I’m M$. B’Havin, The Brand-New Blues Diva -The People Issue 2024 Chicago Reader

Norma Jean McAdams is a 73-year-old hip-swinging diva who sings the blues as I’m M$. B’Havin. It’s a dream she put off for decades. In high school, she adored singing but suffered from stage fright and self-consciousness about her face and body. She had severe acne and the kind of generous hourglass figure that wouldn’t come back into vogue till 40 years later. When she was 24, the Texas native came to Chicago for an entry-level administrative job in Schaumburg. Disco dancing at clubs such as Coconuts in Edgewater and Faces in the Gold Coast allowed her to free herself from the mild-mannered expectations of her day job and unleash an exuberant, sensual side. But after she married her husband, Paul, in 1981, she put all that aside to settle into life as a suburban mother of two.

For the next three decades, the couple moved around the country, but in 2012 they returned to Chicago to be close to their daughter, who’d recently graduated from Columbia College. After Paul underwent open-heart surgery and Norma had a cancer scare, time began to feel precious—they resolved to return to some of the joys of their younger selves. For Norma, that meant singing and dancing. In 2018, the couple became regulars at Buddy Guy’s Legends. Paul would sometimes jam on guitar while Norma fantasized about getting onstage—something that began to feel more urgent after lockdown. At her first attempt, during an open-mike night at Buddy Guy’s this past February, she couldn’t get over her stage fright. But she made herself go back and try again, and now she’s leading a band with Paul called I’m M$. B’Havin & Her $exagenarian$.

I graduated from high school in San Antonio in 1970. All my classmates saw me as a singer. I was in the a cappella choir and church choir and something called Talecade, which was a club of 50 talented kids. But I didn’t see myself that way. I’ve had bad stage fright since I was a kid. My parents would come see me in elementary school, and I’d be onstage, and the next thing you know, I’d faint. Or I was throwing up in a trash can.

In high school, my mom enrolled me in a Wendy Ward charm course to help me get over my stage fright. She thought it would build my confidence to learn etiquette and how to dress. My teacher thought I had talent, so she encouraged me to enter a beauty pageant. I won San Antonio Junior Miss in 1970. I didn’t win state, but I did win the Texas Junior Miss creative and performing arts award for singing. Winning the San Antonio Junior Miss contest felt like a fluke. 

As a young woman I had terrible—and I mean terrible—acne, and it prevented me from doing a lot of things I wanted to do. I had a figure too—a rear end. I was always trying to hide it. I mean, it’s hard to hide. I even went to a doctor in Downers Grove because I wanted him to do a butt reduction. By the grace of God, he wouldn’t do it. It took almost two decades of therapy to help me accept my looks and work through my stage fright. 

In the 90s, I started taking my daughter to art therapy. She’s on the autism spectrum, and I wanted her to have as many opportunities as possible. Her therapist said I had artistic talent, which no one had ever said before. I read [Julia Cameron’s 1992 book] The Artist’s Way and started taking classes to explore my talents. I discovered I’m a poet, an artist, a dancer, a singer. 

In 2015, I found out I had early stage-one colon cancer. I had to go through a very extensive operation to remove the tumor. When something like that happens at my age, you start thinking about your life and the exit door. All of a sudden, it’s like, “Wow! I’ve been a mother, a wife, and a friend. But who is Norma Jean?”

In 2018, my husband and I went to Buddy Guy’s Legends for the first time because a friend of ours was visiting. It was like a religious experience. There was music that just invoked something in me—the fun, the excitement. I started dancing, and then things progressed. I met a lot of people. The blues community is so loving and warm, and I really felt like they were my family.

My husband played guitar when he was younger. Then you start having children, and your priorities change. Now my daughter is 40, and my son is 36. Paul and I are remembering all these things we’d like to do or wish we could have done. 

Buddy Guy has jam nights on Wednesdays. They usually have the house band or other jammers come up, and you tell them what song you’re singing, and then boom! Last February, I signed up to sing. My husband and I had been practicing Koko Taylor’s “I’m a Woman.”

When I got onstage, I had that deer-in-the-headlights feeling again. I couldn’t get any words out. A blues musician named Nicholas Alexander jumped up, walked me back and forth, said, “Look at all the people. Smile at them.” He was trying to get me back into my body, but I couldn’t do it. 

Then I came back a week later and finally sang. Not that great, but I sang. That night I spoke to Buddy Guy himself. He said, “Once you start, don’t stop.” And I’ve taken him to heart. I continue singing, even if I have a bad night. 

There’s a woman I have to give credit to, too: an 88-year-old blues legend named Mary Lane. She saw my potential and helped build my confidence. Even though we’re close in age, she’s been like a mother. Very loving, very supportive. If I messed up, she’d always highlight the good things I did that night.

This May, I started my band with my husband and some friends we met through Buddy Guy’s. Paul gave me my name. Well, he called me “M$. B’Havin.” I added the “I’m” to distinguish myself from others with similar names. My band members are between the ages of 60 and 69, so I call them the $exagenarian$. I chose it because it sounded nasty. Most people don’t know what a sexagenarian is.

I mostly sing blues or blues-adjacent songs that are relatable to me, like Koko Taylor’s “Voodoo Woman.” Sometimes I change the words to fit me better. My sister-in-law turned me on to a group called Saffire—the Uppity Blues Women. They have a song called “Too Much Butt,” which I like because of my derriere. 

Sometimes when I start something, if I don’t feel I’m good at it, I’ll stop. Or I’ll put something down long enough to forget how much I loved it. That’s what I needed to start my singing career: Buddy reminding me, “Once you start, don’t stop.” I’m 73 years old. If I stop now, that’s it. I don’t think I’m being fatalistic. My career won’t be in decades; it’s moment to moment. I don’t want to lose that fun. 

This was originally published in the 2024 edition of our People Issue, the Reader’s annual special of first-person stories, as told by your neighbors, classmates, and the weirdo at the end of the bar.