Tag Archives: John Thurgood

Chicago, Illinois

These Are the Things We Have Always Been Doing

By John Thurgood

So, ten minutes into the bike ride, it starts raining. But really raining. And out of nowhere. Me and Julio, we’re in front of a psychiatric ward when it starts coming down, so we ride over to their metal awning for shelter, but the wind is really thrashing. The awning doesn’t do much to keep us dry, and the over-washed, button-up t-shirt I’m wearing isn’t doing much to cut the wind either.

Standing there, not sure how long this storm is going to last, we try to figure out what to do, when the door to the psych ward opens and a squirrely eyed janitor invites us in. He’s not wearing a uniform, and the only reason I assume he’s the janitor is because he’s holding a walkie-talkie. He leans his whole body into the weight of the door to hold it open. It’s a little weird that he doesn’t just step outside, like he can’t break the threshold or something.

“What about our bikes?” Julio asks.

“Sure, bring ’em in.”

He waves us in, and we follow, struggling to get our bikes through the heavy metal door.

The lobby is bright, and everything—the linoleum, the painted cinder walls, and the cheap ceiling panels—are a sterile white that makes the whole place look stiff and uncomfortable.

“You boys sure did pick a bad time to ride your bikes. You don’t check the weather reports?” The janitor stands with his arms crossed over his chest, a little righteous.

We mumble that we don’t, and I look around at the posters lining the lobby walls. They’re all white poster board with magic maker and glitter. The writing is squiggly and riddled with spelling errors.

“What is this place?” I ask.

“It’s a psychiatric ward for autistic children.” Then he goes into a long argument defending the need for long-term care for autistic children. I had heard about it on This American Life, so I understand where the guy is coming from, and resist the temptation to bring up the TAL episode—I don’t want to sound insensitive. And from the look on the guys face, it doesn’t seem like he gets this opportunity very often. So, I listen while he talks his job up, and glance around the lobby, somewhat disappointed that this scenario hadn’t turned into an H. P. Lovecraft novel but a learning experience, instead. I usually welcome both, equally.

Julio is the first to notice the rain letting up. The janitor is a little disappointed that we have to go. I’m not sure what he had planned, but I guess standing around shooting the shit is better than cleaning up vomit or whatever duties he was avoiding by standing down here talking with us.

Outside, the streets are glistening from the streetlights reflecting off the freshly wet asphalt and shallow puddles. There is still a slight drizzle, but we start riding anyway. We were headed to a show at the Empty Bottle when the rain started, and we are going to miss the first band for sure now—we were already a little late before we got caught up in the storm.

The Strange Boys are playing, a band that I don’t care too much about, but Julio is really into. They add a southern mojo hand to SF’s garage sound that, I guess, really does it for a few people. They’re pretty popular anyway, and I always see their records at Reckless but seem to pass them up for something else every time.

The cool thing about it raining is that when we get to the Bottle, we find a spot to lock-up right in front.

There’s a nice little restaurant next door to the Bottle called Bite Café. I guess it’s ran by the guys at Empty Bottle. But while we’re locking up, the singer from the Ponys comes out, looks around, then goes back inside.

“Hey, that was the dude from the Ponys,” Julio kind of laughs.

“Why didn’t you ask him about CB2?”

Julio works at Crate & Barrel’s sister company, CB2, which is basically a cheaper version of the former. They make dorm room furniture and weird knick-knacks. But, for the past few months, Julio has been trying to get bands to come into their warehouse to play a show. It’s kind of a great idea, but he’s had little luck with it so far.

“Yeah,” Julio says, shrugging, “I haven’t sent them an email about it, but I probably should.”

When we get inside, the first band is already off stage, and the crowd is well into its shift to the bar. Julio offers to buy first drinks, and ten minutes later, he comes back with Old Milwaukee.

The Empty Bottle has been around for a little less than ten years, and before that it was another venue with a different name and owner. But at one point it must have been a store front or someone’s apartment, because the layout of the place is somewhat unconventional. The entrance opens to what I assume was once a living room, where a pool table now sits and a table for merch. Two arcade games are in the corner. That room leads to a hall of disheveled brick with a Mrs. Pacman game and a few doorways to the main room with the stage and bar. It’s an interesting set-up, and they always have some type of whiskey and beer special for five bucks. So, music aside, I would go there anyway.

The next band to get on stage is White Fence, which is basically Tim Presley wiggling around with a guitar strapped to his chest. I kind of love it, and so does most everyone in the crowd. He looks like an unkempt businessman that at one point lost his way, and now croons about it.

At one point in the show someone yells out, “What kind of pants are those?”

Presley replies, “They’re Docker’s,” and somehow makes it sound sexy, which pretty much sums-up their whole performance.

White Fence plays their set, and two Old Milwaukees later, the Strange Boys take to the stage.

Julio makes his way up to the front before it gets too crowded, and I follow. While the band is getting ready we position ourselves in front of one of the microphones. I don’t normally like to stand right up front, but Julio is really into the band, so what the hell, I do it anyway.

Ryan Sambol steps up to the mic in front of us, and thanks White Fence and the band before them, then talks a little about his day while tuning his guitar. The crowd starts to fill-in. And then the band opens with “Poem Party.”

The Strange Boys are a little younger than Julio and I, and they’re all strapping young men. When Sambol sings, he takes on a sort of heavy, bedroom glare that I’m sure is meant for the teenage girls swarming the stage and not me and Julio. So, it’s a little weird that we’re standing directly in front of him.

Awkwardness aside, they play a great set, and afterward Julio and I step outside to enjoy an after-show cigarette. On the way out, Julio buys a White Fence cassette tape. It’s of a live show they did in LA. There are only 200 copies, a collectable, but I suspect he bought it only because it was recorded onto a cassette.

He’s holding the tape, looking it over as we walk to our bikes. He says something about the tape being cool, and I agree and take out a cigarette and light it.

He asks me for a cigarette, I give him one, plus my lighter, and we stand there for a while taking in the sweet, humid smell of a summer night in Chicago.

After a few drags, Sambol dashes out of the venue, chasing down the hot tamale guy.  When he walks back, he’s carrying a plastic sack of tamales in one hand and munching on one in the other. We wave him over.

Introductions all around. He no doubt recognizes us as the dudes swarming the stage and pins us as a pair of fanatics.

Sambol takes a bit of tamale, looks at a sliver of pepper dangling from the end and with a full mouth asks, “What do you think that is?”

“Pshh,” Julio says, “that’s not the real tamale guy. Those things are tiny.” He laughs.

“Hey, it’s food, though.” Sambol raises the bag of tamales. “And right now they taste just like I want them to.”

We compliment him on the show and his mild success, and he tells us a little about the tour so far, then Julio breeches the CB2 topic. Julio had emailed someone in the band about it, but judging by the look on Sambol’s face, it was not him.

“Yeah, they said there just wasn’t enough time this time,” Julio says. “But next time you should; for sure, you should definitely stop in.”

“Yeah, sorry about that. We’re playing a show in Milwaukee tomorrow night.” Sambol takes out another tamale. “It sounds fun, though. What is it again? A radio station?”

Julio laughs. “No man, it’s a studio, an artist’s studio for CB2.”

Julio walks around a clear explanation of what CB2 actually is, and Sambol munches on his tamale, obviously confused but willing to listen, probably still thinking we’re fanatics.

Finally, I cut Julio off, and plainly state that CB2 is the sister company of Crate & Barrel. They make dorm room furniture and knick knacks.

Sambol smiles. “So wait a minute. You want us to play at the store?”

“No,” Julio says, “at the studio.”

“You’d be playing for the office, kind of,” I add.

There is an awkward pause.

“Whoa, I thought you guys were a radio station. Whoa, that’s kind of weird.”

“But it’s an interesting space,” Julio adds.

Sambol takes another bit of tamale. “And you guys will be recording this?”

“Sure. We can record it. Maybe arrange something with the corporate office. You guys could be sponsors or something. I’ve been talking to other bands about it. Thee Oh Sees and Sandwiches. I think Sandwiches might do it.”

Sambol thinks it over.

A girl runs over with an album. I see her at shows all the time. When King Khan played she jumped up on stage and made out with him, then did it again, like seven more times. It got weird. Her album has signatures all over it from the rest of the band, and she asks Sambol to sign it.

After he signs, he turns back to us, and after a second says, “Man, that’s a hard sell.”

Apparently it is, so Julio drops the subject, and we talk about Austin for a while, because The Strange Boys are living there right now. Then Sambol heads back into the Bottle, and we unlock our bikes and head over to Estelle’s for burgers and a beer.

Estelle’s is right on the corner of North and Damen, where the two streets cross Milwaukee, The Six Corners. It’s the busiest intersection in Wicker Park, and one of the busiest in the whole city.

I’ve been told by a few people that ten years ago Wicker Park was a rough part of town. There’s a scene from an old Arnold Schwarzenegger movie called Red Heat that shows The Six Corners before all the condos and martini bars went in. It was pretty bleak. I interviewed Ron Seymour of Ron Seymour Photography for a project once. His studio has been on that corner since ’88, and he said when he first moved in, he couldn’t walk outside after six. You just didn’t do it. Two friends of his were mugged and killed. One was stabbed and the other was beaten to death. Now, there’s an American Appearal just down from his studio, the first one to open in the Midwest. It stays open until nine. There’s also a Levi’s store, an Urban Outfitters, and a slew of music venues and bars. It basically Chicago’s version of an outdoor mall, and normally I would never go over to that part of town, but Estelle’s is the only place to get a decent burger and a beer past one a.m., so Julio and I lock our bikes up on some scaffolding across the street and go inside and sit at the bar.

My friend Chiara texted me while we were at the show, so I text her back. She’s at Pancho’s in Logan Square. Some friends of hers are in town from Baltimore, and they’re playing a show. She texts back that the show is over, and she’ll meet us at Estelle’s.

The burgers here are probably shipped frozen, but the buns they use are pretty good and the veggies are fresh, and they usually have a good IPA in a can for three or four bucks.

Me and Julio order. Harold and Maude is playing on the TV behind the bar, so we watch that for a while. Julio has never seen it, so I try to explain why the kid is running around with an old lady, but I realize I don’t know what I’m talking about so I just say it’s a good movie and that he should check it out.

It’s a weekday so Estelle’s isn’t all that crowded. There is a group of accountants standing at the bar just down from us, and behind us in a booth is a middle-aged guy with what is most likely a hooker. The rest of the bar is modestly filled with similar folks, bottle-necking as it gets closer to the door.

Chiara shows up while we’re halfway through our burgers, and joins us at the bar. We work together at Nightwood in Pilsen, so we talk about that for a while. Julio is clearly uninterested, and watches the movie.

Chiara moved to Chicago to do a post-back in visual art at the School of the Art Institute of Chicago, and her work uses a lot of fabric and three-dimensional shapes. She’s really into embroidery. She also has a bunch of funny tattoos that she refuses to fill-in, like a bandaid and a polar bear among others. They’re all outlines, so it basically looks like she screenprinted her arm with cookie cutters.

We finish eating and decide to head over to the lakefront. Outside, the streets are crowded with lingerers, even though the two a.m. bars let out a half hour ago. Most of them are clutching phones to the sides of their heads, trying to get a hold of something better than just going home, I guess. Taxis are swarming The Six Corners, too. This is their golden hour.  And above everyone’s head, the L clatters up to the Damen stop.

We take North Avenue over to the lake, which we quickly realize is a mistake. North lacks bike lanes, and hasn’t been re-tarred since the fires, or so it seems. The traffic sucks, too, and I almost get hit by a taxis that pulls out in front of me.

We take the North Avenue tunnel under Lake Shore Drive, and ride over to the cement docks. A few kids are swimming off the dock down by the Chess Pavilion, and the water looks really inviting, especially after that bike ride down North. Chiara is clearly thinking about it. Julio is starring off at the John Hancock Building and the wave of skyscrapers looming just a few blocks south. This is a weird part of Chicago, where the lake meets the city. There are two beaches on either side of the docks and up north past the pavilion, Lincoln Park sprawls outward into a grassy preserve.

Swimming off the dock is something I would have done regularly if I had grown up in Chicago—in my underwear, naked, whatever. But now it just seems cheesy. To jump in now would only be forcing a sense of adventure, and I see the same lackluster resignation on the faces of Chiara and Julio.

I ask if they want to jump in anyway. Chiara smiles and nods, and Julio picks up his bike.

“I think I’m gonna head back and drink a few beers,” Julio says.

I try to get him to stay, but he won’t have it, so he takes off and me and Chiara strip down to our skivvies and jump into the frigid depths of Lake Michigan.

The water is dark, and I can’t tell how deep it is. Looking outward, it seems endless, like the ocean, and I start to wonder if there are any Buick-sized catfish or equally large crawdads lurking down by my feet, waiting to pull under an early morning swimmer.

The cold water feels great, and me and Chiara make-out a little as we tread around.

There’s a yellow ladder up the side of the dock, and we use it to climb out. We jump in a few more times, then get dressed. As we gather some sort of plan, a K-9 unit drives by on the bike path. Five minutes earlier, they would have given us tickets or told us to leave. Good timing, I guess.

We head down the bike path and take the tunnel over to Michigan Avenue. There is something strange about swimming in one of great North America lakes, then, right after, riding down the six lane thoroughfare of Chicago’s busiest shopping district. Like I said, it’s a weird part of Chicago.

We ride down to Chiara’s. She lives in Bridgeport, and once we get through downtown we cross over to State Street, take Archer through Chinatown and then end up in her neighborhood. It’s a nice ride, and the streets are empty.

We stash our bikes in Chiara’s basement, and head up to her roof. Some friends of hers gave her a few home brews, so we take a bottle each up with us. The beers turn out to be terrible, but we drink them anyway, and spend the rest of the night up there looking out over the pitched roofs of residential south Chicago, talking and doing whatever until the sun pops up in the east.

Locations in Chicago

Empty Bottle
1035 N. Western Avenue
Chicago, Illinois 60622
(773) 276-3600

Bite Cafe
1039 N. Western Avenue
Chicago, Illinois 60622
(773) 395-2483

Reckless Records
26 N. Broadway
Chicago, Illinois 60657
(773) 404-5080

2013 W. North Avenue
Chicago, Illinois 60647
(773) 782-0450

Ronald Seymour Inc.
1625 N. Milwaukee Avenue
Chicago, Illinois 60647
(773) 235-0161

2202 N. California Avenue
Chicago, Illinois 60647
(773) 384-1865
Google Maps

2119 S. Halsted Street
Chicago, Illinois 60608
(312) 526-3385

Nashville, Tennessee

The Good But Ultimately Doomed

By John Thurgood

We got into Nashville around dark. I was with an old friend, Josh, whom I didn’t get to see very often anymore because we lived a few hundred miles from each other. We knew each other from high school (even though we didn’t actually go to the same high school), and most of our conversations spiraled in and out of stories from those times. His girlfriend Kimmie, whom I’ve also known for a good number of years, was with us; along with my girlfriend, Jen. Jen was lovely enough to provide us the car for this trip to Music City.

Driving into Nashville was the same as always: city lights with a few buildings worthy of the title ‘skyscraper’. Most notably the Batman Building, which, I guess, is a term of endearment more popular than what I had originally assumed. I always thought it was a made-up name by someone in the car when we were teenagers, but I’ve heard people use the term outside that circle of friends, so I guess the Batman Building is officially a thing. This trip was actually my first time back since those days, when I had first gotten a license and a few friends and I would drive down from Evansville, Indiana, for no other reason than to look at girls and get rejected somewhere new. We weren’t old enough to drink then, and the only shows we went to were at all-ages venues. So, this being my first time back, I knew little, if anything, of the twenty-one and up venues in Nashville. For help on the subject, I asked a friend, Jodie. She had moved to Nashville a few years back, and always had an ear to the grindstone about this sort of thing. Her brother was a punk-band kid in Evansville’s small scene, and she followed in his bootsteps without much effort. She told me about The 5 Spot and some other places. She had also mentioned a contest called 8 off of 8th at the Mercy Lounge. Eight bands played each Monday night, and the best band would go on to play at the up-coming Bonnaroo Festival. It was judged by the audience and sounded like a goodtime, but we couldn’t make it to town until Saturday. So, we missed it.

We wanted to go somewhere that was nice for drinking, and watch a few good but ultimately doomed bands and, from Jodie’s description of The 5 Spot, it seemed like the right ticket. The bar sits at 1006 Forrest Avenue, just on the outskirts of a nice neighborhood, with a lot of modest two-story homes. A block over, on Woodland Street, there is a nice strip of local restaurants and shops. We found street parking about a block away from the venue.

5 spot interior

Inside The 5 Spot were tables and stools scattered about the room, but it didn’t seem cluttered. The bar itself was lined with TGIF-esque flare and a more-than-healthy amount of chrome. A single television was mounted behind the bar playing college basketball. In front of the stage was a nice clearing for any boot-scooting one may feel entitled to. The stage was a raised wedge in the corner, and, when we walked in, a guy was busy setting up a white sheet on the back wall of it. When he was done, someone turned on a projector and old commercials played on the sheet (i.e. Crossfire, TMNT, and Slip’n Slide). Our conversation circled around the commercials for a moment while we ordered drinks. The barman was in good spirits, and we invited him in on our little conversation. He laughed, we laughed. And eight dollars plus a tip later, we settled over at the pool table with a Mickey’s Hand Grenade each.

Josh had always kicked my ass at pool. I paid for a game, and he shut me up pretty quick. We put the pool sticks back and sat by the bar with the girls. They were talking about school. Jen, my girlfriend, had been thinking about grad school, and it was pretty much all she had been talking about for the past few months. Josh and I—we stayed out of it. Josh had played a show in Nashville the year before, and we talked about that for a while. He played guitar for an Oi! band, 16 Tons, and they had opened for Straight Laced at The Muse. I wanted to go there, but he couldn’t remember where it was. So, we dropped it.

The reason I wanted to go to The 5 Spot was that every Tuesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday they have a handful of bands play from around 7pm to an indeterminate time. Playing time is a little murky because it usually depends on the number of bands that cancel or don’t show. That night all but one band had canceled, and they seemed to consider their appearance some kind of charity. They played seven or so bluegrass standards, interspersed with vague stabs at the audience from the singer and the band. I didn’t catch the singer’s name—a real jolly guy. He was a short fellow with a silver and gray beard, and he wore his guitar slung over his paunchy gut, ignoring it most of the time as if it were just another article of clothing made to keep up his pants. He was from the say-something-smart-then-drink-from-your-beer school of shit talking, which wasn’t quite as entertaining as the band’s version of “My Fare Lady,” but it held some weight. Most the audience didn’t seem to mind their remarks, and I got a pretty good feeling that everyone there knew each other one way or another. The whole experience had the feeling of a block-party barbeque without the barbeque. The string band finished their set, and after a while a lady in jean shorts and a homemade tank-top took to the dance floor with a multi-colored, flashing hula-hoop. Around this time we realized there were no other bands. And so, we left.

On the other side of the Cumberland River, just down the street from Vanderbilt University, at 2219 Elliston Place, The Exit/In and The End sit across the street from one another. The End has the distinct advantage though, being nestled in an alley fifty feet or so from Elliston Place, and it often has the cheaper cover too. That night The Exit/In was charging six and, from what we could hear curbside, the band playing sounded like some disco-punk band that we didn’t really want to see. So, we went up the alley to The End, which ended up being a good thing. They had a reasonable five buck cover, the doorman was a rather jolly fella, and the place was crowded—but in a good way.

The End

The End is not necessarily a bar. It has a bar in the back and they do serve bottles and cans of beer (ranging from two to five dollars), but it’s all-ages, which I guess has its ups and downs. Like most all-ages venues, there’s a lot of standing room. But they have a separate area to the right of the stage with three small round tables for the old and disheveled types, and there are stools at the back by the bar if standing and feigning dance moves is not your thing. We missed the first band, but we made it in time to catch a few songs from The Grayces, a young trio that sounded similar to the Heartless Bastards but with less folk influence. A boy played bass and another played drums, and they had a girl on guitar and vocals. After their set, the night began to slowly fall apart. Josh’s girlfriend started complaining about not feeling so good. She hadn’t eaten very much that day, and the multiple Mickey’s from the previous bar were starting to disagree with her. She was a trooper though, and insisted that we stay for the next band.

As The Grayces cleared the stage, a girl hopped on the mic and explained that the show was organized by the Tennessee Teens Rock & Roll Camp, and that a portion of the night’s proceeds would go to help secure equipment for their upcoming summer camp. They needed money and gear. As she explained her organization’s needs I sipped from my beer, knowing that I couldn’t contribute, and felt like a dirt-bag for not being able to. This feeling was made even more apparent when three teens from the camp stepped on the stage to further explain their needs. While they talked, Jen brought up some similar camps out west. The ones she knew were all-girl camps. The three girls on stage had made her think of it. Josh kept saying that he wished he had had the opportunity to go to Rock’n Roll camp. He was being a little weird about it, the camp business, and I could also tell he was pissed about staying at the club when his girlfriend was sick. He had his arm around her, and he was giving me a look. I told him we would only see the first couple songs of the next band, and then we would go.

Once the teens left the stage, Hanzelle, the next band, began setting up. They were a five person group with a stand-up bass and cello. They had a guy on keys and electric drums, a guy on acoustic drums, and a guy on guitar. They reminded me of a poor man’s Margot & the Nuclear So and So’s. Good stuff. The stand-up bass player was a maniac. He had a handlebar mustache and a hairy gut. He took his shirt off after the first song, which was, I guess, some kind of band inside joke because they all thought it was hilarious, and I guess it was. He plucked away at his bass with a genuine smile. He was having a goodtime, and for a few songs I was too, but then, because Kimmie wasn’t feeling any better, we finally left. We tried to stop somewhere to get something to eat, but everything was closed. We stopped at a gas station to get some water, and a candy bar or something for Kimmie, and then we left Nashville altogether.

Locations in Nashville

The 5 Spot
1006 Forrest Avenue
Nashville, TN 37206

(615) 650-9333

The End
2219 Elliston Place
Nashville, TN 37203-5205

(615) 321-4457

Mercy Lounge
1 Cannery Row
Nashville, TN 37203

(615) 251-3020

The Muse
835 4th Avenue South
Nashville, TN 37210

(615) 251-0190


Bands Featured

The Grayces