Allow me to explain myself.

Mom was an opera singer and a voice teacher. She also knew that Bill Terry was the last National Leaguer to hit .400.

Dad once was a sports writer, and is my favorite baseball fan.

He also can detail musical evolution within the 15 Shostakovich symphonies.

My oldest brother Jon plays the bass, slide guitar, banjo, dobro and pedal steel. He was once considered a Don in the Chicago Bluegrass Mafia.

My other older brother Bobby was a center fielder on a really good high school team, for which I was the bat boy. The team bus picked me up at elementary school for away games.

My passions have always been split, equally. I was the kid racing from tennis practice to trumpet lessons. A trip to New York usually meant both Yankee Stadium and Lincoln Center. I’ve chased concurrent dreams, and professions, in both music and sports for as long as I can remember.

I now often go from radio shows directly to sound-checks. I sometimes sing 15 songs at a sold out concert, go home to watch a game on tape delay, then host a show in the morning.

I am a very fortunate man.

So an event like Hot Stove Cool Music this past Friday night at Metro is powerful bliss.

Hey, look! There’s Max Crawford, an original member of Poi Dog Pondering and now the leader of the Total Pro Horns, who also happens to run the electronic scoreboards at Wrigley.

Hey, that’s our emcee Lin Brehmer, a fine high school pitcher and Cubs season ticket holder who is also the best rock and roll DJ in the city.

Who’s starting the show on bass? It’s the organizer of the whole night, Len Kasper. He’s relieved that the Cubs game he just called did not go extras or have a rain delay. He’ll try to get home at a reasonable hour, because he’s doing the national game the next day on Fox.

Our greatest living baseball writer, Peter Gammons, is over there tuning his guitar as he preps to play a Paul Butterfield Blues Band song called “Born in Chicago.”

The musicians we get to play with include members of Smashing Pumpkins, Local H, Shoes, Wilco, Bob Mould, and Rage Against The Machine. In the middle of the show, Rick Nielsen and a couple other members of Cheap Trick show up and take the stage.

Every one of them loves baseball.

These realms, the two that I will always inhabit, are not that different.

Friday was a passionately played sandlot game.

You figure out who can play shortstop, who wants to catch, and who ought to be put safely in right field. There aren’t many young lefties who pull.

Who’s the best fit for this high harmony on “Surrender”? Which guitar players will step up and nail “Cherub Rock”? Whose amp should we make sure not to turn up too high?

Introduce yourselves, practice for a bit, then play. I mean, really play. Pay attention to one another, listen and watch to find the best way to make magic.

I’m torn right now as to my favorite personal moment of the night.

I stumped the Hall of Famer Gammons with my favorite baseball trivia question in the green room. For the record, Theo Epstein got it later with his first guess.

I got to sing and front “Monday” with a full horn section, Jimmy Chamberlin from Smashing Pumpkins on drums, and Wilco’s own John Stirratt on the bass.

We’ll go with 1 and 1a.

“Worlds colliding” isn’t a fair description.

Life is ours to create, experiences and interests ours to curate.

Friday night was a perfect, unforgettable night in the world I live in. And I know there are millions who live there with me.

Epstein’s guitar playing needs some work.

• Matt Spiegel co-hosts “The McNeil & Spiegel Show” 9 a.m. to 1 p.m. Monday-Friday on WSCR 670-AM. Follow him on Twitter @mattspiegel670.

By Matt Spiegel

On playing at FitzGerald’s, and then basking in fanboy happiness for Dos Lobos. FitzGerald’s Nightclub

Tributosaurus became James Brown. I was talkin’ loud and sayin’ nothing. Like godfathers, we all fronted those tunes. The grooves were deep, explosive, simmering, bad-ass. The festival was funky as can be for our 90 minutes.

We finished; it was 2 hours to wait for Dos Lobos. But I had to.  David Hidalgo is a gem. What a beautiful, lyrical guitar player to see. To talk to. To be near. To introduce to his bandmates for the evening. We had a moment…smiling, approachable moment. He connected with me before anyone in the room, aside from the Cesar Rosas table at which he seemed to know everybody.

Hidalgo has that glimmer…that spark. That seeming knowledge of a spiritual, artistic secret…which lets him smile and calmly navigate his passions with skill. His avocation has become his vocation…and he’s as thrilled with that fact as you would be.

As for David the player; He’s got some of Garcia’s steady meanderings, some of Gilmour’s clarity, touch, and high register melodic tendencies. How is he with a bass player he’s known for decades; and no other guitar? Or at least, a guitar under his aegis and control, fully, inarguably. I want to hear.  But this band he and Cesar picked up….these were our people, and they represented awesomely. John Abbey, Gerald Dowd, Chris Neville. The right guys for the job.

My pride in the Chicago music scene is large. It continues.

Gerald is the best. My 2nd favorite drummer in the city behind Tributo’s Dan Leali, but they both would admit either of them can do absolutely anything. And anyone that plays with Gerald learns how comfortable he is. I happened to wear his “Day Of The Dowd” t-shirt for the first 5 hours of my alert daypart. Then greeted him as he arrived to the Fitzgerald’s’ green room, lovely wife in tow, to approach what would for many be the gig of a lifetime.

We have known Los Lobos since…”I Got Loaded” on the Bull Durham soundtrack? The whole How Will The Wolf Survive album in 1984. La Bamba in ’87 pushed them higher.

And then Kiko; glorious, wondrous Kiko in ’92. Mitchell Froom at the helm. Earnest, inventive, serene, beautifully produced Kiko. The textures of low woodwinds and melodica on the title track….haunting, spooky, somber, driving.

And “Dream In Blue.” I yearned for that song all week as the fest approached, and had a chance to express that yearning to, in order, Chris, Gerald, Abbey, Bill Fitzgerald, and then to Hidalgo himself.

“It’s one of the most beautiful things you’ve ever written.”

I threw some fluid on that spark. No….that sounds wrong, um…I nudged the flint towards the match. Or something.
And “Dream In Blue” combusted…third tune of the set. For me: elation at hearing the groove as Gerald sets it up. Excitement for Abbey that he’d learned the part in the last hour…and more importantly he’d found the feel…the place to sit. The tune sat perfectly.

“Oh lo-ord. I can’t believe it. Oh yea-ah. Almost see it….” Hidalgo’s voice, at that perfect spot atop his chest voice. Just strained enough to have the right emotional power, but clear and strong as a bell.

What a set. After the show, talked some funk history with Cesar. He’d dug Tributosaurus as James Brown in the afternoon. And we quickly got talking Tower Of Power. San Fran, L.A. 60’s into 70’s. I guessed that he was into “Live and in Living Color.” He calls bullshit.

“That’s 1976 man….waaaay late.” He counts the records; we sing a few song titles that come up along the way. “That’s their 6th album!”

I learn something.

Cesar played with some of TOP (Emilio?) when he was 32. He raved about that experience with passion, fervor, and wisdom. I told him that what that gig was for him, a night like tonight was for Dowd/Abbey/Neville.

It is paid forward. Here’s to those who keep at their avocations until they become vocations. The spirit of why we do the former will and should always trump the business of the latter.

I sit in with Dag Juhlin‘s brilliant Expo’76, as discussed but not as we’d planned. I’m not in the room and miss my chance for “Can’t Hardly Wait,” and then happily wave Dag off with a “who gives a shit, enjoy your life” kind of grinning nonchalance.
But I am apparently requested later…and found in the tent. “My Old School”…Dag has started it….but I grab a mic and go for the low melody. He jumps up. We are locked as Donald Fagen and for the duration.

It kills. Horns! Dag’s guitar breakdowns are on point. The band’s hits are tight as they oughta be.
Then later, “Ooh Ooh Child,” where I sing along with la la la’s, gang tackle the choruses and even add the soprano single note beds on the verse.

The outro comes…it is mine. Oh, it is delicious, and it shall be mine.

“You just a wait and see…how things are gonna be.”

Right now.

BTW, Rahm Emmanuel loved this one. Or at least, that intro was when he happened to look our way during the NATO conference 4 years ago at the Navy Pier Grand Ballroom, and raised 2 thumbs up.

The more I picture it…the gesture seemed a little Nixonesque. Not two fingers of each hand, in that wagging peace/victory hybrid Nixon created, or at least perfected. But you could see it from there.

That Nixonian gesture reeked, from the very first time I was conscious of it. The video is intellectually paired with him saying “I am not a crook” in my head, and stands as a moving emblem of his ability to lie. His willingness to deceive, as many as it takes. He had the acting chops to fool most of those it took. Or at least the ability to take directions from extremely wise power brokers. Karl Rove, line 2.

But enough about Rahm.

Tonight was about me; in that our nights will always be about ourselves. I had a phenomenal night.

The soulful roadhouse in Berwyn has built a culture all its own. It is deep, evocative, and eclectic. The curious are always rewarded. The American Music Festival is always a success.

Again and again, please, as long as can be.

By Matt Spiegel–

(CBS) That was the craziest sporting event I’ve ever attended.

It may have been the greatest Game 7 in World Series history.

It surely was the most anticipated baseball game in decades, and it lived up to every bit of the hype.

There are myriad schematic machinations to be broken down regarding the Cubs’ thrilling 8-7 win in 10 innings against the Indians on Wednesday night. Dozens of key plays demand scrutiny, bizarre managerial mistakes beg explanation and moments of personal redemption deserve due. But details will eventually fade. In a few years, we’ll have to look them up as evidence to back up what we’ll always remember.

It’s the volatile emotional swings this 2016 clincher provided that will stick. The game was alternately thrilling and painful, shifting between premature parade planning and the seeming certainty of encroaching doom. It was exactly what a 108-year drought-ender had to be, a classic microcosm of a century’s struggle.

“It felt like we played a whole season in one game,” Cubs outfielder Dexter Fowler said afterward.

Tell me about it. So much got twisted from the first inning to the 10th that Fowler’s lead-off home run feels like it happened in August.

I’ve always been convinced that the baseball gods are giggling sadists. This night devolved from a three-run eighth-inning lead into absolute torture. Even when the game rewards you, it usually hurts along the way.

How dark did you get?

When Aroldis Chapman came in from the bullpen in the eighth inning, the dread hit me. From the moment his acquisition was just a rumor, I wanted no part of him. I woke up that morning on July 25 hoping the trade would fall apart and discussed it on air all week.

Chapman’s appearances have always stressed me out and produced uncomfortable feelings — and not just because of moralism regarding his off-the-field issues. I find him incredibly frustrating as a pitcher. His fastball can be very straight, and if it drops a tick from the devastating 101 mph and above, he’s beatable. His trust in his slider is inconsistent. And as the months went on, it became apparent that his situational comfort zone was extremely narrow. A clean ninth inning seemed to be the one time he’d shine.

So when the only real unlikable player on this great Cubs team blew the lead via a Rajai Davis home run, bitter fear had already been flowing.

I got angry at Chapman. I got angry at the front office, who I’d felt had sold their soul just a bit in order to get him. I got angry at manager Joe Maddon, whose unnecessary misuse of Chapman in Game 6 had clearly weakened him. I stayed angry at Maddon, reflecting on the horrific early hook for Kyle Hendricks and the insertion of Jon Lester and David Ross mid-inning with a runner on base. I stayed angry at Maddon some more, thinking that Lester could have gotten out of the eighth inning himself and allowed Chapman his precious clean ninth.

The brilliant Zen philosopher baseball manager let the pressure exceed the pleasure several times in these last three games. He seemed to stick with a theoretical plan of using the players he thought he was supposed to use and stopped reading the situations. He pulled starters too early, put relievers in dangerous spots and overused his strikeout closer. The fact that Maddon got away with it and won a World Series avoided massive damage to his legacy.

In the midst of the darkness, rain came and everything paused. The vibes reset. We found out later that the Cubs had an emotional players’ meeting in the weight room, with Jason Heyward leading an impassioned discussion about refusing to quit. Chapman apparently was in tears, feeling the weight of his Maddon-assisted failure. The Cubs emerged from the 17-minute break rejuvenated and frisky.

Soon, I felt the same. A two-run 10th inning rally was beautiful, with Ben Zobrist’s heroics cementing his opportunity to be a car dealer and/or restaurateur in this town for decades. Carl Edwards Jr. came in to close the game; I felt giddy and confident. Chapman wouldn’t be on the mound for a highlight we’ll see for a century to come.

Edwards faltered, and Mike Montgomery entered with a one-run lead. I still somehow felt giddy and confident. It was time.

And then there it was, the final out. Next came the on-field celebration, a phone-buzzing onslaught of congratulatory texts and the sudden realization that we live in a brave, new world.

The “lovable losers” tag is officially history. The goat mythology is reduced to an incredulous story for your grandkids to doubt. No more late-night talk show hosts will go to the punchline well and ladle out lazy Cubs shots.

These Chicago Cubs are built to contend for a good long while. “Wait ‘til next year” no longer reads like wistful hope; it’s become a foreboding threat.

Yes, there are some details I’ll remember. Corey Kluber’s repeated short rest caught up to him; he struck out no one in his four-plus innings for the first time all year. Indians manager Terry Francona, who owned this postseason with progressive bullpen creativity, waited one batter too long to go to ace reliever Andrew Miller, who himself was beaten up for the first time in a month. David Ross committed an error and couldn’t stop a wild pitch that scored two runs, only to make up for it with a home run in his final game. Javier Baez made two sloppy errors, then provided his own home run redeemer.

But the exhausting, temperamental emotional test that fans were forced to pass is what will linger. The giggling sadist baseball gods demanded one more pound of flesh from Cubs nation. And you had no choice but to give it up.

This time, however, the story didn’t end there. The heavens opened, and showers cleaned the slate.

Theo Epstein’s 2016 Cubs are designed as beautifully as his 2004 Red Sox were.  This team was too good, too complete and too mentally strong to fall down and simply not get up.

On Wednesday night, the Cubs changed the sports world for good.

Wrigley Field is no longer just an incredibly pleasant summer-long diversion.

It is the home of the world champion Chicago Cubs.

Say it loud, as much as you need to, until it feels as real as it should.

Matt Spiegel is a host on the Spiegel and Goff Show on 670 The Score from 9 a.m.-1 p.m. on weekdays. Follow him on Twitter @MattSpiegel670.