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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,