Southside Chicago Grifts-Luck of the seemingly Irish- Cheap beer and mighty craic (exactly what you'd expect)

"C'mon Irish, step up." The airport security guard barked. I must've gone into a temporary reverie having removed my shoes and become distracted by the announcements that "Janet Walker please come to the second floor information desk." At that point I'd had about 5 hours of sleep in 36 so my sense wasn't all it is cracked up to be. I knew he was talking to me- I was front in line, and wearing a Black 47 Irish 2003 shirt. I clearly was the person being addressed, but being called "Irish" in Chicago is a little weird ya ask me. Maybe the guard was trying to be personable. I wanted a beer. Or coffee or both. My brain was turned off and I was lucky to be at the airport at all.
Flashback forty-five minutes I was standing on the corner waiting for a bus that I saw drive past me going the other direction. "SHIT!" I screamed, my frantic waves going unheeded. A call to the CTA, "There will be another bus in an hour, arriving at the airport at 1pm." My flight left at 1:25-and while I'm a pretty blessed person when it comes to strange things like lines at airports I had seen the stretched row of people waiting to go through security the day before. That line had been well over a half hour-if I didn't get to the airport by 12:30 I was up a creek.
The hotel I was staying at was mediocre at best, better than most I stay at but far from a quality establishment. It didn't even have a hotel bar. But next door was the Doubletree, a hotel I have partied at many times and I think possibly passed out in at some point in time. A very fine establishment indeed, a place that puts the comfort of their guests above all else. And I know this, courtesy of some latent acting talent I put to use in which I pretended to be staying at the hotel.
At the airport on Friday I'd brazenly walked over to the airport courtesy phones and dialed the code for the Doubletree. "Hi, I'm at Midway and need the shuttle." I hopped in with a couple from Wisconsin that had the right to be there and took my ride ducking around the building and off to my lesser hotel.
After getting ready for the show I tried to catch the damned CTA, but it drove by 10 minutes earlier than scheduled. The cab service was busy and couldn't have anything out for at least an hour and a half. So I took the next best route and went to the next door hotel. "I need to get to BlahBlahBlah (da club)." The desk attendent pointed me toward the door, "Talk to him."
A friendly and well presented doorman about my age was at the door, "Let me help this lady to your room and I'll run you right over there," he said. Didn't ask for my room , just said to hang on and he'd be right back. He drove me to the club, dropped me off at the door gave me a card to call for return service. But I knew I couldn't risk my luck. A cab would do fine.
I took a seat at the bar, ordered a beer and started to talk to someone that was at the bar for the show as well. Driven down from Wisconsin-a huge drive if you're in Nashville-not much if you're in Chicago. But noteworthy. I proceeded to ingest many Sam Adams beers assuming I would have a wicked and well earned bar tab at the end of the night. That was the point right-I gave up self pity and misery for lent. I was in a state where I only knew the band, and they're used to me by now. Or else, they should be-Christ, it's been enough times by now hasn't it. I'd been enjoying being miserable so much and wallowing in all in entailed for most of '06 so while it's not as traceable as chocolate I'm thinking it's a good plan. It should last until the first really wicked hangover or I get my midterm back. Great thing is if I succeed I get to spend all of Easter feeling bad for myself! While watching Jesus Christ Superstar and eating black jelly beans, as is the tradition.
Where was I? Drinking beer in a club on the Southside of Chicago. The pipes and drums society came on first-there are I think 2 types of people in this world: ones that like pipes and drums and those that don't. I am in group A. Gotta love cops in kilts, it is a beautiful thing. Sure, at Irish fests around the 27th version of Danny Boy on the pipes it gets a bit painful but God created the beer tent for just such an occassion. Get yourself a pint and cry boy-that's what the song is for. Speaking of which-if it isn't on the old lousy computer speaker as I type...good timing. Must admit last night I got a tear during Danny Boy (the one I'm listening to now, not the standard as I suspect you're hearin it)-thought about my own Danny Boys (in the traditional sense---ahh...but I explain this when I'm the only person reading this that might know there's more than one song by this name....) the metaphorical Danny Boys that have gone lately and there's something about that damn song it reminds you we all leave people behind when we go, but hey, "Life's a bitch and then you die."to
The band took the stage right after the pipes and drums left the floor. One thing I can say about this endeavor was I never feared for safety in the club-with bouncers at every corner and door and the law enforcement in kilts, I didn't see too many fights breaking out. Seemed like it was barely a verse into the first song that I was flashed that smile and a hello was nodded my direction. Good, good, my reputation hasn't faded since last our paths crossed-I was worried that might've happened.
Before the show, I'd been milling about, drinking and looking for trouble when I wanded over towards the merch table. A brief hi wave was exchanged, I wandered over and some pleasantries were bantered. Those two are all that I talked to-but I'll be at another show soon enough. I'm sure of it-at least by summer. Again, I ask, how could I have thought I ever said or did anything worth staying away from this music?
When the band took the stage and launched into the set I felt the way I imagine a person receiving death by electrocution must feel at the first jolt of electricity hits their body in that brief and fatal moment when the body hasn't yet realized the power will increase and eventually the high will be the ultimate down. I felt like, simply by being near the band, I had some of the electricity running under my skin. What must it feel like to be able to actually play that way? If the audience can be lifted off the floor and forget the lacklustre nature of their dance moves and wreck their voices screaming the lyrics how must it feel to play that music...fuck what would it feel like to have WRITTEN the songs? The experience needs to be lived, as words don't describe it terribly well. Not my words, anyway. I know when I've taken the sister and the Mum they've both enjoyed the show, had their fun. They, in their own way, have a great deal of fondness for what the band does and says. I laugh at the thought of Mum saying "Tell 'em Mum and Dad wish them all the best, too." There is a possession of the music, it is a people's music and the people that embrace it embrace the music can't help but become attached (even without any actual contact) to the musician. This happens with all good music that is sadly under-popular. I feel the same about Todd and BR--they have failed to become bigger than Jesus but the contest is pretty tight at my house.
On Tuesday when I bought my ticket I'd emailed L, because I feel it is best to announce I'm going to be somewhere so that on the horrible chance I don't get there a person or two might have some knowledge that I had planned to be where I wasn't. I do not want my story to be a very special 48 Hours. The email had been giddy, excited, positively out of my personality and fueled by 4 beers and a laziness about buying food. IT was not one of my most poetic moments-nor was it Black Crowes concert level intoxication hilarity. The note could be boiled down thusly: "I love Orbitz last minute fares, as they are cheaper than dinner out. So yea, I'm gonna be at the show on Friday. Play Bobby Fuller-that would make me happy. Wow--can't believe I'm this excited to leave East Nashville...how sad...I never thought I'd want to leave here even for a day." It was a spur of the moment, written less than 5 minutes after buying my ticket, happiness-o-gram. Something I rarely feel so strongly and I wanted to share with someone. I didn't really expect it to register-but it must've somehow.
"C'mere darlin'" L said putting his arm around me and pulling me into a hug. "I heard you would be here, good to see ya."
"Ya heard from me, I sent you an uncharacteristically gleeful email on Fat Tuesday."
"Oh yeh-we emailed, I remember that...I haven't slept in 2 days."
"Me neither. I was up at 5am watching Velvet Goldmine becoming progressively more convinced it had unseated Citizen Kane as the greatest movie ever. Since men in make-up are sexie."
He laughed.
I laughed. I laughed because I had requested a song that I have rarely heard played live. I've heard it I think-but not like some of the "standards" songs that get played at the majority of the shows.
When he yelled out "Who Killed Bobby Fuller? C'mon!" and the band took the cue I went straight into happiness like only hearing your song can bring. I danced my heart out on it so happy to hear that under appreciated gem and I laughed when I talked to L, because he didn't remember I'd requested it but for some reason they'd played the song anyway. It was like, totally, subliminal or something. Yeh, wow. Or maybe the plan was to play it long before I decided to go to the show. Y'know, I don't care...I still got to hear it that's what matters.
Nursing even more beer, "Darlin' you know you have to have a $15 tab for a charge, right?" The bartenders kept telling me this.
"I'm drinkin' Sam Adams, what's that, like 3 beers? I'm solid." I said on my fourth, walking away before I got the answer.
When I was ready to cash out the bartender said, "You had, like $7 worth of beer so do you want to more than double your tab now?"
"What?"
"It's the Beer of the Month."
Shit, glad I chose wisely...and had cash. I was trashed and full on less than $20. That's a good night. "Can I get, like, 2 to go?"
"We don't have a to go license. I kind of thought liquor and to go license went hand in hand...maybe that's only in some places-not on the Southside of Chicago.
Over at the merch table I was haggling with the boy behind the table, "So, what're you trying to run me for this CD?"
"$15."
"Yeh,I'll give ya $10."
"It's$15."
"But I'm adorable. So I should get a discount."
"I don't get a discount, why should you?"
"Are you harassing my cousin?" I was asked.
"Boy, haven't we met? I harass you, I harass your cousin. I do what I want." He threw a t-shirt at me. I grabbed it. "Thanks babe," I said. He nodded. It was an old shirt from when I'd gone to Ireland---this one is my size. Unlike the one I got then. I am wearing it as I type. It's what got me called Irish at the airport. I could wear B47 shirts for a work week and never have a repeat.
As I sit here listening to the new CD for a second time I want to fly out to one of the other March gigs. I think it's only music that can create such fanaticsm. Music and religion-but is there any difference between the bliss that a really on show can bring and religious ecstasy? My suspicion is that God is sensible enough to know that some people don't like doctrines and creeds nearly as much as they like an excellent lyric compiled with an awesome band and a crowd that's taking every note and syllable like communion.