The world lost a music legend this week with the passing of Walter Parazaider, one of the founders of Chicago.
Like millions of fans, I knew Walt first through the music. The soaring horns. The unforgettable melodies. The soundtrack to first dates, weddings, road trips, and moments we never forget.
But years ago, I had the privilege of meeting Walt when Chicago came to Poughkeepsie for a benefit concert. And what I remember most isn’t the Hall of Fame résumé or the countless hits.
It’s the laugh.
At one point in our conversation, I confessed that my midlife dream was to replace Jimmy Pankow as Chicago’s trombone player.
There was just one problem.
I didn’t know how to play the trombone.
Walt burst out laughing.
Not the obligatory chuckle celebrities sometimes offer fans, but a genuine, hearty laugh—the kind that instantly puts you at ease. For a moment, he entertained the ridiculous possibility that with enough practice, enough determination, and perhaps a clerical error in Chicago’s personnel department, I might somehow pull it off.
That was Walt.
Warm. Funny. Generous.
Completely unpretentious.
Of course, his accomplishments speak for themselves. A rock and roll band with horns was Walt’s vision. He assembled the original group, rehearsed in the basement of his mother’s home, and hustled to book gigs at bars around Chicago long before anyone knew their names.
Without Walt Parazaider, there may never have been Chicago.
But that’s the funny thing about legends. Their greatest achievements aren’t always the platinum records or sold-out arenas. Sometimes it’s the small moments—the few minutes backstage when they make a fan feel seen, heard, and welcome.
Today, as fans around the world remember the musician, I find myself remembering the man who took the time to laugh with me in Poughkeepsie.
I’m grateful our paths crossed, even briefly.
Rest in peace, Walt.
And for the record, I still haven’t learned the trombone.
Some dreams are apparently meant to remain dreams.
The Valley Viewpoint 