Goodbye Chicago: What It's Like To Live In A City You Tried To But Couldn't Love

But we gotta talk about something that’s been bugging me for a while now; no, I’m totally cool with the rats and coyotes. Yeah, fuck the pop tax, but that’s not your fault, and yes, everyone who actually likes music here only goes to Lolla if they get a free 1-day pass from a friend; but it brings the city lots of money or something blah blah, so we put up with it (unless you ride the Metra everyday, in which case, my heart breaks for you), but here’s the deal, I love you, Chicago. I love you with all my heart. I grew up 30 miles from you, and I’ve been in your belly for 15 years now — I get it, all your bruised vulnerable charm swirling beneath your deceptively low cost of living that gets stomped out the minute you actually want to go out and just see a goddamn movie in goddamn 3D.

But real talk — why u no dance at rock shows?

The Hold Steady was pretty close when they sang, “Chicago Seemed Tired Last Night,” but here’s the thing — I’ve been here a long time, and I think I’m starting to get it. You’re not tired. You’re fucking exhausted. Exhausted and broke and terrified that people will recognize you’re exhausted so you just keep pushing the fuck forward and smiling so you don’t throw up cus someone thought Chipotle was a good idea before a concert.

Wait…what?…you used to?

Experience the Birth of Chicago's Alternative Rock Scene in New Episode of Pitchfork.tv's "Yearbook"

I mean, I’ve heard tales of people being up all night in Wicker Park (back when it wasn’t a neighborhood where Marc Jacobs could park his gold helicopter in the bike lane on Milwaukee Avenue and pay 9 dollars for a shot of granddad and a 12oz high life) and you would let Billy Corgan inside you for way longer than any right minded person should, and you’d dance all night then watch the sunrise through a frosted window with a belly full of cocaine (I’m not a drug guy, but I think that’s where it goes?) and tamale guy would go home with your ex and you were happy and sad at the same time cus goddamn, life huh?— and you would move your bodies with reckless abandon while actual drummers hit actual drums and actual bass players did …uh…whatever bass players do…like…yell to the sound guy that the singer needs less drums in his monitor during sound check? Whatever. Something like that.

What happened? You invented house music for fuck’s sake. Frankie Knuckles (RIP), man. MAN! You helped forge the landscape of Industrial metal and “alternative” rock as most of us know it. Fuck, man: blues, jazz, hip hop: Sam Cooke, Buddy Guy, Junior Wells, Muddy Waters, Ministry, Curtis Mayfield, Kanye (I know, I know — but his music brain is top goddamn notch), Chance, Earth Wind and Fire, Bo Diddley. Jesus Christ, bro. You’re the giant standing on the shoulders of giants that you also helped..to…giant? You have had your fingers in all of it — except country (thank God), but at least you understand it’s appeal with your Empty Bottle line dancing on Fridays and, until recently, Carol’s up on Clark street (RIP).

You have soul funk dance parties. DJs come from all over the world to spin 45s in your hallowed dance halls (Also RIP Double Door). The kids smoke weed in the alley under the blue line and drink Mexican cokes and groove all night in the blue and red lights with the hot summer air woozily vibrating vulnerability into the deepest most self conscious recesses of their brain goo. Eyes half open, swaying hips and kissing someone they just met with the faint taste of Campari lingering on their breath. I know these pockets of dancing still exist. I met my fiance at one (hence said Negroni memory).

However, Exhibit 1: April 2007. New Pornographers at the Metro. I went with my sister and my cousin. We got there a little late, and were relegated to standing near the back just to the right of the mixing board (which is pretty close to the back wall), and we stood there enjoying the music. There was a couple in front of us that had carved out a small pocket for themselves to dance with a not so contagious energy that nobody else seemed to want to be a part of. After a song had finished the guy turned to me and said “people in Chicago don’t dance. It’s weird.” I was offended. This was my city. I’d lived here for 5 years, and HEY! We dance, man! (Back before “bro,” we said “man,” and it was great. Simpler times, bro.)

We did no dancing that night. I defy you to play any New Pornographers album (released before 2008) that doesn’t make you want to shake your butt and/or skull. Where was the disconnect? I was offended by someone saying that nobody was dancing, but I also was not dancing. That’s about as Midwestern as it gets. What. The. Shit?

Wait. Wait wait wait wait. Maybe it’s not just Chicago. Surely other places dance to rock and roll? However, other cities where I have attended rock and roll shows where >95% of attendees also did not dance: New York, Toronto, Boston, Milwaukee. The plot thickens.

Now remember, we’re talking about accessible Rock and Roll here. In NYC I saw Cradle of Filth and it was hands down the greatest, friendliest mosh pit I’ve ever encountered in my entire goddamn life. LCD Soundsystem at Pitchfork in 2010 saw an entire field of kids dancing their hearts out. So, people dance to dance music everywhere. But these are not rock and roll shows.

Exhibit 2: June 2013: Japandroids at the Metro. Went with the same cousin. Japandroids is what you would get if Bruce Springsteen grew up listening to Husker Du. Danceable. Cathartic. High energy. Canadian.

So, if there are two constant variables in this thought experiment: one being beer and two being my cousin Brian, then surely we can get some more stable perspective on how Chicago experiences a rock and roll show (here is a short list of shows that Brian and I have also seen together, D12: House of Blues, Atmosphere: Aragon & Metro, ChVrches: Metro, The Hold Steady: Turner Ballroom Milwaukee & The Vic, Hot Chip: the Vic, Ben Kweller: Metro, The first Chicago Lolla, The Up In Smoke Tour: All State Arena, The Streets: Metro, The Intonation Music Festival, Carly Rae Jepsen: Pitchfork and I’m sure I’m forgetting a bunch, but we have a pretty diverse list of acts and venues here). Japandroids, however, was Brian’s first “pit.” Pit is in quotations because it was more of a undulating blob of stink humans than a pit; crowd surfing, non-violent pushing, leaning on one another, sweating together, jumping together, no forced clap-alongs (fuck everyone who tries to start a clap-along at any show. NOBODY WANTS THIS EVER. STOP IT. It’s not about you, MAN). But here’s the deal. The blob was great. Communal, high energy, positive; great. The dancing, however, was non-existent.

Granted we were right up in front on the middle, so we really didn’t have the level of objectivity afforded to someone standing up on the balcony, but I can tell you first hand I have never seen someone standing in a balcony section using more than 30% of their energy to dance. Zero judgement, but it just doesn’t happen. Toe tapping? Absolutely. Swaying? Sure. Head nods? FUCK YEAH HEAD NODS. But dance party level dancing? Nah. At pretty much every show in that list, we stood there and grooved in our little personal spaces without using too much energy and breathing in the music. There is absolutely nothing wrong with that.

Chicago, I get it. Sometimes you don’t want to dance. Sometimes you’re coming straight from work because it doesn’t make sense to go home all the way up in Rogers Park if your friend lives in Avondale and you’re seeing a show in Bridgeport, but I don’t care how much you’re running late — that does NOT justify EVER stopping at a Pockets for dinner. Fuck Pockets. It’s E-team Subway, which is D-team Quizno’s, which is C-team Jersey Mike’s which is B-team making a sandwich at home.

Exhibit 3: September 2017: Sheer Mag at Thalia Hall. Thalia Hall in Pilsen is a gorgeously remodeled opera hall, with beautiful high ceilings, super chill balcony seating, and $8 shot and a tall boy specials (SEE, MARC JACOBS, TALL BOYS. Fuck you and your 12oz cans….I still have no idea who Marc Jacobs is). Sheer Mag is a cool ass 5 piece from Philly that makes music that would fit in very well on that first Nuggets box set. Tight little fuzzy garage pop songs that you can take your Tinder peep up to make-out point and neck to. One. There was 1 person dancing. Dancing with all their energy and jumping and grooving and throwing legs around, but not in a self conscious or obtrusive way, they found a little pocket out of the way closer to the back, and just fucking wiggled. My first thought was, “drugs are awesome,” but then I realized — nope, they’re just dancing because this music is making them have to move their body asymmetrically in time with the music. They probably know people see them. They probably know they’re standing out. They’re probably new here? We’ll never know. But the important thing is, I saw one person dance at a Chicago rock show, and it was real.

But that’s a pretty small percentage out of a pretty large sample size. What could the problem be? Let’s go back to the first paragraph. I grew up 30 miles from here. I’ve lived here for 15. I act in plays. I do comedy sometimes. I’m no stranger to being the center of attention. I’ve seen much more confident, talented and outgoing people than myself go to New York and LA and come back chewed up and spit out, and I’ve seen less confident, talented and outgoing people than myself go to New York or LA or Europe and thrive.

To a lot of kids in the Midwest, Chicago might as well be New York or LA. It’s huge, it’s diverse, it can be kind of dangerous, and everything you could ever want to do — you can (for all intents and purposes) do here. I am a moderately well traveled, educated white 30 something CIS male, with a close family and a chubby cat that licks like a dog licks. I like cartoons that animate farts, heavy metal and Diet Mountain Dew. It doesn’t get more white middle class boring suburban than that. I want a moderate amount of cultural influence, but I also want to be in bed by 11. However it seems that a lot of people that settle in Chicago are very similar to myself. They want to conquer the world, but they still don’t want to stray too far from outside their comfort zone.

Chicago wants to be a place where people say “record” when they’re talking about an album. We birthed Pitchfork — which don’t get me wrong, I read everyday, and I love all of their critics, but they have also added to the pretentious music criticism landscape. “That’s a great record.” “Their last record was better.” “That was a great record.” And “pop music” as a colloquialism for “catchy but more important than popular.” Not the pop music of Katy Perry and T Swift, Heavens no, the pop music of the Replacements or the Zombies or <insert all white male rock group with legit melodic instincts here, but more Grandaddy than Radiohead>.

High Fidelity taught us about the existential pain that pop music can drain out of (or inject into) us. There’s a feeling of moral or artistic superiority here that everyone is proud of, but nobody is willing to admit to, and is quick to criticize when a parallel is drawn from another major city . We’re proud of how humble we are. We desperately want the influence of NY or LA, and crave their affection. Can you blame us? They have way more money for this art shit than we do. We send plays from the Goodman to NYC and London, but when we do them here, we want them in basements and attics and we don’t want to pay more than $25 for them — we dream about being the elephant in the room, but we don’t want to be the center of attention. We love to talk about how humble we are. We want to talk about how danceable the new LCD record is, but then have a really serious look on our faces because it’s “important.” We’re the Onion to NYC’s Saturday Night Live. Because comedy, like pop music, is “important.”

I like to think this city is in my fucking bones. The bone crackingly cold winters, the amazing back sweat plagued record setting heat of our Septembers. The Malort — Ooooooh boy, the Malort; nectar of the dickhead Gods.

How to Drink Like a Chicagoan: Drink Malört

The passive aggression, the self deprecating (to a fault) sense of humor, the thick arms by helping friends move and belly by Schlitz. Loving my partner, and friends and family, with all of my giant fried cheese filled heart. The sunrises on the beach. The avoiding Navy Pier like the goddamn plague. The fearing for my life while biking down Chicago Ave to work.

But I play it safe. Trying to hit a quick fly to the gap between left and center so I can run with 80% intensity to first without being too nervous or really needing to look over my shoulder. (I promise that’s my only sports metaphor) But here’s the thing: who the fuck cares if other people dance at rock shows, ff you’re dancing already? Dancing isn’t about doing it so everyone does it too. It’s doing it to share an experience with a moment. For some of us it manifests itself as flailing wildly and sprinting around a room; maybe because you want someone to notice you, but also maybe because that’s the best way you know to spend your energy in a positive jam, and you need to get it out of you this way. If you get your rocks off by handling music with a pair of white gloves, more power to you! Just don’t make other people feel bad about it.

It’s pretty safe to assume that we’re using Chicago as a metaphor for me projecting my own insecurities onto an amorphous concept that is an urban center so I can wrap my head around my own bullshit, but, you know, THAT’S WHAT BLOGS ARE FOR, GUYS.

I used to think that the world was two kinds of people: people who rabbit ear book pages and those who don’t. The rule followers and the rule breakers. The dancers and the non-dancers. I still think that there’s some truth to that. But one reason why this analogy doesn’t work is that it assumes that everyone can read. Not only read, but afford to buy a book that they are able to mark up and throw around and bend in half to jam in their pocket so they can read it on the L on the way to improv class. It assumes that everyone has the privilege of living a life where they have time and a safe place to dance. Which I know isn’t the case.

I think my biggest take away from all of this would be that if you’re so focused on the minutiae of what other people are doing at a rock show — if you spend more time thinking about other people, then you’re missing the point of why the people up on stage are making music and playing it in front of you. Don’t worry about those other kids nodding their heads in the balcony — you have your pocket carved out and you’re having a blast — or at least you look like you are. Or you’re not. You do you. Just be glad that you are able to be there to experience it in the first place. Even if it’s a book you don’t like, appreciate the fact that your life has given you the opportunities to have one in the first place. Being in the room is a privilege, don’t waste it on your own petty bullshit, but living in the Real Housewives and Twitter age, we revel in the petty bullshit because it gets more likes, but fuck that. The Pixar film Ratatouille might have said it best: “Anyone can cook,” the same thing goes for dancing, anyone can dance, the hard part is getting that watchful eye of self consciousness out of your head. Tell your brain goo to shut the fuck up. Don’t dance for other people. Dance for you. Share it. Share it with people you love. Share it with the people who love you. Share it with people you want to love. Share it with people you tolerate. Just share.

Take it from a guy who will choose 3 free throws over a fade away jumper from downtown with 2 seconds left (SIKE, BRO, I GOT IN ONE MORE SPORTS…word…thingy…) any day. Maybe nobody dances at rock shows? Maybe nobody dances at the shows that I have gone to because they’re “important.” But maybe dancing can mean something different to everybody. Dancing with your guts, dancing in your head, dancing with your feet, or dancing with your T-Rex arms with a person you want to spend the rest of your life with by just leaning against each other and sharing a moment of noise and an ice cold glass of cheap gin as the spotlights blast through the smoke machines, and for just a moment you may as well be in a cloud in a dream made of reverb and bass pedals.

Chicago, don’t worry about those assholes at the New Pornographers show. Just dance. Or Don’t. Who cares? Just don’t worry about what anyone else says about you, and don’t feel the need to comment to strangers about it to make yourself feel better. Stop being obsessed with being the Second City; it’s not a badge of honor or a rallying cry of humility. Now it’s just a kind of above average overpriced comedy club in a neighborhood where its performers can’t afford to live even with their equity salaries. Just keep trying to be the best fucking city you can be, or just start being better to everybody that lives in you. Help the people who don’t have access to a book to mark up get one. Teach them how to read it and then help them use whatever was in it to live their best possible life. Stop trying to be important and just make the art you love with the people you love for anybody that wants to listen, and then one day you will be important.

Okay..I take it back, I’m cool with the rats, but you gotta do something about the coyotes, bro. They seriously shouldn’t be here. Seriously. They’re coyotes. It’s a goddamn city.

Love,

Dan

P.S. Skeletonwitch/Iron Reagan/Oathbreaker at Subterreanean was also fucking awesome — but no dancing.