from the last time I lived here is the ubiquitous cell phone. Street telecons still strike me as perverse and, one would think, taboo-- like relieving oneself in public. I giggle surreptitiously as I stroll along, the unwilling eavesdropper on what sounds like a lawyer's pleading with an errant client while charging ahead of me and a Wannabe Big Shot trying to look and sound important as she waits at the crosswalk. I wonder if cell phones have cut down on jaywalking in the Big Apple. It seems risky to me to engage in both activities simultaneously, but what do I, a hick from the sticks of California, know?

No matter how I might try, I still don't fit in. Sting's song pops into my mind:

Despite the cultural assault, or perhaps because of it, there is still something strangely familiar about being here, and a frisson of exhilaration shivers through me. It is the cerebral stimulation created by being with extremely intelligent people that I miss the most about The City. It would have been fun being here with Chuck.

Chuck and Shadowfax played here many times and were always well-received.

I am reminded of what ShadowFan/Reviewer Randy Kaplan wrote just after Chuck died:

I must once again reiterate just how much Chuck's music meant to me. It is so much more than just audio stimulation-- it is a completely engrossing assault on the senses. I could tell you about the first time I caught the band live at Hofstra University here on Long Island-- that was ten years ago-- and my life has been changed ever since.

Since then, I have never missed a show in the NY area. Over the years Chuck and the rest of the group provided the soundtrack for my life (my parents can attest to this). From time to time, I used to love calling Chuck, to see what was happening and to hope that he would say that Shadowfax would be touring soon. He was great; he knew how much our conversations meant to me! To me, this was like having Paul McCartney's or John Lennon's phone number.

On tour last year the band played a tiny dinner theatre on the Hudson River in upstate NY. The place held only 40 people. Now naturally you know who was in the best seat. When the band came in Chuck said, "This is great! We feel like we are playing in Randy's living room!" I have turned so many people on to him through my reviews-- we will all miss him terribly. 

Another highlight was seeing Russ and Patricia Davis, my newest NY friends. Russ interviewed Chuck one time and, unlike many "radiopukes" (as Chuck called them), Russ is a genuine, wonderful guy. Chuck even invited Russ and his wife Patricia to visit us in California, a highly unusual phenomenon. Chuck invited only those in the biz he took a genuine liking to. We've been friends ever since. As Russ says:

I first met Chuck about a decade ago when he and the other members of Shadowfax bounded into my radio control room in Atlanta.

I already knew that their music was totally unique and I was soon to find out how equally unique the music makers were as well.

Chuck did most of the talking, and with the gleam of a Christmas elf in his eye, he drew me into the magic of his musical dreams.

In the almost 25 years of my radio career I have met and interviewed hundreds of artists. I can count on one hand the number that I could call a true friend. Chuck was one of them.

I know he has left us far too early, but at least we can be sure that he has left us with so much more than most people ever dream of accomplishing. He was the most serious of composers and musicians, but never seemed to take himself or the work too seriously.

He was an innovator with his groundbreaking work with the Lyricon and the hybrid of music he created fusing blues, jazz, rock and international influences, but at the same time he captured the essence of what it means to be a musician when he played. He was one person, one instrument, truly emoting.

If Chuck could tell us now what he loved the most about his life, it would be his family. His love for Joy and the boys is legendary. I never once spoke with him without him mentioning them. I was forever receiving a picture commemorating the latest escapade of his wonderful clan. Word has it that my family was started in the room Chuck used as his personal home studio. It's a magical place, that house in California!

Chuck was a man with infinite creativity, and endless joy for life. A man with a perpetual smile on his face and a story to tell. He was also a friend anyone would want to have. Who else could give you a package filled with their own award-winning jam as a holiday gift? When I say Chuck was the kind of friend that would give you the shirt off his back, I mean it. I once admired a T-shirt from his radio station, K-Otter. He took it off and gave it to me on the spot!

The last time I saw Chuck was last summer ('94) when Shadowfax performed for CD 101.9's outdoor concert series in the plaza at the base of the twin towers of the World Trade Center. The band was marvelous that day. There were thousands of people there, some of whom were probably hearing Shadowfax for the first time. I looked in their faces as much as I watched Chuck. The crowd belonged to him and he knew it. The spirit created by the music was wonderful. That moment is the one I will choose to remember Chuck by.

I'm going to close now and go listen to The Dreams of Children. I've played that song on the radio and had people call in tears, remarking on its beauty. I'm sure I will cry now too, but at the same time I will smile as I count myself among the lucky ones who were touched by one of the kindest, friendliest, most talented people in the world, one who has left me with such rich and wonderful gifts. Thank you, Chuck, your spirit lives on forever! 

Of course, what Russ didn't mention was the turn Shadowfax's course had taken in the '90s. Once the darlings of alternative radio in their heyday of the '80s, they had been forced, again, to survive the vicissitudes of commercial radio, which became vehicles for mass marketing as never before with the advent of dj-less programming. The music of Shadowfax never did and never will fit neatly into a "genre." However, modern radio programmers insist on categorizing music. If it cannot be categorized, it cannot be played on most radio shows. And, as any recording artist can tell you, without airplay, it's virtually impossible to "move units."

Besides airplay difficulties, Shadowfax was once again going through personnel transition. Charlie Bisharat, the energetic, highly talented violinist in his early twenties who had more than compensated for the void created when Jamii left, had abruptly abandoned the band following the release of The Odd Get Even. Coming from a classically trained background, he had had the virtuosic chops to perform to the high expectations of The Chicago Four, and his Middle Eastern good looks enhanced their stage presence as well. He had become an adept showman, jumping into the audience with his violin on occasion, and performing "face-off" duets with Chuck on stage.

Charlie opted for a series of better-paying gigs with whatever New Age flavor-of-the-month offered the best fees. Although he remained on friendly terms with Charlie, Chuck was hurt by his defection. He had difficulty understanding how any right-minded musician could prefer playing the drivel that Charlie was doing as part of the backup bands for Yanni, Kitaro and John Tesh even if it meant more money. In Chuck's eyes, Charlie had prostituted himself. Of course, he was not the only musician ever to do so. Chuck knew he couldn't expect others to take the "vow of poverty" required for working with a band that refused to consciously commercialize itself. Still, Chuck had thought Charlie was different.

Dave Lewis had lasted longer than Charlie, but was eventually fired when personal problems interfered with his performing and ultimately proved insurmountable. The last straw was the disgraceful California gig where Dave literally forgot what he was playing and how to play it, an occurrence that was becoming all too frequent, and worsening. Chuck took the opportunity of a lapsed recording contract with Private Music to let Dave go.

The Odd Get Even on Private Music featured a fine collaborative effort, yielding my all-time favorite Shadowfax tune, A Pause in the Rain. However, just when Chuck thought he'd experienced the worst label possible, along came EarthBeat! Records. A subsidiary of Music for Little People, EarthBeat! was attempting to become known with a catalog of "World Music." Although well-meaning in intent, EarthBeat! did not appear to have the slightest clue how to cultivate artists or create recordings. They did, however, manage to release two acclaimed Shadowfax albums, Esperanto and Magic Theater, the former garnering a Grammy nomination for Best New Age Album in 1993.  

Through one-time Shadowfax Road Manager Jonathan Collins Chuck met keyboardist Armen Chakmakian, who remembers the first time Chuck came to his house wearing the James Brown mask he had created from a record cover photo of "The Hardest Working Man in Show Biz" which Chuck and I and the rest of our "krewe" had worn for a San Luis Obispo Mardi Gras parade. Chuck had displayed the same mask at the first meeting he'd had with the EarthBeat! heads, an act he felt had helped seal the deal since it broke the ice at what had begun as a strenuously serious conference.

Armen proved to be an engaging stage presence, a compatible mesh with Stu and Phil, and a prolific writing partner with Chuck. Through him, two new, young musicians entered the fold: Ramon Yslas and Andy Abad, adding percussion and guitars, respectively. Chuck, Stu and Phil referred to them as "The Kids" because of their youth and inexperience. In fact, Chuck liked to joke that Armen, Andy and Ramon should pay HIM for all the recording and touring "lessons" they learned with Shadowfax. Their presence infused the band with new life and their ethnicity and instruments added even more diversity to a band already known for its eclecticism, a trait that was especially highlighted on stage.

Shadowfax had always been a "musician's band" whose talents as performing artists transcended even their remarkable recordings. For this reason, Chuck had long wished to record a "live" album, but, due to the negative commercial appeal of most live albums, all the labels including EarthBeat! passed on his proposal. Thus it was that in 1994 Chuck found himself once again label-hopping.

As clueless as EarthBeat! had been, Sonic Images was even worse. Besides failing to provide us with record sales statements since 1995, they gave Chuck a beautiful table with an image of the "Live" album cover printed on top, then asked us to "share" it with the rest of the band! When Chuck pointed out the logistic difficulties (it had cost us $150 just to have it shipped from L.A. to our home near San Luis Obispo) of such a request, they suggested having us keep it for a month or so, then sending it to another band member who would do likewise until it had "rotated" through the entire band!

The Live album would be Chuck's last recording, culled from performances at now-defunct Palookaville in Santa Cruz, California, in January, 1995. Ironically, it was on Santa Cruz Island, off the coast of Central California, where Chuck suffered a massive heart attack and died on September 5, 1995.  

Today I went looking for the spare set of car keys. First, I looked in the drawer where I last remembered seeing them. No luck. I wracked my brain, an activity which becomes increasingly difficult as the years progress, wondering if I had "hidden" them in such an obscure place that even I could not recall where. This has become an all-to-familiar situation for me: not remembering where I've secreted various items.  

A few months ago I had hidden all car keys from my eldest son as punishment for some now-forgotten nefarious deed on his part. I could now account for all sets of keys for my son's car, but only one set for mine. Becoming more and more frustrated, I looked into the headboard cabinet behind what was once Chuck's side of the bed. No keys, but several books, including his John Berryman collection.

Chuck was a die-hard Berryman fan. In fact, an ideal date for him during our "courtship" was to hold me captive in bed drinking sparkling wine, often Freixenet, which could be had for three bucks a bottle at Trader Joe's in those days, reciting, or forcing me to read, passages from Dream Songs.  

Was it ever possible to "just say no" to Chuck during these times?  

G.E.:  

I remember being in his apartment with a bunch of his friends in Chicago while he recited something from Dream Songs, all of us stoned out of our minds on pot, a common occurrence in those days. Chuck had ranted about how great Berryman was, going on and on, and finally forced us to listen while he dramatically read an excerpt. I remember having the same experience I had with anything when I was high, total absorption and floating in the words like music. When he was finished, Chuck looked at us, waiting for a response, and Phil said something like, I don't know, it's too abstract. I like Bukowski better.

Of course, who knew if this were the truth or just an attempt to torture Chuck, which was one of the things that we often indulged in, like the evil adolescents that we were. I piped right in saying something that yanked Chuck's chain even more. Naturally, Chuck totally cooperated in the process, denigrating himself verbally and torturing himself physically by smashing beer cans on his forehead. It was one of the things that made Chuck such a lovable and infuriating person: he wasn't that serious about many things, even the stuff he was serious about.

And, next to the bed this now-tattered Dreams still resides along with the only hardbound of the batch, Recovery. I recognized it as one I had found for Chuck at a Cal Poly book sale years ago when I was taking classes there.

Although I knew that the "recovery" Berryman referred to is through the 12-Step AA Program, I wondered if there might be something of value in it for me, in what has become a rather lengthy recuperation from injuries sustained in a fall down some concrete stairs two weeks ago. And I also wondered if there was anything about grief recovery that relates to alcoholism recovery. I don't know yet. I keep getting stuck on Step Two: "Came to believe that a Power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity."

My unwavering agnosticism prevents me from acknowledging with any certainty A Greater Power. If I were an alcoholic, would this revelation deem me untreatable? Is that why Berryman killed himself, i.e. the discovery that he was doomed to an interminable repetition of increasingly damaging binges until they finally killed him? Is this lack of conviction in God what is prolonging (or so it seems to me) my grief recovery? After five years of Chuck's absence, there are still so many instances of total, abject misery. Too many instances. Not surprisingly, today is one of them, for it is the anniversary of his death.

As I get sucked into reading, I discover that, in actuality, Berryman's Recovery protagonist (in thinly disguised autobiography) professes to be stuck on Step One: "We admitted that we were powerless over alcohol-- that our lives had become unmanageable." In other words, until alcoholics accept the impotence of their condition, they cannot get well. But, of course, that amounts to the identical deduction from getting stuck on Step Two, does it not?

After all, stuck is stuck.  

I distract myself from this reverie by contemplating how Chuck is still broadening my horizons, despite his physical absence. That's why I can't yet bring myself to clean out all his possessions from our bedroom, including the books and junk behind the headboard drawer. I keep thinking I'll want something, or our boys will. They already have discovered items of interest: when one was in need of a clean shirt recently, I invited him to go through his dad's stuff. He found a short-sleeved Hawaiian button-down that looks great on him. Looked good on his dad, too, for that matter. Who knows what other retro gems might be lurking amongst his things?  

It has been years now, and Chuck still receives the most mail. It amazes me that merchandisers update their records so slowly (like never?).

Although, with supreme irony, the life insurance peddlers rank right up there at the top of the most tenacious list, the worst offender is the bank. It has been sending statements to Chuck throughout the five years he's been gone, and today I received a new credit card in his name. I have called them and written numerous times, beseeching them to change their records. They keep promising and failing. In fact, the rep who called recently, responding to a couple of illegitimate debits, asked for Chuck, even though my own name, not his, was very clearly written on the letter I had mailed. I, once again, had requested that they remove Chuck's name from their records in the same letter.

I practically hung up on this bank guy because such requests for Chuck usually signal a tele-solicitation. When I'm in a better mood, I get a perverse satisfaction out of telling solicitors, "I'd LOVE to let you speak to Chuck, however, it will be a little difficult since I haven't been able to hook a phone line up to his ashes."

It also amazes me how a dead person can seem more "alive" than a living being. Chuck certainly exists in reality for these Moneymen. But I, apparently, died with him, as far as they're concerned. The guys in Shadowfax may have lost their careers when their bandmate and ad hoc leader died, but I lost my identity.  

Now that I think of it, Chuck's name was always listed first on all the legal documents. What's up with that? Why do husbands get priority over their wives? I'm not pleased with the answer that's formulating in my mind. Well, yes, SOMEONE'S name has to be first. I suppose that women must apply for credit alone if we want to avoid economical anonymity. But, how long will it take the banks to figure out that I've been managing my finances just fine, thank you very much, without (gulp!) a husband!

Somehow, inextricably intertwined with placing the man's name first must exist a built-in societal deferment to men, as feminists have been saying all along. I became conscious of this deferment at an early age when my dad began to give me advice about how to attract the opposite sex.

"Whatever you do, NEVER, EVER beat them at anything," he would tell me during heart-to-heart conversations that frequently occurred while hiking together. However, he encouraged me to participate in the Math Contest my freshman year of high school. Then, after placing first, he watched me suffer ignominiously from lack of dates for the next four years. My mantra could have been:

The upside to the Men First issue is that, no doubt from guilt about their unearned superior status, they give us "women and children first" into the lifeboats. Fortunately, neither I, nor any woman I know, has ever been able to take advantage of this "privilege," and if I am to believe Titanic, not all men adhere to this "rule" anyway. But, male entitlement does not mean I blame men. After all, if I were male, I'd probably feel complacent about my superior status also.

In hindsight, it is doubtful I would have done things differently, although if I had not met Chuck or someone equally philogynistic I probably would never have married. I made a conscious choice to wed Chuck and take his name. The truth is, married women ARE treated differently (better) than singles by men and society-at-large. We ARE culturally defined by our men, or lack thereof.

At first, following my union with Chuck, the change in others' attitudes was barely perceptible, and then I noticed that strangers, such as the auto mechanic, were more respectful, as if I were someone to be reckoned with. Better service this lady properly or Mr. Hubby will come after me like a pit bull they seemed to project on these occasions.

Another, subtler, difference was the gradual merging of my identity into that of my husband's. I became part of the Chuck Greenberg Entity. And when that entity has celebrity status, another variable is factored into the social equation. I was always thrilled to bask in Chuck's limelight and live vicariously through his achievements. Unfortunately, when the Chuck Greenberg Entity lost Chuck, I became a nonentity.

Yet, I don't blame Chuck-- I was a willing participant in supporting him in his rise to fame, something he handled so well, according to all who knew him, like his old friend Dick Howard:

Chuck's presence was always pretty much the same whenever I think of him at whatever stage in our lives. That presence was relaxed, accepting, open, always smiling, frequently with a sly and ingratiatingly devious undertone to that smile. If I can think of any difference in the Chuck I knew from freshman year in high school and the adult Chuck, it would be that the slyness in the wry smile was deeper.

I have always fancied myself to be something of an iconoclast. Fame, a major American religion, is something that I take great pleasure in demeaning. My few encounters with the rich and famous have been opportunities for me to take thinly veiled shots at the unexpecting boobs. Chuck handled his notoriety with such aplomb, really cool. I mean, he didn't change at all from that guy who used to show up at my basement parties where we'd all worry about whether anyone would give us a break during spin the bottle.

He just really seemed to be doing a bang-up job of having a good life, and unlike George Bailey, didn't need a sappy movie to remind him.

Funny thing, It's a Wonderful Life was one of Chuck's favorite movies. On more than one occasion he rounded up all our holiday guests and forced us to view it with him, much the same as he forced us to hear John Berryman's poetry.

Thus in mortal life was Chuck schlepping us on an eternal adventure. He guides me still with his spiritual presence-- in fact he is a regular inhabitant of my dreams-- of ALL our dreams, including the boys in the band. Stu says he also dreams a lot about Chuck:

I just get the feeling he's still watching out for me. One of the funniest dreams I had was one in which we were doing an Shadowfax record. Peter Gabriel and Eric Clapton showed up and were freaking out over the great drum part. Chuck had to tell him that it was a part Phil programmed on a drum machine. In real life Phil used to drive me crazy with his parts. We'd start with his drum machine part, then he'd make me go through every possible variation of it and would always go back to his original part...EVERY TIME!  

Another funny dream was when Chuck just showed up. I told him that we all thought he was dead, had a funeral and everything. He said, "I told Joy I'd have to be gone for a few months on business..."

I have this dream, too. Chuck shows up long after we've become accustomed to his absence, acting like nothing's unusual; he's merely returned from an extended road trip. In others, I get the distinct feeling he IS watching out for us, like the one in which the two of us are inside a meat locker not unlike the infamous Satriale's Restaurant in The Sopranos. Chuck's telling me that he's purchased all these carcasses hanging from the ceiling for us. I protest, "But, Chuck, you don't even EAT meat!"

"Yeah," he says, "But, I got such a deal." Isn't it amazing how our dreams seem to synthesize the mundane details of our collective consciousness and subconsciousness: our hopes, fears, laughs, and loves.

He inhabits our waking hours, too. Phil claims to have regular conversations with him, especially when he's had a few drinks of the Crown Royal I send him for his (their) birthday, as per Chuck's will instructions. The birthday after Chuck's death he sent me a pencil portrait of Chuck playing recorder. He is a young Chuck-- one of the few times during his life he wore contacts instead of his trademark spectacles. He's also an hirsute Chuck. I am reminded of the story about Chuck's dad calling him "The Hairy Bastard" during this phase, and I laugh. That's a good sign-- that I can time travel down Memory Lane and not focus entirely on The Sadness.

Phil taped the following note to the back of the drawing:  

This is the first birthday in 28 years that I've had to spend without my life's friend and brother. I miss him every day, but somehow today brought it all back again. This drawing was a way to spend a few hours with Chuck. I sat out on the deck, poured us each a drink, and had a nice long talk with him. I let him know that I was keeping my eye on you guys, and that we were all working on finding our balance. I know he was with me there as he is with us all, always. 

G.E. is trying to find his balance, too. He thinks:  

It helps to know that in some way I will never really get over the loss of Chuck and our band. It's not possible for me to lose someone or something that means that much and not grieve for the loss of that person or that relationship. I think this will be an ongoing process.

What has helped me most is looking into the questions, 'What is suffering?' 'What is the nature of suffering?' 'What is the cause of suffering?' These are the questions that fueled the Buddha in his search for an understanding of his life and it's circumstances. After many years, he came to the realization that we, as beings of ego consciousness, are the cause of our own suffering. This does not mean that painful things do not happen. Obviously, life is filled with suffering and loss. What we make of that suffering and loss determines the quality and value of our lives.  

You have three very obvious gifts that come from your love of Chuck and your life together: Maceo, Greg and Gian. As difficult as it is to raise three teenage boys alone, you are extraordinarily blessed. In the face of suffering or loss, it is often hard for us to see, but acting in the service of others is the only real purpose worthy of serious endeavor. You are already there. I know Chuck would be even more in love with you knowing how you have taken care of your sons. And who can say? Perhaps in some sense, Chuck does know. In remembrance of Chuck's death, I placed a picture of him on my altar in my bedroom and offered incense. This is my way of honoring him and reminding myself of how precious his life was and how precious our lives are.

And so Chuck has propelled us, however unwillingly, to embark upon yet another Wild Ride: Life Without Him. We have been given an opportunity for growth that would be difficult to acquire any other way, and, as long as we keep growing, I suppose we're not dying. It is at once terrifying and liberating.

Alex de Grassi, guitarist:

I'm going to miss you Chuck. Like you always said, 'We went to different schools together.' I'm going to miss your round red-haired head and your whole round self. Whether it was playing music, getting crazy, or making jam, as Miles Davis would say, you were "all up in it." So keep going Chuck! Wherever you are, go find us some more comedians, cooks, and musicians to make life worth living! 

G.E. Stinson, guitarist, founding member of Shadowfax:  

Even now, I am not sure Chuck was ever in complete control of the many things he "managed," but I have learned the utter necessity of chaos which was an everyday reality for Chuck. The chaos of being alive-- and he was so very alive. This may be the greatest lesson that he has taught me, but he has also left me with an understanding of what really matters-- friendship, humility, laughter, compassion, and community. The day of Chuck's memorial I learned about a man I did not know. A man who was like a second father to someone else's son. A man who was a caring and concerned neighbor. A man who loved children, and loved to play. A man who knew how to have fun!

Of course, I knew the Chuck who knew how to have fun. In fact, of all my many memories of Chuck, the most persistent is his laughter, his easy smile, his genuine sense of humor. Through all the adversity, pain and despair, I will remember Chuck laughing, and I will miss that laughter. I will miss that crooked smile of his.

Chuck has been my family and friend. And no matter what may have happened between us, my love for him was not diminished. I know this is true because of how much sorrow I feel now that he is gone. Having written that and knowing it is true, I also know that in another sense he is not "gone." Whatever it was that animated Chuck will never end. The memories may grow cloudy, the music may fade, but he will always be here with us.

Glenn Morrison, musician and longtime friend:

I quit playing music for some years, all the while staying in touch with Chuck. He would always finish the conversation with, "when are you going to play again, you fool?" and eventually I listened to him. I started playing again, he was happy. All this time I was following the progress of Shadowfax. I was hugely proud of Chuck, Phil and Stu, of all of their accomplishments. A Grammy, ten CD's-- but I was proudest of their unwillingness to compromise their convictions as creative musicians, to play from the heart, to create their music, not mimic others. What an incredible virtue.  

A couple of years ago, Chuck called me and wondered if I could play on their latest CD. Unbelievable-- me on a Shadowfax CD.

Was it OK with Phil and Stu? What a stupid question, Phil and Stu always made me feel a part of their musical family. I will never be able to describe the thrill I had in being with those guys on that day/night in Los Angeles. Chuck knew, he knew how exciting it was for me, and he gave me that opportunity. He could have asked anybody, but he asked me because he knew what happiness it would bring. I wonder if he knew just how much happiness he gave to others...?

What a special father. What was so special to me was Chuck's passion for his music and his incredible love for his family. I just wish I could have played in one of those Thanksgiving football games (the Turkey Bowls).  

He was so unselfish with his caring and sharing with others. He was so committed to his craft, so committed to his wife and children. How fortunate I will be if I touch one individual the way Chuck has touched all of us. His laughter, love of life, and dedication to his art will be with us always.  

When Chuck sent me the Magic Theater CD, he quoted a Stevie Winwood lyric from The Low Spark of High Heeled Boys in his note to me: "Once we were children playing with toys." In my life, Chuck, you were the greatest musical toy maker a kid like me could ever know. How special you were, how special you are, how special you will be. I think it's time for another Vienna Red Hot-- with peppers.

Joel Nakamura, artist:  

I never had the pleasure of actually meeting Chuck. But in a way I did through his music. I had the honor of visually interpreting two of Shadowfax's albums, Magic Theater and Live. Chuck's music touched me deeply, there is so much soul in it. I shall play Shadowfax often so Chuck's soul and spirit may continue to live through it.

Frank Warren, music columnist:

Though we only had met and talked on a few occasions, Chuck always treated me with great kindness, always offering a reflection on my most recent columns. I met Chuck while at Big Music, where we sold some of his records. He came into the record store not like the well-known and highly acclaimed Grammy Award winner he was, but like the fun-loving 'dad' I came to know him as.

Chuck was as active with his family and community as he was with being at the forefront of popular jazz recordings. Chuck and his wife Joy brought their sons when they judged the Mardi Gras parade; and I most recently visited with Chuck when he attended the Harlem Globetrotters game at Cal Poly with his terrific boys. He often asked about local musicians, clubs, and trends, demonstrating his interest in the place he loved so dearly, the Central Coast.

Before launching another tour last year, Chuck brought the band into Big Music for an afternoon concert. The stunning musicianship was overshadowed only by the leader's warm humor and animated rapport with the customers. It struck me then: it was obvious that the man was far greater than even his most brilliant music. There is an aspect of Chuck that People Magazine and most casual listeners will never know. I guess what I am trying to say is that though his music will, of course, live on forever, I will always remember Chuck in my heart by his smile.

Mardi Gras always brought out the best in Chuck. He could be entertaining and humorous without the usual pressure of performing. And he really got into the spirit, Party Animal such as he was. He dragged me down to the only costume shop in town to rent judges' robes and wigs. He also found a plastic gavel and chicken which he used as props during the parade.

Years later those James Brown masks came in handy once more, like the time he went in for a proposal meeting with the big guns at EarthBeat! Records. Knowing full well from past experience just how uptight these events can be, Chuck unexpectedly showed up wearing his mask, immediately breaking the ice-- and winning the contract.

Mark Bernstein, friend:  

I had known Chuck, it seems, forever-- which is almost true as we were in the same kindergarten class, attended the same high school, and saw each other thereafter whenever I was in Chicago, or whenever his band got to Ohio, where I live. We spent a fair amount of time together during Chuck's pizza-delivering days in Chicago Heights, when he was leading a band named K.O.Bossy and was chagrined when the company that put out the band's only album would not sign off on the title A Ten-Minute Break While We Bring in Fresh Cows, and I remember a trip the two of us and a friend of his named Kenny made one Fourth of July weekend to some land Chuck for a time owned near Lake Superior.  

It was incredibly hot, and as we scrambled around his land we got sticky and scratched up and decided that nothing on the planet would be more satisfying in that wholly vacant spot than to strip down and dive into the lake. Which we did, and from the exact instant the leading edge of our fingertips made contact with the surface of the lake, we knew we had made an irretrievable mistake. Nothing, nothing anywhere, is as cold as the water of Lake Superior, even on the Fourth of July.

Chuck and I did not see each other that often, but when we did, there was always an instant and strong connection. And when for whatever reason I would count up those people that I cared for, trusted and felt pleased to share the planet with, Chuck's name and face and humor and resilience and somewhat rueful smile would come immediately to mind.

I remember in particular a car trip he, I, and my then wife took from Ohio to New Orleans years ago one December, and of Chuck taking his instrument to play in a small unmarked club several blocks north of the tourist traps. I recall that he much wanted to play there with musicians he thought well of, but also how anxious he was to respect the fact that it was their stage, and he was not going to crash it, or seem to. And I think his sense of respect communicated itself-- that he was there for music, not to show off-- and he ended up playing with them and playing marvelously.

We cleared out of New Orleans before dinner on New Year's Eve, just a few hours ahead of the expected flood of Texans, heading to town for the Sugar (Cotton?) Bowl. As we headed for Chicago, it was 70 degrees and balmy. We reached southern Illinois at two a.m. in time for a horrendous snowstorm. At the best of times, southern Illinois is a rather desolate place, and now it was completely closed down. The only safe thing to do was to continue driving through the night at 20-25 miles an hour up the unplowed Interstate until we got to the city. My first thought on this excursion is that no minor disaster ever felt disastrous when Chuck was along.

Chuck was something of a lightning rod for other people's momentary crises. He was a good listener but a better friend, in that he listened in a way that suggested that this momentary crisis was just that, momentary, and that what mattered was something else.

Perhaps I dwell on this because in this aspect I was different from Chuck. I am prone to believe that whatever were the pending disasters imagined in my past-- however often they did not in fact come to pass, or weren't disasters when they did, or proved to be useful disasters-- nonetheless the disaster I face at the moment is a real one. And of course it's not. It's not the main thing. The main thing is to prize who you are and to have the courage to live. And this, Chuck did. He was a brave soul.  

Dru Markel-Bloom, friend:

Chuck was a wonderful human, an old soul, whose honesty, humor and loyalty I admire. I paint to his music and it has placed a charm over my studio. He was what he was, as honest as stainless steel, funny, kind, understanding. I have memories of his house in Crete, Illinois, overlooking a cornfield, and our upright piano in the corner (I will never know how he got it away from my mother) and Saturday night smoky jubilees, Chicago Heights style, at Luigi's. I remember shopping together at Army/Navy stores in Boston and his lectures on mucus-free dieting, which I must say were sweet, earnest and not a little bizarre. I remember his buying me cokes after Sunday School and his black and white photographs which were so lovely, so sentimental, even at thirteen.

He was such a friend to come and watch me perform, arriving in his tour bus up to an elementary school in the Boston suburbs. It was probably the most awful performance of my life, naturally, because he had made an effort to be there and I wanted it to be good. I remember being pregnant at his concert at the South Shore Music Circus and having the baby jump in time. I remember thinking how small the world was that he could be there, near my home, playing music, and wouldn't it be nice if he would just come on by for some Chinese food.  

He never stayed long. The last time I saw him was in Nashville at the 328 Performance Hall. He was feeling tired and hassled though his playing was full of energy. He was rising above squabbles among the band who were backstage, drying their hair and getting ready to leave town; he rose above it over a slice of lemon meringue pie and a salad. Even in that dark cement space, it was great to see him for ten minutes or so; then, he was off. So, I've been playing his music and it touches me with melancholy. I am attracted to the memory.  

He was the only person to call me my childhood nickname without a tease, and as an adult. That name coming from his mouth first startled, then bathed me in nostalgia. How could anyone have feelings of nostalgia about Park Forest? It was a featureless place.

But, when the wind blew around the corner of the building and bowed the grass, and Fall was in the air and we had cokes in our hands, all seemed right with the south suburbs. I felt his friendship and encouragement. I saw it in his eyes. He was going places.

He was the bravest of us all.

'FaxFan Feedback

Sheila Densmore:

Thank you for making such a wonderful site about Chuck! I have been a fan of Shadowfax's music for over ten years now and was DEEPLY saddened when I learned of his passing. I first discovered Shadowfax through the video In Concert and became a die hard fan of their music the first time I heard it.

There will always be a special place in my heart for Shadowfax's music that words cannot explain. The music that Chuck and the others created went beyond music for me-- it was an experience! The emotions and memories that their music created in me will be with me forever. I never had the opportunity to meet Chuck, but if I had I would have tried to say these things to him. Even though I never knew him personally I knew him through his music, and because he shared his music with the rest of us, I will always feel as though he was a friend.  

Thank you for giving me the opportunity to finally share these thoughts and feelings with someone else whose life was affected deeply by him.  

Just so you know, today is my birthday and knowing that I was finally able to share my thoughts and feelings about Chuck's music with you is one of the best birthday presents I could receive!

Chris McKee, on receiving an album from Variety Artists:  

Today (my Birthday) I received the copy of The Odd Get Even by Shadowfax that you so kindly sent. This is probably the most pleasant birthday surprise I have ever had! I don't know how I can possibly thank you. Your gesture has restored my faith in the human race. If there is anything that I could possibly do for you, here in England, then do not hesitate to contact me. 

Mike Fraire:

I also had a heart attack and it left me disabled. But I can still enjoy Great Music. This music is years ahead of the times and more people should enjoy it as a Gift of Life. 

Dan Cain:

Chuck's music was very emotional to me. Like life itself. Within the music's resonance ad tonal qualities I seem to sense the essence of life and death, joy and sorrow, love and pain and the secrets of creation for us all. Visual and emotional imagery wells up from within, striking chords of feelings and worldly experiences that all humans are familiar with from life. This seems to be the essence of all "New Age" music, but Chuck seemed to have a way to accentuate these emotional feelings in the music for the listener better than most composers into incredibly beautiful melodies and harmonies. I think his music should live on forever as 'classic' New Age music, for people to listen to and learn from, just as we have captured the music of all the traditional composers that were paramount in their time.

faxed from a 'FaxFan:

Saddened to hear of the loss of Chuck. I guess I am so out of touch with good music now that I'm married with children and career that it taken me almost four years to realize that one of the forces in my life has left us. Throughout the eighties no evening was complete without the sounds of Shadowfax on my record player. My son, now twenty, recently stated that he missed the "old days" when he'd ease to sleep to the sounds of Shadowdance, Angel's Flight, Ghost Bird, and my favorite Brown Rice among the others. Fortunately, my wife and I were able to enjoy Shadowfax at, I believe, the Sunrise Music Theater, in West Palm Beach. I think the year was 1987, but I could be wrong. What a night. I'll remember it always and I know I'll treasure my records for years to come. Chuck, we miss you.

SELECTED DISCOGRAPHY

WINDHAM HILL/'SANCTUARY' 1996 Windham Hill  

SHADOWFAX/'LIVE'** 1995 Sonic Images

SHADOWFAX/'MAGIC THEATER'** 1994 EarthBeat!/Warner Bros.

^SHADOWFAX/'ESPERANTO'** (Grammy Nominee) 1992 EarthBeat!/Warner Bros.

CHUCK GREENBERG/'FROM A BLUE PLANET'** 1991 Gold Castle/Greenshadow Music

SHADOWFAX/'WHAT GOES AROUND' ** 1991 Windham Hill

WINDHAM HILL, THE FIRST TEN YEARS** 1990 Windham Hill

^SHADOWFAX/'THE ODD GET EVEN' 1990 Private Music

WILLIAM ACKERMAN/'IMAGINARY ROADS' 1988 Windham Hill 

^SHADOWFAX/'FOLKSONGS FOR A NUCLEAR VILLAGE' 1988 Capitol (Grammy Award Winner)

SHADOWFAX/'TOO FAR TO WHISPER'** 1986 Windham Hill

A WINTER'S SOLSTICE** 1985 Windham Hill

SHADOWFAX/'THE DREAMS OF CHILDREN'** 1984 Windham Hill

^ROBIT HAIRMAN/'RESIDENT ALIEN' 1984 MCA

SHADOWFAX/'SHADOWDANCE'** 1983 Windham Hill

AN EVENING WITH WINDHAM HILL 'LIVE' 1983 Windham Hill

WILLIAM ACKERMAN/'PASSAGE' 1983 Windham Hill

SHADOWFAX/'SHADOWFAX'** 1982 Windham Hill

ALEX DE GRASSI/'CLOCKWORK' 1981 Windham Hill

Recordings marked with ** denotes those produced by Chuck Greenberg

Recordings marked with ^ denotes out-of-print albums

* * *

SELECTED URLS

Shadowfax Sites:

http://www.dol.net/~smith/shadow/index.htm (Steve Smith's Discography)

http://imusic.com/cgi-bin/bbs/bbs.cgi?x=shadowfax (Shadowfax Chatboard) 

http://www.geocities.com/BourbonStreet/Delta/4420/ Brandon Bankston's Official Shadowfax Fan Club Site

ftp://mirrors.aol.com/pub/music/artists/s/shadowfax/discog (Dave Datta's Discography)

Related Musicians:

http://www.chuckgreenberg.com (Chuck Greenberg)

http://userzweb.lightspeed.net/~gshadow/ (Chuck Greenberg)

http://www.truartrecords.com (Armen Chakmakian)  

http://members.aol.com/ninewinds/bios/stinson.html (G.E.Stinson)  

http://www.birdcagerecords.com/ge_014.html (G.E.Stinson)

http://lightbubble.com/bowed/szmad.htm (Jamii Szmadzinski)

http://www.humandrama.net (Jamii Szmadzinski)

http://www.stunevitt.com (Stuart Nevitt)

http://www.yslas.com (Ramon Yslas)

http://www.degrassi.com (Alex de Grassi)  

Labels and Vendors:  

http://www.dustbowlrecords.com/gallery.html#chuckgreenberg (sells From A Blue Planet)

http://www.windham.com (Windham Hill)

http://www.sonicimages.com (Sonic Images, sells Live CD)

http://www.wbr.com (Warner Brothers, sells Magic Theater)  

http://www.amazon.com (sells most CDs)

http://www.rhino.com (sells Live video)  

General Resources:  

http://www.allmusic.com/cg/x.dll

http://www.folklib.net/

PHOTO CREDITS

©2001, All Rights Reserved

Title Page: Shadowfax: the "Chicago Four" (l-r) Stu Nevitt, G.E. Stinson, Phil Maggini, and Chuck Greenberg, Santa Monica, courtesy of Windham Hill, 1982

Now I Know What Mingus Meant: [top] Shadowfax (l-r): G.E. Stinson, Stu Nevitt, Chuck Greenberg, Phil Maggini, Dave Lewis, Charlie Bisharat, Santa Monica, by Sam Emerson, courtesy of Windham Hill, 1985; [bottom] Will Ackerman and Chuck Greenberg, Seattle, by Jerry Howell, ca.1982

How We Met: Chuck Greenberg, Kauai, by Joy Greenberg, 1989

The Birth of Shadowfax: Original band members (l-r): Phil Maggini, Doug Maluchnik, Stu Nevitt, Chuck Greenberg, G.E. Stinson; Chicago, Joy Greenberg archives, ca.1974

The Infamous Triple B Ranch: Halloween party with (l-r) Warren Flaschen, Chuck Greenberg, Phil Maggini; Crete, IL, Joy Greenberg archives, ca. 1975

Rebirth: (l-r) First Windham Hill publicity still: Jared Stewart, Jamii Szmadzinski, Phil Maggini, G.E. Stinson, Chuck Greenberg, Stu Nevitt; by Frank B. Denman, courtesy of Windham Hill Records, 1982

The ECO-ECO Incarnation: The Cash McCall Band (l-r) G.E. Stinson, Phil Maggini, Cash McCall, Stu Nevitt, Chuck Greenberg; Pasadena, CA, by Pax Lemmon, 1981

The Windham Hill Connection: "An Afternoon with Windham Hill Live" at the Greek Theater, Berkeley: (far left) George Winston, (second from left) Michael Hedges, (third from left) Liz Story, (far right) Jared Steward (second from right) Stu Nevitt, (third from right) G.E. Stinson, (behind G.E.) Phil Maggini, (fourth from right) Will Ackerman, (behind Will, waving) Chuck Greenberg, (fifth from right) Jamii Szmadzinski, (sixth from right) Alex de Grassi, (seventh from right) Barbara Higbie; courtesy of Windham Hill, 1983

Boys Town: (l-r) Phil Maggini, G.E. Stinson, Chuck Greenberg; Illinois, by Bill Johnston, ca. 1974

Looks Like a Vacuum--Sounds Like Angels: Chuck demonstrating the Lyricon, Chicago, by Jeff Paris, ca. 1972

On the Road: Carnegie Hall posters, by Charlie Bisharat, 1985

On the 'Biz': A contemplative Chuck relaxing on Santa Cruz Island, by Joy Greenberg, 1994

Making Shadows Dance: [top] (l-r) Chuck Greenberg, Leonard Feather, G.E. Stinson, courtesy of Los Angeles Times, 1985; [bottom] Alfie listens as Chuck serenades him on the Lyricon, Six Flags Over Georgia, 1985

On the Road Again: [top](l-r) Chuck Greenberg, Phil Maggini, G.E. Stinson, Stu Nevitt, Jared Stewart; performing at Red Rocks, by Claudia Engel, 1984; [bottom] Chuck plays Lyricon while Alfie listens, Six Flags Over Georgia, Joy Greenberg archives, 1985

True Rumors: Chuck Greenberg performing on the Tomorrowland Stage at Disneyland, by Joy Greenberg, 1986

Tying the Knot: Chuck and Joy Greenberg, Los Angeles, by Ben Lesko, 1981

Winners and Losers: (l-r) Phil Maggini, Stu Nevitt, Chuck Greenberg, Charlie Bisharat, Dave Lewis; Grammy Awards, courtesy of NARAS, 1989

Loretta: (l-r) Shadowfax in Japan: Charlie Bisharat, G.E. Stinson, Chuck Greenberg, Harry Andronis, Royal Grandson & Granddaughter of Japan, Stu Nevitt, Phil Maggini, Dave Lewis; Tokyo, Joy Greenberg archives, 1985

Beaters: (l-r) "Three Musketeers": Chuck Greenberg, Bill Johnston, Phil Maggini; Wisconsin, by Jeff Paris, ca. 1974

Lessons: (l-r) Celebrating Hanukkah: Greg, Gian, Maceo and Chuck Greenberg; by Joy Greenberg, 1989

On Nature: Chuck Greenberg as a Christmas Tree, Triple B Ranch, Crete, IL, Joy Greenberg archives, ca. 1975

Spitin' the Devil in NYC: Last Shadowfax (l-r) Chuck Greenberg, Ray Yslas, Phil Maggini, Armen Chakmakian, Stu Nevitt, Andy Abad, by Ray Katchatorian, 1995

Lost Keys and Other Things: Chuck Greenberg in Illinois by Curtis Kulp, ca. 1972

Epilogue: pencil portrait of Chuck Greenberg by Phil Maggini, 1996

Tributes: Chuck and Joy Greenberg judging the San Luis Obispo Mardi Gras, courtesy of the SLO Tribune , 1993

About the Author: portrait by John Williams, 1999; giclée by Joy Greenberg, 2001

At the age of seven Joy Greenberg published her first story The Toy Soldier in her local newspaper, The Whittier News. After graduating from Barnard College in 1971 with a major in experimental psychology, minor in survival, she moved to San Francisco to do "graduate work in Living."

In order to finance her "studies," she accepted a job in publicity/public relations at the infamous O'Farrell Theater, home of the Mitchell Brothers Film Group. From there she moved back to Manhattan to work as a jewelry designer for David Webb Jewelers. Serendipity impelled her return to L.A. in the early '80s where she met and married Chuck Greenberg. Following the births of their three sons they built their home near San Luis Obispo, CA, where she currently resides and pursues her parenting, writing, teaching, and other creative endeavors.

Other works by Joy Greenberg include Artist in Search of Medium, a collection of humorous essays, to be published whenever she gets around to finishing it or whenever the demand for it inspires her, whichever comes first. She may be encouraged to this endeavor by e-mailing her at:

greenshadow@fix.net

or snail mailing:  

Greenshadow

POB 2525

Atascadero, CA 93423

SPECIAL OFFER: FREE CD OR AUDIOCASSETTE

For a limited time only, purchase this BOOK and receive a free CD or audiocassette: Chuck Greenberg's From A Blue Planet. For more information about Chuck's highly acclaimed and only solo recording, please visit:  

chuckgreenberg.com or write: Greenshadow Music POB 2525 Atascadero, CA 93423

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