This past Friday went exactly according to the usual scheduele. I picked up the kids from school, headed home, and made the kids a snack before we put a movie on while I began to doze. My wife was home almost an hour later and after hearing her come in, I let my brain turn off fully for another hour or so. I awoke pretty groggy, similar to that of a smacked-out Grizzly bear waking from hibernation. With a quick bite to eat, I was out the door. Another Friday night of Uber-ing has begun.
The riders for the night were your typical fares. Young couples out to eat for the first time since the baby was born, out-of-towners headed from the Loop back to the hotel, etc…But as the night wears on, my least favorite faction of the masses begins to call for rides- the early twenty-something’s. The vast majority of the riders I pick up from this millennial bracket tend to make my skin crawl. They bitch about the Friday night traffic in the busiest areas of the city like it was my fault; or is if it should be a surprise that there is such bustling life on a warm weekend night in the city by the lake. Their estimated pick up time was four minutes, you showed up in five. Spoiled rotten in the city. Ignorant senses of entitlement spew from their orifices.
My last fare of the night was a group of young professional women (girls). They nearly blow the speakers out on the truck with whatever bull shit EDM they insisted on listening to. Not much of a bother to me, though. I mean hey, it’s their dime- and they’re just young and part of a generation I’ll never understand. I’m 32 and already and 80 year old curmudgeon…life rolls on. It was nearly eleven by the time I dropped them at a generic club on the corner of God-Knows-Where and Who-Gives-A-Fuck Avenue, and I was shot. Chicago’s best and worst had worn my synapses thin, so it was time to head home and relax my body and brain. I had a weekend to try and plan for, after all. At that moment, I had no idea that this weekend was going to restore my faith in something that I felt might have died a long time ago…my faith in music.
I get home and my wife is crawling into bed, the kids already passed out. I give them kisses on the forehead as I always do, and say goodnight to my wife. My initial thought was that it would be a good night for Netflix and a beer or two, but I’m anxious and I need to have some down time before the 46” electronic sheep starts lulling me to sleep.
Like so many others out there, the garage is my refuge. It is Shangri-La. It is sanctuary. It is dusty and cluttered and the air circulation stinks, but I have a table, a chair, and a radio, which is all one really needs. I grab a couple cans of Modello from the fridge and head to my island of brick and mortar in the yard.
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| "The Box" |
There is good chance that most of you have no idea who this band is, but if you like good old fashioned hard rock, you should. The Sword has put out a few albums over the years that are heavy on Sabbath-esque riffs and muted lyrics. It is a brand of “stoner metal” that I really dig. Just straight forward jams, a bit repetitive at times, but solid music- great albums to listen to from start to finish.
I crack a Modello, light some smoke, and hit play on the shitty little ten year old juke. The next forty five minutes or so, were filled with me audibly saying things like, “Huh?”, “Really?”, and “I can’t believe they’re doing this!” All of these things being said in a positive fashion, of course. I am not going to get into a track-by-track breakdown of the entire album right now, (maybe a topic for another day), but I will tell you this: if you love heavy guitars and existential lyrics, grab this sucker. This album is like Deep Purple and Black Sabbath had a baby and then that baby grew up and started fooling around with Pink Floyd.
It is an awesome album that even seems to touch upon some blues and even grazes up against some neo-white boy hip hop for a song. I know, I know…it sounds bizarre. But I found myself thinking that I was so glad that there are people out there somewhere, making music like this. It’s old, it’s new, it’s metal, it’s blues. It was a much needed rejuvenation after a night of EDM and horrendously overplayed Top 40. I began to feel better about the world.
A few more cigarettes in the ash tray and the album nears completion. It is then that I realize that I am supposed to hit the Route 66 Car Show with my aforementioned sage and confidant, Nick Caines. I had never been to a car show before and I never really had the desire to, but it seemed like a decent enough reason to get out of the house, meet up with Nick, and maybe grab a beer or two in the daylight hours. The time careened towards two a.m. and the watered down buzz that I had started began to wane into an irritating small headache. It was time for sleep. I was feeling good after my listening session in the garage and the car show would begin in a few hours. Nick and I would get an early start on the weekend.
We arrived promptly on Ogden Avenue at one p.m. There was a misty rain and a thickness in the air, but the turn out seemed to not be affected much. We begin the show by heading to one of our favorite bars in town, Cigars and Stripes, which has a tent with live music, as well as beer, wings, and Bloody Mary’s. As we hop on line for drink tickets, we see the owner of ‘Cigars’, Ronnie Lottz, the man who had been embattled with members of the blogging community over his “pro two-way mirror in his woman’s restroom” stance. Lottz vowed to burn his place to the ground before the mirror came down. The mirror is gone, the bar is not a pile of ash and broken dreams. I really like the man. The whole mirror thing was pretty creepy, but I sort of give Ronnie the benefit of the doubt on this one…God dammit I hope I’m not wrong.
After grabbing a Bloody Mary and listening to the band, it began to rain relentlessly. Nick and I sought refuge inside the bar, where the other street mutants were getting the same idea. Luckily, we find two stools and begin to bull shit. The weather was crap and the sky was gray, but all in all, the people inside the bar were in good spirits. Loud laughter and clinking bottles reverberated off of the freak show décor of Cigars and Stripes. Today was already a pretty good day.
The rain begins to clear, our brains begin to haze, and the humidity rages. We finally take to the street at about two thirty to see some cars. What a strange sight this car show is; a boulevard devoted to clinging to the past, a dying if not already dead American dream. Cadillacs and Camaros, Fords and Hudsons, all relics from a simpler time…some say a better time. You know when cars were built in Detroit and those pesky coloreds couldn’t go to the same school as your precious little angels. You know, when America was great. Anywho…
It was actually refreshing to see the faces in this crowd on Ogden Ave. Hispanics, white trash, sleeveless motor heads, and biker toughs all walking the same streets, glued together by a common interest in all things steel-on-wheels. This crowd was America at its best and worst, including the Elvis impersonators. Pathetic creatures, really. Timid sheep living in the wolves polyester clothing; with no real personalities of their own, they adopt the life of a dead, bloated, philandering, drug addicted, Nixon stooge. But I digest...
After some more car-gazing, we headed back to Cigars and Stripes for another beer. It was while sitting at the bar that I got the text. It was from an old friend, Steve, who I had not seen in quite some time, but kept semi-in touch with through social media. Steve and I used to haunt similar late night bars and blues clubs; anytime we would bump into each other, we would always wax ecstatic about bands and favorite musicians, trading war stories from shows we have seen. (Steve has way more stories and encounters than I could even count. The man should really write a book.)
The text he sent was asking if I would be interested in seeing the Foo Fighters that night at Wrigley Field. He had a line on a pair of tickets, but the seller would only dump off the pair and Steve needed someone to tag along. I told him I'd check in with the Wife, but to keep me posted.
After a bit of back and forth, I was good to go. I stopped home, grabbed my shit, and headed for the el (the el is Chicagoan for choo choo train). It was still misting rain and the sky was the most depressing shade of gray known to man. But here I was, finally with my ass in a seat, on my way to see a band that formed out of chaos and desperation. Forming at a time when I myself was at my most formative as a young teen, learning guitar and playing in a band. Smoking cigarettes and chasing girls, and not realizing how bad I was at all of those things. Kurt Cobain was dead and the Foo Fighters were born. My friends and I religiously learning songs like "Everlong", "Monkey Wrench", and "I'll Stick Around". It was an amazing time to be that age, and The Foo Fighters were helping to write the soundtrack.
After a long series of delays, my Red Line train finally pulls into the Addison station, a block from Wrigley on the north side of the city. I'm anxious, a bit damp from the misting rain and sweat from the car show, but I move with purpose. Steve would be at Gate F waiting for me, and I had already missed the first two openers, Urge Overkill and Naked Raygun. I light a smoke and serpentine through the masses. Wrigleyville on the weekends is a horror show. I round the front of the building and through the gates I almost immediately see Steve. He looks just as he had the last time I saw him- he is quite tall, 6'5" maybe, with salt and pepper hair and glasses. It was genuinely good to see the man and I was pretty sure this night was to be amazing.
We find the seats just as Cheap Trick is taking the stage. I'm not here to see Cheap Trick, no offense to any fans out there, but I take this time to hit the A.T.M. and grab a round of beers. Ten bucks a piece for a shitty beer. Fucking capitalists...
It takes me so long to get through the lines for money and beer that I miss Cheap Trick's entire set. I will say this, "I Want You To Want Me" sounded exactly like it does coming from a backyard barbecue a few blocks away, so the band was pretty on point for the age bracket they're sitting in. I return to my seat and Steve and I banter a bit about "the old days" of four a.m. bars and who, if anyone, we run into anymore. The stage is being built and Foo Fighter logos popping up on the jumbo screens. An episode of the Foo's show, "Sonic Highways", accompanies the roadies at work. Before very long at all, sections of the house lights shut down. A guitar strums through the night, and one of the most metal screams reaches out and slaps the crowd directly in the face.
The band breaks into "Everlong" from The Color and the Shape to kick the night off. It is an excellent choice- the masses are ready, I'm ready, Steve's ready. A fan favorite since the nineties, this song roped everyone in hook, line, and sinker. The hair on my neck stands up just like when I hear the second solo of Comfortably Numb by Pink Floyd.
The setlist runs the gamut of old favorites, covers, and newer stuff that might have passed me by over the last couple of years. Throughout, I kept finding myself panning the crowd, looking to the sky, trying to have one of those moments everyone tells you to remember to have. I realized many times during the show, I was genuinely happy to have accepted the offer of "the other ticket".
Throughout the show, Dave's mom and cousin came on stage, "Happy Birthday" was sung, and Coors Light was consumed by the band's front man. Grohl shed tears of joy while looking out at our faces, more than once. It came off as neither disingenuous nor corny. I had many moments of feeling connected to the light, sound, and fellow man in those friendly confines that night. I am still struggling to shake it off- maybe, I don't really want to.
Dave Grohl was an absolute beast on stage. Despite being confined to his "rock throne" due to his broken leg, this man was engaged, enraged, screaming his heart and fucking lungs out. As corny as it sounds, I knew he was there for US- the collective there in that stadium that Friday night, on the north side of this big-shouldered city, and we were there for them. The rest of the Foo's showed that they have refined their talents over these couple decades and are probably the tightest sounding touring band in rock right now.
As happens with all concerts, it eventually came to an end. The Foo Fighters played nearly three hours to a sold out crowd in the middle of which, stood a cynical guy like me- a guy that really has had little to no interest in big stadium rock shows or festivals. But as I sat on that Red Line train back home I felt a feeling of calm, laced with a drop of adrenaline, topped off with a pair of rocked socks.
Between hearing an album like High Country by The Sword and seeing the pure joy of putting on an ass-kicking rock show all over Dave Grohl's face, I just might be a skeptical believer again. There are newbies and veterans out there still melting faces, pushing boundaries, loving music, and most of all, giving a shit. It really is amazing what an effect one twenty-four hour period can have on your life. Get out there, people. Listen, learn.
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| illinoisrt66.org |
After some more car-gazing, we headed back to Cigars and Stripes for another beer. It was while sitting at the bar that I got the text. It was from an old friend, Steve, who I had not seen in quite some time, but kept semi-in touch with through social media. Steve and I used to haunt similar late night bars and blues clubs; anytime we would bump into each other, we would always wax ecstatic about bands and favorite musicians, trading war stories from shows we have seen. (Steve has way more stories and encounters than I could even count. The man should really write a book.)
I started my negotiating via text (which is something you shouldn't do, fellas, f.y.i.) and I was not so sure how it would go over. Nick and I were done with cars, done with beer. It was time for tacos. Steve sent another text- he was on his way to pick up the tickets.
After a bit of back and forth, I was good to go. I stopped home, grabbed my shit, and headed for the el (the el is Chicagoan for choo choo train). It was still misting rain and the sky was the most depressing shade of gray known to man. But here I was, finally with my ass in a seat, on my way to see a band that formed out of chaos and desperation. Forming at a time when I myself was at my most formative as a young teen, learning guitar and playing in a band. Smoking cigarettes and chasing girls, and not realizing how bad I was at all of those things. Kurt Cobain was dead and the Foo Fighters were born. My friends and I religiously learning songs like "Everlong", "Monkey Wrench", and "I'll Stick Around". It was an amazing time to be that age, and The Foo Fighters were helping to write the soundtrack.
After a long series of delays, my Red Line train finally pulls into the Addison station, a block from Wrigley on the north side of the city. I'm anxious, a bit damp from the misting rain and sweat from the car show, but I move with purpose. Steve would be at Gate F waiting for me, and I had already missed the first two openers, Urge Overkill and Naked Raygun. I light a smoke and serpentine through the masses. Wrigleyville on the weekends is a horror show. I round the front of the building and through the gates I almost immediately see Steve. He looks just as he had the last time I saw him- he is quite tall, 6'5" maybe, with salt and pepper hair and glasses. It was genuinely good to see the man and I was pretty sure this night was to be amazing.
We find the seats just as Cheap Trick is taking the stage. I'm not here to see Cheap Trick, no offense to any fans out there, but I take this time to hit the A.T.M. and grab a round of beers. Ten bucks a piece for a shitty beer. Fucking capitalists...
 |
| Shitty pic of Steve, me, and Skicat. |
It takes me so long to get through the lines for money and beer that I miss Cheap Trick's entire set. I will say this, "I Want You To Want Me" sounded exactly like it does coming from a backyard barbecue a few blocks away, so the band was pretty on point for the age bracket they're sitting in. I return to my seat and Steve and I banter a bit about "the old days" of four a.m. bars and who, if anyone, we run into anymore. The stage is being built and Foo Fighter logos popping up on the jumbo screens. An episode of the Foo's show, "Sonic Highways", accompanies the roadies at work. Before very long at all, sections of the house lights shut down. A guitar strums through the night, and one of the most metal screams reaches out and slaps the crowd directly in the face.
 |
| Our vantage of the stage |
The band breaks into "Everlong" from The Color and the Shape to kick the night off. It is an excellent choice- the masses are ready, I'm ready, Steve's ready. A fan favorite since the nineties, this song roped everyone in hook, line, and sinker. The hair on my neck stands up just like when I hear the second solo of Comfortably Numb by Pink Floyd.
The setlist runs the gamut of old favorites, covers, and newer stuff that might have passed me by over the last couple of years. Throughout, I kept finding myself panning the crowd, looking to the sky, trying to have one of those moments everyone tells you to remember to have. I realized many times during the show, I was genuinely happy to have accepted the offer of "the other ticket".
Throughout the show, Dave's mom and cousin came on stage, "Happy Birthday" was sung, and Coors Light was consumed by the band's front man. Grohl shed tears of joy while looking out at our faces, more than once. It came off as neither disingenuous nor corny. I had many moments of feeling connected to the light, sound, and fellow man in those friendly confines that night. I am still struggling to shake it off- maybe, I don't really want to.
Dave Grohl was an absolute beast on stage. Despite being confined to his "rock throne" due to his broken leg, this man was engaged, enraged, screaming his heart and fucking lungs out. As corny as it sounds, I knew he was there for US- the collective there in that stadium that Friday night, on the north side of this big-shouldered city, and we were there for them. The rest of the Foo's showed that they have refined their talents over these couple decades and are probably the tightest sounding touring band in rock right now.
As happens with all concerts, it eventually came to an end. The Foo Fighters played nearly three hours to a sold out crowd in the middle of which, stood a cynical guy like me- a guy that really has had little to no interest in big stadium rock shows or festivals. But as I sat on that Red Line train back home I felt a feeling of calm, laced with a drop of adrenaline, topped off with a pair of rocked socks.
Between hearing an album like High Country by The Sword and seeing the pure joy of putting on an ass-kicking rock show all over Dave Grohl's face, I just might be a skeptical believer again. There are newbies and veterans out there still melting faces, pushing boundaries, loving music, and most of all, giving a shit. It really is amazing what an effect one twenty-four hour period can have on your life. Get out there, people. Listen, learn.
