Sorry Charlie's

In the early 90's at the bottom of Queen Anne hill in Seattle was a dive bar called Sorry Charlie's.

It was my favorite place. A pre-karoake karaoke bar.
Tacky decorations adorned faux wood lined walls.
The seating was fake tuck and roll leather left over from the rat pack generation.
The waitress was a midget (I know) with the attitude and temperament of a giant.
Behind the piano pulling on a cigarette and tipping a bourbon on the rocks was Howard Bulson.
He was bald.
He wore a suit.
He could play anything...off book...in any key.
He was genius.

He also wasn't always so friendly to those who wished to sing. He would help those struggling by changing keys, tempo, jumping to the next section if they forgot the bridge HOWEVER, if you couldn't hack it he'd shake his head and it was over.
To me, the man was magic.
Yes, I am telling a story about a little person that was a giant and a musician that was magic.
It's Seattle.
Sometimes within a few minutes of walking into the bar he'd notice me and start a few notes of a Puccini song that he knew I knew...barely knew.
I might be in conversation and pulling a sip from a cheap rum and coke when I'd hear.
Duh duh duh duh duh duh Duh.
Tosca.
He pushed me.
That's hard to sing.
He always let me sing a full set which was three songs.
It was an honor.
Once when I was there conversing with a bass player, named Nate who was about to go on tour to play some gigs with a rock band, I gave him my sage advice about living on the road, as, you know, I'd just spent three months doing a Fireside Dinner Theatre in Ft. Atkinson, WI.
He listened very nicely and nodded appropriately.
The band was called Foo Fighters?