Carving at Chris and Anita's

"It's been a rough life, alright? Grow up on a nice little patch of ground, surrounded by your buddies, only to be uprooted, tossed onto the back of a truck, and sent off to sit in a huge cardboard box outside a supermarket waiting for someone to take you someplace warm. But it's okay, really, I'll get by. Say, can you be a pal and pour me a stiff drink?"

Chicago sports

Let me be the first and perhaps the only one to say it: We are living in the midst of a charmed time for Chicago sports. I mean, when I consider the droughts our various teams have had, and then look around at my group of friends largely born in the early 70's, it is fair to say that we have not suffered through the years of sports disappointment that our parents and grandparents have endured. The Bears, Bulls, and now Sox have come out on top, giving us a solid team to root for in the 80's, 90's, and 00's. So if the theory I'm building here is correct...Blackhawks in the teens and Cubs in the 20's? Or is that optimistic? And yes, I know I am ignoring the Chicago Fire soccer team, who have also been winners in the past decade, but they lack the historical context of our other franchises. Anyway, Cubs fans, don't give up hope. Your decade is coming. GO SOX!

Hum

The scene: Michele acquires some passes to Rockfest, a free all-day show down in Champaign culminating in a reunion set by local heros Hum.
M comes down from Green Bay and Saturday morning we hit the road for Chambana; I passed through town a few years ago but otherwise haven't really been back since leaving in 1996.
We make good time and decide to go get lunch. Off to the Courier in Urbana we go, the food there is okay but they make the best milkshake in town. I'm a sucker for good desserts. Eavesdrop on a conversation at the next table about the definition of dusk. Yeah, that's college; debating the meaningless with big words.
Drive through campus (Green street is worse, more commercially in-your face and devoid of character than the last time), and ditch the car near a park in the vicinity of "downtown", about two blocks from one of my old apartments. Take a stroll, no particular hurry; drop into Jane Addams used bookstore. I am relieved to see that it hasn't changed a bit; M keeps asking me about nostalgia and yes, I admit I am nostalgic for places like this. As we progress through downtown, I am surprised as much by what is gone as I am the places that have survived; restaurants and coffee shops that opened when I was in school are still here, but the bars have all pretty much moved or been re-christened.
We swing by the festival and see that there isn't much of a crowd yet, so continue walking around. Eventually end up at Cafe Kopi for coffee and kill an hour doing a crossword puzzle.
So, the opening bands: Missed The Boat Drunks; saw a little bit of Whiskey Daredevils (blah), Liquid Soul is a rock-funk outfit from Chicago, they were decent but had a less than ideal crowd for their participatory style; American Minor made an attempt to recreate the grunge protion of the Singles soundtrack and failed; and Shooter Jennings is a country group with no sense of irony that played too long and collectively needs to bathe.
But we came there for Hum, and they were worth the trip. It was a decent mix of material, a little heavy on the later stuff but they played it with vigour. There were a few people in the crowd that I would like to have decapitated, obnoxious drunks and a few too many who thought they were at a campfire sing-a-long.
Ran into John F at the end, rescued M from some guys hawking some nonsense, and hit the road.

!vOrTeX! 09.05

In creeping crawlspaces we lay in wait, taking sustenance from tree roots that penetrate the foundation. Our hands are rainbow paint guns, fingertips stained permanently; the police took our prints and were highly amused. As if on cue, he was late, not for the last time; and the second hand sweeps like a windshield wiper, keeping time in a twenty-one tick tape loop, we see what we want to see and then we see it again. Climbing, can't get a toe-hold in the chain link fence, dogs getting closer, moving away, slipping down, climbing.

most days are like this.

analysis

A thought I haven't thought through. I'm not charismatic, exactly, but I have a goofy side, a mode that maybe comes across as immature or silly, moments when I just don't care what people think, or I do, but I choose not to process any negatives. So what is that about? Is it rooted in having to be the responsible one? Do I occasionally fend off being uptight and serious all the time by coming up with the most random larks? Is that why it has become harder over time to be passionate about anything? Without competition or a sense of gravity or someone needing me to do something, I get complacent. Is there a touch of the martyr in all of that, and assuming there is, I know I resent it a bit.

The National review

One of the best places to see a band in Chicago is at Schuba's. With a capacity of about 200 or so, there is a nice intimacy to the setting. The room has decent acoustics, a bar in back, and I have always found the crowd there to be polite. And they waste no space; the band actually enters the room via a door leading onto the street; exiting their tour van/bus, taking three strides over the sidewalk, through the door, up 4 steps and gathering around their respective instruments. Any more low key and it would be a friend's basement.
We (J & K, George, Mike S) staked out a spot near the back, which is to say about 30 feet from the stage. It was the early show, so the opener was Talkdemonic, a 2-piece from Portland whipping off tight little tunes devoid of lyrics but heavy on drums, synthesizers, and electric violin. They were decent; though I didn't pick up the CD it would probably make good background music after a long day.
After a ten minute break the six guys calling themselves The National ambled up on stage. Lead singer Matt Berninger is a commanding presence on stage, alternately surrounding his lanky frame with a halo of smoke and then straining himself to full height, tilting his neck back and singing up into the rafters as if the devils he were conjuring via his tortured musical protagonists had somehow slipped upwards on their way down to hell. They played a good mix of material from their albums, probably a breakdown of 20/30/50% from their first to most recent. Requests for the piano-driven "Karen" led to Berninger quipping that he "had to forget how to play the piano for Karen". They finished up with the song that drew me to the band a couple years ago, "Available", off of Sad Songs for Dirty Lovers. Catch them while they are still playing the small venues; maybe they'll never get popular enough for the bigger places but they deserve to.

Beck review

Beck at the Riv. The house was packed. And hot. At least I had the sense to skip any attempt at style and wear shorts, even though I was chilly when I walked out of there; a small price to pay for not overheating. The opener (McRory?) was this guy decked out with a couple keyboards strapped to his side like a gunslinger, drum pads all over his body, and effects pedals wired into his arms. Basically a high-end street performer with the demeanor of someone who got nabbed off a corner and thrust into the spotlight; book him for your next party.
I got to the venue first, ironic since I was coming from furthest away. Secured a good spot in line, which was for nought since nobody else showed up until the doors had already opened and the last of the line had already entered the building. Side note, why do I only get chatted up by girls (explicitly) waiting for their boyfriends (girl with sprayed metallic denim purse in same situation as me; good spot in line, no tickets on hand).
Anyway, ask me for a set list and I'll be vague; I have gotten really lousy with song titles. But he played a lot of the popular stuff, and threw in a couple of his slower Mutations/Sea Change songs, which was nice. There was an interesting little acoustic set during which the band sat on stage and had dinner, leading to a little jam where the instruments they played were the empty glasses and bowls and whatever was sitting around on the table. I guess that's what I expect from a Beck show, a combination of energy and quirkiness, and that's what we got. Overall, a good show.
Now, I just want to send some luck out to my friends who are flying into the teeth of Hurricane Rita for a wedding in Houston this weekend. Stay dry, or at least on solid ground.