The Warbler of Pinellas Park takes his show on the road

What makes a man walk the streets, singing? He could tell you, but he'd rather serenade you.

By Jeff Klinkenberg, Times Staff Writer
Published February 10, 2008

	Dave Schips sings more than 60 songs by heart as he walks. See and hear the Warbler in action
[Joseph Garnett Jr. | Times]

PINELLAS PARK - The Warbler takes a walk every day. He knows 61 songs by heart. He sings as he walks. When he has exhausted his repertoire, he goes home. He has 3 miles worth of songs.

On a good winter day, when the wind isn't blowing and the landscapers have turned off their leaf-blowing machines, people hear him coming down the street.

The Warbler sings in a strong tenor with a lot of vibrato. Sometimes he finishes a song with a dramatic wave and people look out their doors and say "Thank you."

As he sings his way through his neighborhood, he wears a terry-cloth jumpsuit. He wears fashionable wrap-around sunglasses of the style worn by the pop star Bono. The Warbler has never heard of Bono. He has never heard of Bono's band, U2.

He is more of a Sinatra guy or a Tony Bennett guy. He knows a Barbra Streisand tune. He knows Al Martino. He does a Jimmy Roselli song.

If you don't know Jimmy Roselli, forget about it. You probably are not going to be an audience for the Warbler, who will be 80 on his next birthday.

- - -

Bill and Thelma Clark live about a mile from the Warbler's house. On days when he's ambitious and his lungs feel especially strong, the Warbler sings his way down their block.

Not long ago Bill was standing in the yard when the mail carrier arrived. Bill opened his mailbox at the moment the Warbler happened by.

"Anything interesting?" asked the Warbler.

Bill had seen the Warbler in the neighborhood - he's a good-looking white-haired man with a pencil-thin mustache - but he didn't know him.

"Well," Bill said, "we got some anniversary cards."

"How long have you been married?" the Warbler asked.

"Fifty three years on Friday," said Bill, who is 85.

"Do you mind if I sing you a song?" asked the Warbler.

Bill led the Warbler into the house to meet Thelma. The Warbler gave them his best Jimmy Roselli.

When your old wedding ring was new

And each dream that I dreamed came true.

I remember with pride

How we stood side by side

What a beautiful picture you made as my bride.

Swaying, the Clarks held hands and choked up.

"Thank you, ladies and gentlemen," said the Warbler with a Las Vegas flourish, before heading outside to finish his gig.

The Warbler is a former Manhattanite named David Schips. He never thought he could sing. He spent 20 years in the Coast Guard without ever singing, then moved to Pinellas County and had a long career as a jeweler without serenading customers.

"I was too shy," he says. "I was quiet." Perhaps he was one of those men who bottle up their emotions. A divorce - his wife's choice - had ended their long marriage. A few years later he was poised to marry a second time, but she died. Sometimes a man is afraid that if he cries he might never stop.

In 1992, he met an eligible widow in his neighborhood, Ethel Hoehn, who knocked him for a loop. One night after a date with her, he rushed home and left a surprising message on her voicemail. It included the first two lines from a Tony Bennett song, The Shadow of Your Smile.

"I don't know what possessed me to do that," he thought.

Listening to David sing on her answering machine, Ethel felt herself falling in love.

She bought a Tony Bennett album and transcribed the lyrics of Shadow for her promising boyfriend. "Learn the whole song," she said. "You have a very good voice."

- - -

Sometimes, when Ethel goes bowling - "I'm 87 but I'm still active" - the younger man in her life heads to the library. He's not an Internet guy: He finds song lyrics in the book stacks, writes them down and memorizes them.

He auditions new tunes for the soap dish in the shower. He serenades the steering wheel of his car. "I don't know anything about singing," he says. "I don't know a note from a key. I can't sing accompanied by music. I have to sing, what do you call it, a cappella."

When he feels he is ready, he tries out a new song on Ethel, and sometimes Ethel's daughters. They remember the time, early in his performing career, when he sang Evergreen, an emotional Barbra Streisand showstopper, as they sat on the couch. He couldn't finish it - he kept crying. He got through the song by hiding in the kitchen where they couldn't see him and singing extra loud.

"I'm not shy at all anymore," he says. "I can sing for anybody. Singing has opened me up."

On their first Valentine's Day, he took Ethel to Texas Cattle Co. for a special steak dinner. Of course he sang My Funny Valentine to his love. The young couple at the next table became starry-eyed as they listened. The Warbler sang My Funny Valentine for them too.

When the Warbler and his little sparrow asked for their bill, the waiter told them, "It's been taken care of."

The Warbler was flattered but also a little embarrassed. "I don't sing for the money. I sing because I seem to have a God-given talent that brings me joy."

- - -

The Warbler lives a few blocks from busy Gandy Boulevard in Pinellas Park. Most of his neighbors are like him: elderly and white. Very few people in those perfectly kept houses with manicured lawns know the Warbler by name. He's just the nice man who sings.

He waves to them; they wave back. A motorist who is lost will always get directions from him. Also a song. If it's drizzling, count on hearing Singing in the Rain, a la Gene Kelly.

A windy morning challenges his voice. Maples rustle, flags snap smartly, wind chimes go into conniptions.

He does not surrender and go home. He gives a white house a taste of That Old Black Magic. An American flag, planted near a driveway, inspires a patriotic ditty from Old Blue Eyes, The House I Live In.

A woman in a champagne-colored Mercury drives past the concert and parks in her garage. When she steps from her car he is waiting.

"Would you like a song?"

Joan Byline, fresh from a bowling date at Seminole Lanes, is serenaded with Young at Heart.

"How did you know I just turned 80?" she says, blushing.

A few minutes later, John Popiel ambles from his house when he hears singing.

"Would you like me to sing you something?" the Warbler wants to know.

Popiel, 89, recoils in alarm.

"WHAT? NO THANK YOU! I DON'T THINK I NEED A SONG."

The Warbler is cool about the rebuff. He says thank you, have a nice day, and takes out a piece of paper that lists his songs.

"Men," he whispers before he begins the next number, "are a little bashful about me singing to them."

Jeff Klinkenberg can be reached at klink@sptimes.com or (727) 893-8727.

[Last modified February 8, 2008, 15:18:54]