Chuck Charles likes to keep one hand free for his beer while he’s tickling the ivories.

When it comes to gigging in San Diego, Chuck Charles, once-and-future doyen of the Bigfellas band, gives due love to the Belly Up, Humphreys, and Anthology. But certain odder moments stick sticky-er in his mind. “The real heart of Bigfellas gigs were the oddball places we played like the Last Call, Desi’s, Mission Bay Boat & Ski Club,” explains the keyboardist, who recently released his solo album Hiya. “We used to play every Friday on the patio at a UTC brewery-restaurant called On Tap. We loved the gig, but we knew it was only a matter of time until the place closed, because the waitstaff was constantly in outright mutiny with their hated manager — he was nice to us — with waiters spitting in the manager’s drink.”

The Last Call had its own drink-related dangers. “It was a tiny hole in the wall on El Cajon Boulevard where no patrons could even see us. We played anything, and loud. We loved that place, despite both Shay [Bell, drummer] and I getting food poisoning from the uncleaned beer tap lines on two different occasions. And you know you’re doing something right when your band still has forty people watching you at Desi’s, when the raw sewage stink from right behind the building is all over the place. The Mission Bay Boat & Ski Club was a weird story every time — fun as hell, but the place was a nuthouse, and Bill [Maine, singer-bassist] and I frequently had to sleep in our cars in the parking lot there after shows. Don’t drink and drive, kids. But you can’t take Uber with multiple amps and instruments.”

Charles grew up on the southside of La Jolla (“You know, the mean streets, not far from the Nite Owl”). After college in L.A. and a short stint in Colorado, it occurred to him that “every city in America doesn’t have a beach,” and so he hightailed it back here. “So I’m back, literally about a mile away from where I grew up. Strange.”

Solo, with Bigfellas, and/or otherwise, Charles tags himself as “Steely Dan for the Pabst Blue Ribbon crowd.” As he explains, “Songs about drug dealers packing up an operation before the cops come, prep school ennui, murder, divorce — those were my people. And with the best musicians in the world playing songs with nutty chord progressions? I’m in! Why use three chords when you could use ten?”

Other self-applied taglines include “Nine percent as good as Ben Folds or Cracker” and “The stupid man’s Randy Newman.” Explains Charles, “All of those artists are funny. I was once listening to Tracy Chapman, which should tell you what year it was. I liked her, but I remember ejecting her CD because it was all so relentlessly earnest. I distinctly remember popping in Warren Zevon and thinking, ‘Yeah, that’s better.’ When an artist is funny or self-effacing, I can stick with it longer. And then, when they do get serious or emotional, like Ben Folds or Bruce Hornsby, I find that it’s an emotional haymaker, hitting with more punch.”

Charles considers himself a keyboardist first, but notes, “I also sing and play guitar, bass, banjo, accordion, and saxophone, in descending order of skill. You probably don’t want me on stage playing banjo or doing guitar solos. In my twenties, I used to play in an Irish and covers band. I was always the utility man. If the bass or keyboards guy didn’t show up, I’d fill in. Otherwise, I’d be an irrelevant third guitar. We always were playing parties or on boats, really San Diego-ish gigs, where everybody was getting pretty hammered, and I quickly found that I vastly preferred playing keyboards, because you could have a free hand to pour beer from a pitcher and be drinking during a song.”

Thinking of that last insight, he adds, “I’m no dummy.”