Location: Various Locales
Bands: A story told in fliers!
Cost: somewhere between free and five dollars
Things I missed to be there: I happened to miss most of the shows that I attended, leaving no room for Autechre at the Abbey, Larry Tee at Debonair, Skyler at the Sanatorium, Carla Bozulich's Evngelista at South Union Arts, Hitodama and Black Ladies at the UIC Student Pavilion, and Ticklefight Vol. 2 at the Butterfly Social Club
My girlfriend accused me of pushing a cliche yesterday, and we got into a big fight about aesthetics. We're good again, but I kinda feel like that if what I'm saying is cliche, and what I'm saying is right (undoubtedly), then maybe cliches have gotten a bad rap all these years. It is with that in mind that I open this blog up with the timeworn/time-tested phrase When it rains it pours.
Of course I use it here first literally, in that April's showers have come in at full force and hardly relented these last few days, and then figuratively, using it to connote that there were a lot of parties going on tonight and, unlike most party-filled Fridays, there were a lot of loft parties featuring loud, avant-garde-ish rock music.
Of course, that's no way to start the evening, so as soon as I could get out of work, I tore down to beautiful East Pilsen, where Sarah and I were shooting pictures as a part of 2nd Fridays, the monthly gallery crawl that takes place throught Podmajersky's artist residences and a few blocks in every direction off of 18th and Halsted. We got some good shots, but the night ended early, early enough that we had time for tacos, before I continued Northward on party adventures.
The first thing I thought I'd check out would be, against my better judgment, the oil wrestling show at the Cobra Lounge. When I got there, local, theatrical metal band Maggot Twat was playing underneath a video screen displaying their lyrics. Something like "I am so fucking insane/I could fuck a hurricane". It was very nineties, in the post hair metal, pre-nu-metal-style, like Clutch meets the Impotent Sea Snakes, with crunchy guitars and a certain lack of subtlety in their lyrics that's kind of charming after a day spent listening to Elliot Smith and emo at an overpriced clothing store. The music was alright, but the font was horrible. I couldn't tell if there were any girls, naked, half naked or otherwise dancing or flogging or wrestling in front of them. I know that the beautiful Miss Maya Sinstress often performs alongside them, but the promise of oiled up titties and cheesy girlfights brought out even more meatheads than the usual Cobra crowd, which is never really at a loss for them, and I couldn't see anything below the lyrics on the screen. Having seen more than my fair share of mudwrestling shows under similar circumstances, when they were all the rage a couple years back, I kept on my merry way, feeing pretty secure I wasn't missing anything.
I figured that the best way to travel was to take Milwaukee Avenue up north from Ashland, as there were three parties in a row between the 1400 and 2400 blocks. The first one was at the WOR Loft, a place I have yet to see a show in. Just as I was slowing the car to take advantage of some rockstar parking, I saw a few friends trailing out of the building, looking more than a little bit huffy. Apparently, after all the bands played their sets, the place had the audacity to kick everyone out. Go figure.
I yelled out to my friends, and they told me to go to the address that was the next on my list anyway, so I told them to stub their cigarettes and jump into the car, and on we went to the Halfway House.
The Halfway House used to be exactly what its name implies, but now it serves as a live/work/party space and home to one or more members of the band Young Turks and one or more people involved with the electronic music label Blue Screen of Death. It was a pretty good vibe. The bartender was pretty quick pouring beers, and the people who weren't in the mood to listen to experimental music stayed on the other end of the room and talked to each other while they waited for the DJ to come back on between bands. I halfassed my attempt to get in for free and got suckered into paying the full five they were asking at the door, but shit was good enough that I didn't mind.
Then, like all good things involving alcohol and people who may or may not have been able to drink it legally, some dumbshits had to go fuck it up. Story was, some kids were throwing something (I think I heard squirtguns?) at each other on the street, and they were drunk, and they were hitting all sorts of shit other than themselves, and they kinda skimmed a car or a lamp or something as some cops were driving by. The police, eager to prevent drunken property damage and/or put the kibosh on some hipster kids' fun, stopped and, instead of talking to the cops like adults, or running through an alley like a savvy teenager, they just ran right back up into the party, followed by the boys in blue. Dumbasses.
According to my friend Brian, whose band Clique Talk was unable to play, the penalty for that type of egregious party foul, should be a banishment from cool shit city wide, with a bail set at a minimum of 50 gigs roadie-ing for an unsigned band.
The cops slowly went through the party, frowns on their faces, sticks up their asses, dumping out bottles of beer and sniffing cups filled with soda. Eventually, one of the residents realized that people were having trouble getting the hint, and kicked everyone out.
No worries. I had to go North anyway, and there were three good-looking jams due North of Halfway.
I'm not sure if the next party had something to do with the show at peopleprojects or one of the other spaces in the Congress Theatre building, because I never got to go in. As we approached it, we saw a party procession streaming east, and a phalanx of cop cars that dwarfed the one that had just busted up our fun, so we kept going north to Lawndale just near Fullerton. Another party parade. I don't know what type of party it was at Lawndale, except that, looking at the crowd, the majority consisting of hood rats and drag queens, I was really sore about missing out on whatever it was.
We didn't really think we'd have any luck at the Private I. One of the many Dans that live there had told me over an hour prior that there was just one last band left, but when arrived, there was at least one more band left, and a few dozen people scattered about watching them. The Private I is a really great space, if only because the people who live there are doing everything they can to soundproof it, to keep the neighbors ameliorated and the cops at bay.
My friends who'd joined on since leaving the WOR Loft weren't going to get the dance party they were fiending for, but the music was good, the beer was cheap, and there were more than a few fun, intelligent, fuckable people/good conversationalists to talk to, so there was no real reason to leave, even if we did have a tip about something else going.
The only band I saw was Tirra Lirra, who sounded the way Bauhaus would sound if Peter Murphy had gone through a free jazz period. It was as cacophonous as it was complicated, maudlin and melodramatic. It was the first time I'd seen them, and the last thing I'd hear before going home.
It was a good nght in Chicago, as it always in when one new party springs up for every one that gets busted. All that's left now is for the skies to open up and the temperature to get up a bit. Then we can really do it right.
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