Uh oh! English Rock Band In Chicago!
So, it all started on Sunday 12th when Stonefish's manager the
illustrious Kirk Worley came into town.
Rather than attempt some form of literary genius to describe the visit,
your completely shagged out commentator will merely relate some of the daily happenings
during their rigorous stay:
Sunday, May 12th Noon -
Pick up Kirk at O'Hare Airport, meet The Chicago Music Explosion website
designer at the Daily Bar and Grill on Lincoln and Montrose (Gia was having slap bass
lessons at Old Town School of Folk Music). Have a beer. Truck down to Goose Island Brewery
on Clyborn and Sheffield for food (and a beer). On way to dropping off Gia at her place
stop of at Map Room. Several beers (from around the world). That evening we went to a
party in the back of a Liquor Store to hear Chicago's oldest oldie band, Nightwatch. More
beers.
Tuesday, May 14th evening -
Pick up the band (Rob, Warren, Dan and Will) at O'Hare. Fiesta Mexicana
for food and margaritas, see Pete Special sans guitar (broke finger in car door) at
Lilly's up the street. Guitarist Will from Stonefish sat in. Many beers. Show Kirk
Estelle's - more beers 'til 4am. Lads crash at Gia's.
Wednesday, May 15th first gig -
Hog Head McDunnas. Promotor never told the club or soundman about the gig
(flyers had been up three weeks too), had to haggle for an extra mic. The sound guy
buggered off after setting up and left us to fend for ourselves. The lads absolutely
rocked though. Took Kirk to Quencher's and then Estelles. Many beers.
Thursday, May 16th second gig -
Lyons' Den opening up for Sonic Voodoo - band sounded great but had to cut
set short as bassist Dan nearly passes out with flu. Kirk and I trek down to Inner Town to
promote band with shot swallowing Warren (fallen in with our trumpet player Matt you see),
and then Estelle's to do the same. Many huge mixed drinks and jolly encounter with the
effusive cleavage-held-pint-of-liqour-through-a-straw-slurping large Margaret.
Friday, May 17th the big gig at the Note -
Guitar strings break, bass guitar strap breaks, Warren's drum sticks break
and fly everywhere - but nonetheless a very well received and attended show. Clubs's
promotor very much wants to do this next year. Manager Kirk manages to disappear fro 24
hours. Band partys at Gia's house.
Saturday, May 18th the musical pub crawl on the school bus -
Playing and imbibing at Inner Town, Abbey Pub, Lyons' Den, Gunther
Murphy's, Hideout, Prodigal Son, see Soulfix at Underground Lounge, finish at Funky Buddha
night club. Neil Dixon, Miga, Stonefish, yours truly, play at most places (and always on
the bus between bars). Much fun started at 5pm and ended at 1am - earliest night so far.
Sunday, May 19th live taping of the band at Chicago's
"Chic-a-go-go" -
In studio dancing for kids of all ages (Chicago's version of "Ready
Steady GO!"). A hoot! Hey, we even ended up writing a song dedicated to the show!
Take Kirk to Smokedaddy's to see Torturing Elvis (they weren't playing), then Estelle's.
End up seeing sun rise at the Pasta Lady's pad.
Monday, May 20th another gig at Quencher's saloon -
Bar full of beers from around the world. Convulsions also played - ended
up at Estelle's to promote more gigs.
Thursday, May 23rd - Chase Cafe.
Strange gig, but turned out all right. Café not very well run by very
stoned hippies but many large fresh fruit juices with ginger, ginseng and loadsa vodka.
This time the entire band goes to Estelle's.
Saturday, May 25th -
Vnuks in Milwaukee opening up for Binky Tunny (Milwaukee's only all girl
glam rock band - and they were a blast - www.binkytunny.com). Great show, but Gia has flu
so we cut out early (though did see some of the Sin City Injector's set - incredible!)
Sunday, May 26th - after an afternoon at Quencher's sampling Goose
Island's cask conditioned IPA, they all bloody leave!
Thank God! Gia thinks it a great idea to take yours truly down to
Champaign (250 miles away) for my birthday. Monday have the worst hangover in years. Hear
from Stonefish's manager three days later - he'd just managed to get out of bed.
And to think the Rolling Stones tour for 9 weeks at a time and have been
doing this for decades??!
Stonefish are back in the UK, and if they are still alive, do check out
their shows (stonefishweb.fsnet.co.uk)
Another
Saturday. Another Sunday (or Mardi Gras) in the Windy City
Just bumped into Phil last night, lead singer of Strain Busy Sky.
"Hey Ben, Shawn wanted to thank you for taking care of him last
Saturday night! Said you picked him up drunk off the street, took him home, and put him to
bed."
I had to point out to Phil that Shawn Kelly's story was absent of a few
details:
The Convulsions had played a gig at Coyles' Tippling House and some of
us had elected to go out to a late night bar to squander our inconsequential remuneration.
The meeting with the affable and highly abnoxicated Mr. Kelly occurred shortly after two
English friends, Chris (who lives here now), and Owen (over here as an ambassador of
British culture) and I were gently evicted from Estelle's hostelry of revelry and bosom
showing patrons at around 6am.
With us was a very effusive and completely warped Puerto Rican girl
called Carmen trying her lush charm to live up to her Bizet's namesake by kissing all the
boys (and an interesting reaction when I whipped out the trusty gob-iron and wobbled into
a rendition of the Habenera!). It was only then, right after the buttocks of Owen had
charmed passersby on North Avenue that, in an attempt to divert my gaze from his cultural
statesmanship, I saw a bloody apparition of strange good nature staggering outside a loft
known well for it's parties and lesser known for it's aggressiveness towards percussionist
gate-crashers. It was Shawn. Bruised, bloody, but smiling. And VERY drunk.
We elected to give him a ride to get him off the street and away from
arrest.
At some point during the ensuing journey, Carmen rewarded Owen's
primeval babooning with a Mardi Gras display of her own that we all, bar the sotted Mr.
Kelly who was not focusing too well, appreciated. It was only natural then that we should
spend the next 3 and a half hours at Carmen's house helping her diminish the bar's worth
of good ale and wine her real estate business had purloined from a foreclosed restaurant,
while she flirted with us all in true gypsy fashion.
There was music, song, laughter and no more nudity, other than the
failed attempts to get Shawn to button up his hairy belly showing shirt (as it turned out
the yobs who had assailed him had ripped his shirt and all the buttons had flown). When it
was time to find a place to eat, thank goodness for the Diner Grill on Irving Park - a 24
hour diner that is staffed by ex-cons and not at all alarmed by shirt ripped, bloody, and
drunk musical customers. With nickel juke boxes on the counter that play Patsy Cline no
matter what you select, "Crazy" seemed just about right.
When Shawn finally came around we found out that he had over celebrated
Strain Busy Sky's huge win at the Park West's Lucky Strike (big tobacco) battle of the
bands. They brought in over 1500 folks to vote for them - and he apparently did a shot of
vodka with each and every one of them. We told him he was in Hammond Indiana, and he
believed us. Poor fellow.
We never did find out what exactly had happened to Shawn. All I can say
is that he is one of the gentlest blokes you'll ever meet who only noticed the blood on
his hands five hours after we had gotten him off the street and his pancakes were placed
before him. I never took him home, merely to the Park West where his car was parked. The
only parts of the night he can remember never happened. Still, a super percussionist in a
super band.
You can check out Strain Busy Sky at www.strainbusysky.com.
Happy Holidays! Cheers, Ben
The
Thirty-Five Pound Monkey
"The last time I went to rehab is the last time I'll ever be in
rehab, but I tell you, it's with you day and night. I don't care what the people may say,
it is my one greatest regret ever getting caught by that shit!"
"A booking agent buddy found me in my car, I was already kicked out
of The Shivers, couldn't believe it was me. Hell, by that time the City owned my car
anyway. I lost my house, my beautiful actress wife. My kid. And all my gigs. Even the
voiceovers and jingles."
"I don't care what anyone says, I wouldn't recommend any kind of
drugs to any kind of person. Hell, I thought if I smoked it - never into the whole needle
thing - it wouldn't get me. How fucking stupid was that!"
"Mind you, most of the best songs I wrote were while I was high on
that junk. I would take a hit and then stay up and write for hours."
"But now it's with me. Every Single Day. For the rest of my
life."
"Back then everyone was partying - all the club owners, the agents.
Christ, if the musicians in the band didn't have their fix, be it coke, junk, booze, or
all three, we wouldn't have been able to play! Just stand there all jittery and
stuff."
Well, that's part of Pete's story. Seven years ago Lefty Dizz was
diagnosed with esophageal cancer and started chemo. Finally the Wild Turkey hip flask he
always carried with him had appeared to undo him. Wisdom of hindsight - we all knew
something was wrong, when after a show at the Crystal Corner in Madison Lefty threw up his
shot of Wild Turkey -
"Man, too much booze, too much booze!"
Unbelievably, while undergoing chemo he didn't cancel any gigs. I've
rarely seen a fellow look so ill, but he stuck it out as best he could. He was gray. Gray
- battleship gray. Saw him two months later - and had never seen him look so well. And his
playing was fabulous, crunchy, and tight, as never before - riffs poured out of him like
wild whiskey. I commented after the show how excellent he looked, how great he sounded. I
don't think he believed me. He was missing his buddy.
"Man, it's so hard doing this sober. Man, I miss the Turkey."
Another three months later he was dead from pneumonia.
Then there's Tommy there on the edge of the stage at the Wild Cherry,
blood pouring from a sidewalk stumble-cut on his head, his guitar listless in his lap
("why did you ever let it go so far?").
"I don't know what I'm doing here."
He told no one in particular.
The band that went on to National fame (Liquid Soul) roared in
embarrassed, faked oblivion, fronted themselves by an ex-junkie unable to help his junkie
guitarist. Weeks later Tommy sold his entire life's collection of musical equipment to the
waiting musical hyenas of Wicker Park. He was a triathlon athlete once - before Spies That
Surf propelled him into Guy Who Shoots Up.
Then, as one of my roommates who just came in from a Seattle musical
showcase at the Metro, there's Cedell Davis.
Wheeled onto the stage, his right hand mangled with arthritis barely
holding a butter knife, his body contorted with pain, and a guitar on his lap. He sizzled
slide work that blew all 30 people, and all the other performers at the under advertised
event, away.
So the point of this amble? There is no point really, just questions.
Do really good blues musicians, any musicians, any other artists really,
need to get high, sick, beat up and beat down to perform?
Can healthy guys; non-drugged out folks play (heck, look at Tommy
Castro)? Look at Ravi Shankar!
This unquenchable fire that burns so ferociously for some people - but
how, and for how long?
Pete again:
"Man, I just have to stay clear of any pain killers these days - I
can apparently take nine times the lethal dose of morphine."
I saw Buddy Miles once at BLUES on Halsted - not on drums but playing
guitar. One of the most emotionally wrenching blues performances I've EVER seen, and I've
seen a few. The girl I was with couldn't stop bitching about what an awful man he was,
beating up his girlfriend, stealing from all his friends, anyone really, to feed his
cocaine habit.
"So what? What incredible music." Was all I could offer.
( The thirty-five pound monkey refers to the post second world war
morphine, and later heroin, addiction of de-mobbed, wounded in action, US veterans
described by Nelson Algren in his novel The Man with the Golden Arm.)
Blues
For No One There
It’s been quite a week for some folks in Chicago;
There was the lad cycling down Ravenswood at 3:30am this
morning with no T-shirt on after he’d seen that "No Dumping Allowed" sign
nestled against the rail road track and found its message just too provocative to pass on.
What better way to say goodbye to his "Jam With Pam" 100% cotton, T-shirt. Heck,
his band had only been voted into the top 10% out of 500 bands around the USA anyway.
There was the other lad earlier the same evening stalled
out in a 16 wheeler beer truck on Halsted Street – not allowed to drink on the job
– finally being dragged through Chicago Rush Hour by the largest tow truck
you’ve never seen. Together the tow and beer truck were over 60’ long. Alas, it
took them that many minutes to crawl that many feet.
There was the seemingly sensible one out of the bunch
reading a Times Newspaper (week old but still a better read than any US paper he’d
ever read) in the beer garden of Resi’s Beer Strube. But he was waiting to hear a
bass player hand in his notice. All happened to plan – but the bassist and he knew
about the legendary John Speigal’s Birthday party at the Lyons’ Den a block and
a half away. Jeff Jacobs from Foreigner ripping on keys, Dan Leahli from Liquid Soul
flamming away at the drums, guest artists that blew, and blew and blew you away. Cog
dancers and tap dancers, cage dancers and stage dancers. And the two musicians parted
amicably, tipply, and completely.
There was last Sunday when I was sitting in with the band
"Strain Busy Sky" at the Chicago Rib Fest (very good ribs by the way) and all I
had to do was shout on the microphone. "Three Floyds is the BEST beer in
Chicago" and our man Jimmy at the beer stall ensured that we all drank the best beer
in Chicago for free. The manager from the House of Blues was in the audience and gave me
full access passes.
There were "The girls from Kalamazoo" – now
there’s a song right there – and a band is busted but not broke.
But there was nothing like working out two songs –
"Mississippi" and "Blues for No One There" – with an angel of
music. Pete Special. "I want to hear colours, none of that technical stuff –
right here I want to hear frustration, anger and lonliness. Right here why don’t you
try some cross-harp. Yeah, I Like what you’re doing. That’s what I call the
beauty spot right there where the music gives you chills." Interspersed with stories
of such detail and charm about the lives of Paul Butterfield, Levon Helm, Big Twist, and
Chicago legends alive and gone. "So many wonderful voices now silent".
We used a tape player to record our musical arrangements.
But the stories were as wonderful as the music, and there is nothing more wonderful than
being wrapped in the world of a musical great - so I might have to bring my own tape
player next time just for the stories as well.
Cruisin’
in The USA
A 1958 red convertible Ford Thunderbird, white trim wheels,
and white leather upholstery. A girl with a ponytail by your side. Chuck Berry’s
"No Particular Place to Go" on the AM radio.
Go forward a decade – a 1968 Cadillac Seville –
The Temptation’s "Ball of Confusion" ghetto blasting on a Detroit Motor
City FM station, or maybe Curtis Mayfield’s "Superfly" or "Pusher
Man".
Heck, even in the early 80’s there’s at least
some Dazed and Confused road tripping experiences. Take the following recounted by Derek
Crawford, drummer for our band from 1999 to 2000;
"Ivan and Willie were also quite fond of other plant
life, particularly in the form of what I like to call a "Jazz Cigarette." I was
not the aficionado that my cohorts were at this time so it did not take much to get me
effectively airborne.
Someone decided that we should go get a movie or two (and
pizza, of course). Soon we were out the door and rolling down the road crammed into the
cab of Ivan's Chevy S-10 pickup truck. We hear some asshole beside us honking his horn and
turn our heads to identify the bassist and guitarist in a truck chock full of amps and
guitars. We asked them where they were going.
"Dudes, don’t you remember? We've got a gig in
ten minutes."
A blurred and chaotic instant later we were on stage, and I
enthusiastically propelled the band in many directions other than the 4/4 time the set
used to be in."
Fast forward to the romance of driving around Chicago,
circa 2000.
It’s a 1994 Honda Civic hatchback (though I did once
have a V8 Chevy 20 custom van that, unladed, could leave the competition at a standstill
at a red light. Alas it spontaneously caught fire and died on the way back from a gig in
Moline). I watched my car disappearing with the tow truck into the Illinois countryside,
while sat next to a friendly woman State Trooper in her friendly yellow, black blazed
squad car, cheerfully being informed that a suspended license, and suspended plates, was a
"Class A Misdemeanor punishable by up to a year in State prison." I watched the
tickets mount up - $2000 worth in all. All because I had not gotten an exhaust emission
test. Never had a clue that my car was required to have one. Now I was a car dispossessed
criminal. And very late for my recording date.
"Your car will be impounded at $80 a day until
you’ve cleared your suspended license and plates. In the meantime you cannot drive
any vehicle until you reinstate your license."
I quickly saw the Catch 22, and asked the officer how
exactly I was going to get my emissions tested if I was unable to drive my car to the
emissions center. Apparently (with certain glee) this was not her problem.
Fortunately, the band I was to record with drove down from
Madison, bailed me out, and drove me home. I subsequently got through my emissions test
using a spare drivers license, later found I had to retake the driving test (written and
road), and spent two days with City Hall of Chicago clearing all that up.
Then there was that big yellow boot and clamp. All those
parking tickets I’d contested – well, half of them were found in my favour, half
were not. Needless to say, they didn’t send the findings to the return address on the
contestations. I appealed (another day with the City Hall of Chicago). I lost.
It was with a certain resignation, that the day before
coming over to England, I hear the screech. I feel the wham. And a Chicago Police paddy
wagon rams me up the arse at a red light. I had to laugh. Cars don’t cruise in
Chicago, they become prune wrinkled beat up - even when at a standstill.
I don’t know. I’m figuring ways of strapping my
amp to a bicycle.
Dancing
Iguanas
Not a lot to report from Chicago – dancing seems to be
taking place at a slower pace, though that Brazilian birthday party last week down at the
University of Chicago on the Southside was a seven-hour, salsa-merengue, marathon
exception.
Actaully, so was my roommate’s iguana dancing around
the house the night we finally let it have free roam. Same night, so too our two female
room mates dancing around the room in what looked like an iguana/people tango, but was
really Amy and Lori trying to get out of the way of a twirling Tasmanian devil of an
equatorially disorientated lizard exercising it’s latent Jusrassic pogo hopping, and
human female long head hair tangling abilities. Fun.
Okay, but most of the dancing has been of a slower pace for
sure. That boogie laid down last week at Lee’s by Vance Kelly and his band. There was
no better pace any place that night. The rhythmn was bone funk deep!
Yes, music is still playing in Chicago. The Chicago Reader
is still over a hundred pages of live musical choice.
But there is also a softness to even the hardest grunge
grind stuff you might hear at the Double Door.
Even the gentle laconic way the Forest Park police car
pulled me over last night on the way back from a gig at Goldyburger’s ("Voted
second best burger in Chicago 1997-1999" – no I don’t know where the best
one is, nor the currently second placed) was so more relaxed than usual (someone has
nicked my license plate sticker, and I will save you from an exhaustive account of all the
stickers, plates, bits of paper, procedures and letter’s sent to The Secretary of
State, that are involved in owning a car in this city).
Even the Christmas touch that flitted into our house just
now ("the Perfect Christmas Tree" – says the legend on the box – just
unfold, plug in, and wham! A Christmas tree with lights), has a carefree whimsy to it (or
it might just be room mate Amy’s final surrender to her mother to "I got this
especially for you, now go and put this up in that sordid bachelor pad you live in and get
in the Christmas spirit for once"). Laudable! A bachelor Christmas tree made in
China! Go figure the national ideological significance of this communist nation making
artificial Christmas trees for lazy Americans (or pretendy Americans such as myself).
Well, bollocks to all that! Right now "Voodoo
Woman" is being played by Pete Special – in our kitchen (simply the BEST new
studio to come out of Chicago). We hauled gear from all over Chicago on a whim – and
here is Gary the saint with the recording gear. AND IT WORKS! Chicago just woke up! At
least at the house 2044 W. Rice, Chicago, IL!
Anyway, enough said but it is with absolute joy and
anticipation that I look forward to a Christmas return to a favourite English city, super
parents, the best watering holes, and to play with Lancaster’s (and London’s)
finest. Here are the festive dates I rate in jolly Lancaster!
Boxing Day a bluesy evening of semi-acoustic music
at the John O’Gaunt with the incomparable Mr. Guppy on stand up bass, Mike Howard on
guitar, and the lovely Delia guest starring on vocals.
Saturday, December 29th, The Convulsions
(UK version that is) at the Gregson Institute (tickets available at the John O’Gaunt
too) with the fabulous Boogie Bill Roberts on keyboards, Mike Atherton on guitar and
vocals, and members of the Hustle.
Sunday, December 30th, the evening
thereof at the John O’Gaunt, after a sizzling lunchtime session with jazz dogs and
sausages, also with Bill Roberts and Mike Atherton.
California
Scheming
The House of Blues venues (yes, they are a chain) all have
video cameras so no matter where you are in the bar, you can see the band on stage (which
is a HUGE improvement over large sports screens).
It was the crescendo of the song, and my brief part in it.
LA was a long way to go to sit in with two bands for a total of three numbers each night,
so this was it. Be startling, go for it! Dive into the audience, rip off some clothes
– or lose a shoe.
The shoe won - and was lost after much frenzied tossing
(found the next day in the sound booth).
As the shoe graced a parabola into the crowd it went
straight towards the video camera, getting larger and larger on the screen as it gently
turned heel to toe, toe to heel, like some bizarre meteorite. It missed the camera lens by
what must have been much less than a foot. Many folks ducked, or fell off their stools
(even in LA some good screen effects can still catch ‘em unawares)! I was so proud!
Hmmm, LA. Wanted to move there the instant I stepped off
the plane into the flower fragrant 75F air (the airport is miles away from the downtown
smog which is mercifully negligible at this time of year). Another time zone away at
O’Hare airport, Chicago, it was gently snowing.
My perception did not change as I cabbed through
Mediterranean landscape, and enjoyed watching the abundance of flower graced summer
architecture. This was not what I had imagined. No smog, race riots, (or musician horror
at it’s worst - pay to play).
The gig was PACKED, and the crowd VERY appreciative. So
far, great (packing when I get back!)
HOWEVER the backstage experience was bizarre: a larger
bunch of enthusiastically selfish schemers of the superficial I have yet to meet. To be
fair, I did meet some lovely folks. The lasses at that UCLA sorority I played at the next
day (while they basked and studied in the sun) was a memory I will long cherish. But the
maniacal self-interest groupies were unbelievable. Chillingly so. Without details, the
following came to mind:
Bugger – I don’t want to write such dirt
But deceit in the land of sun can really hurt
Incandescent musical night
Won’t touch folks in this world – unless the price is right
Do I really want to slag the lifers in the sun?
Rampant inhumanity to others – can it really be one great sham?
Layer on layer of fawning for the almighty California fame buck
Can this really be the quaking truth, hidden degradation and muck?
With such a vital pretty face.
Souls like fractured glass
But no grace.
Know the name of every bit part actor and their part
Kaliedascope of hurts, colossus of wants
An industry of image. Convinced they are
Butterflies with hornet tails.
Do I really want to criticize the la la’s in the sun?
(just a visitor who knew no one)
And is it really true that all you backstage girls just broke up with someone?
(on a lighter note, next issue, ghost stories from
Bolsburg, PA!); |
