My response to an in-class prompt on Pierre Bordieu's "A Performative Critique of the City: The Urban Practice of Skateboarding, 1958-98."
My students were to write their own idiosyncratic map of the city.
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The place to hear music was Fitzgerald's. Not just because it was close to home, though that was a notable asset. But because it offered such an eclectic variety that J and I could go over there any night and be surprised. And on nights we planned, be rewarded with what were great local and national acts. I saw Anna Fermin there for the first time. I saw Marcia Ball, 15 years after seeing her for the first time in Louisville. On a valentine's night, with no other plans, we saw the Molly's and danced for two hours straight. It's where I got thrown out for dancing on tables with my brother-in-law and the Waco Brothers.
The Hideout was better, secluded behind the North Fork just outside a central sanitation station. Wharehouses, lines of garbage trucks and snowplows, and a tiny bar with a bare bulb over the doorway. But inside I saw Andrew Bird tear down the house with his violin and Kevin O'Donnel on the drums. Anna Fermin played a gig supporting the union for us. The Spanish group whose name I never remembered left me floored with their mix of Flamenco and rock and reggae. And the beer was cheap.
Schubas had Over the Rhine in a downpour.
And the big clubs like Metro, Double Door and the halls; Aragon--where I saw the Violent Femmes, and Riviera where I saw the Replacements and Buddy Guy and Michael and I waited outside in 0 degree weather rather than wait inside with the girls we took. That's how bad everything was except for the show.
Then there was jazz at The Green Mill, the oldest bar in Chicago, existing through Prohibition so that I could see Patricia Barber and Kermit Ruffin and the Big Band show sitting with athletes from the Gay Olympics.
And Hothouse, probably the best dancing floor in Chicago. With Marvin Tate and D Settlement scaring the crap out of me. And New Years Eve with salsa and a 40 minute groove that started in 2000 and didn't stop until well into 2001.
Without music, it didn't mean much, but there were the hours of conversation after work in Greektown. Drinking pint after pint, bitching about the students, the full-time faculty, Stanley Fish and the awful architecture of UIC. And sitting in the cold of the el stop, wondering if I'd make it home with dry pants.
On better days, it started with coffee at Artopolis and finished with pints at Artopolis with Michael and Yasmin and Jeneane and Tooch. All of us looking for jobs, and all of us stuck in Chicago. Some never to leave, some coming oh so close to Harvard and Chicago. And me leaving for Nebraska where the bars suddenly seemed dank, depressing and for people who didn't know better.
