September 19th, 2008 by Hoopleton

It always surprises me when crowds jam weekend summer festivals featuring over-hyped pop bands and untalented solo artists who rely solely on ego to get them through a forty minute set, while musicians with authenticity and soul play to near empty venues on sporadic weekday nights.

Tuesday, September 16th, Martyrs’ Pub on the north side of the Windy City. The bar was half empty and only one or two liquored up drunks stumbled onto the dance floor, which was a real shame because the music was at times stirring at other times electrifying, but always exemplifying what is so desperately missing in most of Chicago’s music scene.

Jupiter One, a band out of New York, brought so much energy to Martyrs’ on Tuesday night that it was nearly impossible to keep from spinning in circles on the floor. Part Talking Heads, part Cure, and a list of other 70s and 80s club indie rock bands, but at the same time wholly original, Jupiter One tore up the stage with such melodic intensity, rising vocals and a locomotive-like drum beat that had me wondering why these guys were being compared to Franz Ferdinand when clearly they should’ve been getting all the attention. Although perhaps the song Countdown with its near incendiary dance beats and weaving, airy, almost cosmic interchanges was my favorite, there was nothing in the band’s entire set that didn’t leave me craving more. Every song was solid, the play tight and clean, steadied by Dave Heilman’s impressive drum work and intensified by Mocha’s violin. The music alone was enough, but the icing on the cake was seeing K Ishibashi and Zac Colwell, Jupiter One’s founding members, lead guitar duo and vocalists, tear up the stage with so much enthusiasm that there was no doubt the music was as fun to play as it was to hear. In almost every way Jupiter One is clearly a professional working band on their way up the ladder. Solid and fun. If any criticism could be offered, is that although their sound is polished, some of what Jupiter One brings to the table has already been done. But if songs like The Miracle Of Flight off their debut album are any indication of their future direction, sparkling with electronic, nearly ambient beauty nestled in solid beats, this group has unlimited potential to go nowhere else but up.

The problem with the Chicago music scene is that it’s often both overwhelming and unremarkable. In the overcrowded gaggle of wannabe rock stars few acts seem to display anything bordering on originality. Amid the overpriced covers and water-downed drinks the music loses its impact as soon as the buzz wears off. The sad truth about the pop revolution of MySpace and other social networking sites is that musicians who have potential get lost in the shuffle, while glorified cover bands elicit enough attention to somehow garner a following, thus filling an entire generation of American Idol rejects with unjustified delusions of grandeur. But sometimes, in the bleak void of static pretending to be music there is promise of hope.

If other bands at Martyrs’ on September 16th made the heart race, it was Post Historic that made it sing. The trio from Champaign, Illinois, playing songs off their debut album, Memory Banks of Blue, showed that good songwriting still has a place in modern music and that something unique and wonderful can still be found amid the torrent of indistinguishable show listings in the daily rags. Part folk, part rock, but entirely soulful, Post Historic played a kind of music that isn’t really made anymore. Music with substance. Music that elicits feeling. Music that not only can make you sway, but sometimes has the power to just pin you back into your seat. Although their sound is not always unique, Post Historic is a solid guitar band, with the voice of lead singer Jesse Johnson at times seeming to waltz with the strings of the acoustic in his arms. Impressive also was Zach Benkowski on drums, setting the mood of every song, driving the speed. In many cases drummers can be detrimental to a band, in Post Historic that is not at all the case. But the star was Yoo Soo Kim, who not only seemed capable of playing every instrument in existence, but on songs like the moody and dark Jennifer Green, proved that wielding instruments like the violin can really be an act of artistry as much as skill. Having said all this I don’t want to give you the impression that Post Historic doesn’t know how to have fun. The trio could certainly crank up the volume, their eight track album is full of examples, but overall the real strength of this relatively young band is in its ability to strip away base pretension and recall a time when musicians actually played to feeling and not some packaged nostalgia tour more full of vanity than substance. The one issue I had with Post Historic is that it seemed like as yet they haven’t found their strengths. The absence of Jennifer Green on their debut album is a glaring omission. Just as in the case of Jupiter One, Post Historic would do well to get away from trying to be popular and emulating their influences.

With Bobby Conn away on creative hiatus and most of the local bands I know and love either far away on tour or simply missing in action, the live music scene in Chicago, as I think by now I’ve made abundantly clear, is nearly always not worth the price of admission. Bands like Jupiter One and Post Historic are certainly exceptions. However, these artists are imports. As luck would have it Chicago still has some talent of its own.

The featured artist at Martyrs’ was Dan Wallace, and he was certainly the reason why I even decided to show. Wallace is that rare breed of singer-songwriter who makes you question how half the crap on the radio even made it there in the first place. His lyrics, his basic understanding of composition and melody, his pure creativity rise head and shoulders above most of what comprises the mainstream. Over his four albums, the most recent entitled Reattachment, Wallace truly demonstrates depth and range, with songs like Odd Man Out hinting at folk and even classical influences, while songs like What I Know falling into a category of rock that goes far beyond any reliance on repetitive pop dribble. Wallace’s music has the capacity of being meaningful and dark, while staying fun, solidly rooted in interesting and engaging writing. There’s really nothing bad I can say about Wallace or his music. If I had any advice for those shopping around for a new artist to fall in love with, it would unquestioningly be him. Having said all that, the performance he gave at Martyrs’ on the 16th left something to be desired. The basic problem was this: it was all too painfully clear that Wallace was a solo artist, unfortunately, that night he was performing with a band. I can’t say whether the group hadn’t had time to really rehearse before the show, or if the members were simply thrown together last minute, but after experiencing the synergy (I hate that word by the way) of Jupiter One, the featured artist’s performance was, for lack of a better description, lacking. The only member of the ensemble that Dan really seemed to mesh with was the very impressive drummer, George Lawler, which makes sense as Lawler has appeared on Dan’s albums, including Reattachment, and clearly knew the music. I’d go so far to say that the night would have been better served if Wallace and Lawler had simply done a duet and ditched the other members all together. What it all boils down to is that Dan Wallace needs to just be Dan Wallace. Forget the stage theatrics or trying to rashly piece together the full sound, that’s what the albums are for, get on stage, plug in your guitar and let that amazing music shine. Though bringing George Lawler isn’t a bad idea either.

All in all I’d recommend Jupiter One, Post Historic and especially Dan Wallace to anyone feeling the heartbreak that so often is Chicago live music. These artists represent something truly good. So go out there, find their websites, buy their albums and see their shows.

On a closing note my apologies to On We, whose performance I missed that night at Martyrs’.

September 16th, 2008 by Hoopleton

I walked out of my building and into the dark night of a New York morning. It was the middle of rush hour and still there wasn’t a car in sight. Of course most car owners didn’t live on ground level. I glanced up at the ceiling that was my sky. As it happened, Gates Avenue, about 900 feet directly above Exeter Street, but still not high enough even to glimpse indirect sunlight, was probably my best bet for catching a taxi to work. A bus would be too slow and the elevated train would drop me off far too close to the Manhattan Coliseum. The Romans liked to get in a quick round of gladiator games before the morning work whistle and my head just wasn’t strong enough to take the abuse.

As I made my way I noticed that everything seemed to be moving out of a dream. Everything looked foreign. Nothing was even remotely pleasing anymore.

I ran over to the Ash Street Lift and happened to meet Eliza Unsworth, my next-door neighbor of two years. I helped move her in and we had sex on a few irregular occasions. She was nice, but I made a big mistake early on by inviting her to join Gus and me one night. Ever since then I had successfully avoided her after it became obvious that she and Gus had more than just passing feelings for one another.

“Hello Heretic, greetings to you,” she said in her rolling slow accent.

My name wasn’t really Heretic, it was just what she called me. She liked the idea of a dead man with that name.

“Hi Ezzy, long time,” I said as I pushed the already glowing button for the public lift.

“Far too long Heretic,” she said with a raised brow.

“Well, you know how it is,” I said with little effort to sound sincere, “work, work, work.”

“Oh, Heretic,” she said as she put her hand on my shoulder, “I do know how it is, I’ve been working more than any sane person could ever be expected to work.”

I glanced up hopefully, but the lift was still nowhere in site. I was having trouble focusing.

“Ah, you still work at the restaurant?”

“Oh, yes Heretic,” she said with a seductive smile. “Still singing for the broken hearted.”

Eliza actually had a great singing voice, one that went unappreciated by the hungry and often single patrons at the French bistro where she worked.

“I may be just background music Heretic, but at least I make out better than a jukebox,” she pointed to her flapper hat, “Just bought it last week in a half-mile shop.”

I hadn’t ever been that far up.

“Half a mile eh? Did you catch any sky?” I asked, desperately trying to make myself interested.

Eliza chuckled, “At half a mile? That’s kinda crazy Heretic.”

I gave a faint sarcastic smile and then began searching my pockets, suddenly panic stricken that I had forgotten my wallet.

“How’s Gus?”

I found my wallet in my back pocket, but any relief was snatched away by the mention of Gus and the absence of my own.

“He’s fine,” I said. “Not that I really see him, he’s very busy you know.”

“That’s funny Heretic,” she said crossing her arms, “I coulda sworn I saw him leaving your apartment just two nights ago.”

“Really?” I responded crossing my own arms. “Two nights ago? You must be mistaken.”

She smiled just as the lift appeared, not more than fifty feet above our heads.

“Ohh I’m definitely not mistaken Heretic, I caught him in the hall and had a delightful little chat.”

Gus hadn’t said a word about talking to Eliza, but I restrained my annoyance.

“Well, if you talked to him then why ask me how he is?”

“Just checking if our suspicions were correct Heretic, that’s all.”

The public lift stopped with a loud thump and the doors pulled open, it was empty.

“What suspicions?” I asked against my own better judgment as we both stepped inside.

“That you’re a jealous little baby, Heretic.”

The doors slid into place and the lift began its loud climb toward Gates Avenue.

“Jealous of what?”

“Of us,” she said simply.

I glanced out the window at the face of some passing tenement building, trying to keep my jaw from locking.

“Us?” I asked.

“Us, Heretic,” she replied.

The morning was getting better and better.

“And how long has there been an us?” I asked, ready to throw myself out the window.

As the lift reached one hundred feet Eliza Unsworth suddenly burst into an intense laughter and said, “Oh, Heretic, you know that both Gus and I think you’re the cat’s pajamas!”

I offered a half smile but couldn’t help from frowning.

“To think,” she continued, slapping me on the arm as she spoke, “that Gus and I would actually sneak around your back and have an affair! Well, Heretic, frankly the idea is absurd.”

“Right, absurd,” I said, still with a frown, as the elevator reached one hundred and fifty feet.

“Completely absurd Heretic, oh completely absurd!”

We both chuckled on for another two hundred feet, Eliza in sincere hysterics and I in a sort of strain, until she finally wiped her eyes and said, “So, Heretic, how is Gus?”

I took a deep breath and said, “Fine, fine.”

“That is good to hear Heretic, it’s been far too long since I’ve seen him,” she suddenly reached for my face. “You know, I’ve certainly missed the times we had.”

“Did anyone ever tell you that you’re kinda hard to keep up with Ezzy?” I asked taking a step back against the wall.

“Well, Clara, the better half of a lovely couple who I see every other weekend, says that to me whenever we’re together.”

“It’s good that you’re staying active.”

Four hundred and seventy-five feet.

“Oh, I am staying very active Heretic,” she said coming in close, “very active.”

I smiled and pushed her back slightly.

“I’m late for work.”

She shrugged her shoulders, took a step back and pulled a pack of cigarettes from out of her purse.

“Cigarette?” she asked pleasantly.

I accepted the smoke and again glanced out the window of the lift. At just over five hundred feet above ground level I could see the intersection of Exeter and Ash, burning like a cross by the yellow light of the street lamps.

“So Heretic,” began Eliza, letting out a large cloud of blue smoke, “tell me would you, why are you late for work this time.”

“I was thinking,” I said, carefully oblivious to her question, “maybe we can pick this up later tonight.”

“It does seem to me Heretic,” she went on, equally oblivious, “that every time I see you, you are either about to be late, already late, or so late that you are on your way home because there’s no reason in even going in anymore.”

“How’s nine in the evening sound?”

She arched her left eyebrow and said, “Nine-thirty.”

“I’m late today because I had a very long night last night,” I said as I took another drag off my cigarette.

“You do look kinda haggard,” she said.

“I do?”

“Will I get to meet him or her at nine-thirty Heretic?” she asked showing her teeth. “Or was it dear old Gus?”

“Actually,” I responded as I noticed we were coming up on six hundred and twenty-five, “I don’t know who she is.”

Eliza let out a long plume of smoke and said, “I didn’t think you were the type for one night trysts. I personally adore them. Just the other night I had the pleasure of a delightful young boy named Samuel who could split a cue ball in two.”

I paused for a moment and finally responded with, “I didn’t sleep with her Ezzy, I just bumped into her on the street.”

“Boy, Heretic, it must of been one Hell of a bump.”

“It was,” I said as the lift passed seven hundred and fifty feet.

Eliza bit her bottom lip.

“Heretic, are you in love?”

“No,” I said flatly, taking another quick drag. “She’s a ghost.”

“We are all ghosts here Heretic,” she said.

As the lift inched to eight hundred feet I crushed out my cigarette.

“I’m not in love,” I said. “I’m just curious.”

“Well have it your way Heretic,” she said as she crushed out her own cigarette, “but in my experience, and believe me I have a lot of it, curiosity is step one.”

I sighed and said, “Tell me something Ezzy, are you happy?”

Eliza paused and looked at me with an intensely quizzical eye, “And you wonder why I call you Heretic?”

“I’m serious,” I said gesturing faintly in the humid air, “you know, happy.”

She frowned at me and said, “So what did happen last night?”

“Nothing.”

“Right,” she said, “nothing.”

“I just wonder if there’s a way out,” I said quickly.

“Out of what, Heretic?”

I bit my lip.

“You are in love,” she said playfully.

I decided to let Eliza believe whatever she wished, I wasn’t about to tell her everything I was thinking. The second Eliza Unsworth knew the entire New South Bronx would know and then it would only be a matter of time before Adjusters arrived at my doorstep.

“You all right Heretic?” asked Eliza.

Adjusters…

“Heretic!” said Eliza.

“Oh, sorry,” I responded as the lift’s doors opened onto the jammed sidewalk of Gates Avenue. “My ah, mind must of wandered.”

“Well, Heretic,” Eliza said as she took a step out of the lift, “don’t let that mind wander too far, you’re not getting out of our date tonight.”

She flashed a ravenous smile as I followed her out.

“No, no don’t worry,” I said a bit uneasily, “we’re ah, definitely on for tonight.”

With a wink and wave Eliza vanished into the dark crowds of the morning rush. I absent-mindedly stumbled to the curb and raised my hand, hoping that one of the many headlights charging in my direction was a taxi. Within a minute a black cab with a yellow line of checkers pulled up to my feet.

After I told the driver where I was going, I sank into my seat, my imagination swelling with fear.