New Year’s Dances

Joel Paterson Dec. 27.
Bill Porter Dec. 29
Western Elstons Dec. 30
Lesley Byers Dec. 31
Art Adams Dec. 31.
Fairfields Jan. 1
Del Moroccos and Los Straitjackets Jan. 2.
Fulton County Line Jan. 2.

Rainy and dreary, Christmas itself just missed being green this year, but the day after brought the kind of storm that recalls the end of James Joyce’s Dubliners: “Yes, the newspapers were right: snow was general all over Ireland.” We saw shows all over Chicago in the last days of 2009, beginning with Joel Patterson’s combo the Modern Sounds on the 27th at Simon’s, and after a ten-day holiday stretch of rigorous testing, from Christmas Eve to now, three days after New Year’s, the best place in Chicago to dance just might be the California Clipper. Let’s take inventory one night at a time to inaugurate this blog, which I intend to provide in-depth discussion of swing, rockabilly, and Western swing dancing in Chicago during what inevitably will be called the Obama era. I, your host, am a relative newcomer to this scene, only having learned how a bit more than a year ago; my girlfriend however is a gritty veteran, and part of the fun of learning to dance has been the opportunity to listen to her dish about favorite Chicago venues, bands, and old nasty gossip about people who kicked that habit or that crazy boyfriend ten years ago. There won’t be much of the latter (at least, names will be changed to protect the known guilty) but I hope to outline something about what it is to dance in Chicago right now. Without more ado, then:

Joel Patterson may or may not be familiar to you, but this fall another musician—a guitarist himself—in conversation called Joel Patterson the best guitarist in Chicago, period. That is not a bad sobriquet to have; the show at Simon’s in Andersonville on 27 December did not disappoint any expectations. Joel usually isn’t the best with stage patter, perhaps no surprise given the intensity that has given him the aforementioned priority in the Windy City, but tonight he was pretty loose between songs while the band (Alex Hall, Beau Sample) was, as always, tight during them. The venue, Simon’s, however was packed with a post-holiday crowd, many of them college types home for break, and we left after the first set. How could we do that? Well, Simon’s (if you haven’t been) has almost no room to dance even if the place is empty, and though we did take some turns during the less-crowded first set by the start of the second it became impossible. Listening to Joel without being able to dance is somewhat excruciating, hence a quick exit.

Two days later, after giving the Holiday edition of Fizz a miss—we are, I had better make clear, anti-Fizz for a number of reasons that I may provide in a later post—found us at Green Dolphin Street to see the Bill Porter Orchestra. Green Dolphin Street is named after a song that was named after a movie, providing a theme for the interior design but also a signal about the character of the place: the movie is about a man who sends the wrong letter to the wrong girl, and the management of the venue is similarly confused. Is GDS a bar or a restaurant? Are they either one of those first, and a dance venue second, or the other way around? If it is a music venue, what sort of venue, gay dance party for some of Chicago’s hippest, as it is on Monday nights for the Boom Boom Room, or sedate ballroom for highly-polished pro jazz band, as Bill Porter’s outfit is? Not to mention the salsa—the dance, not the condiment. GDS is always talked about as a potentially great venue (the room really is great, and floor is one of the best in the city), but one held back by insensitive, not to say incompetent, management. It isn’t a place we often hit because Tuesday is usually reserved for Martini Park, especially when the Flat Cats play but a holiday crowd brought with it some oldtimers known to my gf, so … It was what GDS and Bill Porter always are: smooth, relatively polished, but with some irritating features, such as a $10 cover. There a few bands I’d pay $10 for; Bill Porter is not one of them.

It was back to Simon’s on Wednesday for what might be my favorite show in Chicago right now, the Western Elstons. Sure, there isn’t much room to dance, but there’s enough of a critical mass that shows up every show that we can usually make it work. It helps that usually the mass part is filled with follows, meaning that leads like myself can stay out on the floor one song after another with a different follow each time. I would mention how attractive they all are, but that might mean that other leads might start showing up. Nix that. I won’t be saying much more about the Western Elstons other than to mention that Joel Patterson, the above-mentioned best guitarist in the city plays steel guitar for them. Think about it.

Thursday was New Year’s, and we took ourselves to fdm, or fonda del mar, for dinner and Lesley Byers for post-meal entertainment. Both meal and band were, unfortunately, a little overcooked—Lesley has a nice voice and the band is solid, but the music doesn’t swing or rock, particularly by comparison with the Western Elstons the night before. Also, the musicians had an irritating tendency to stretch out songs, leading to 8-minute versions of “Fly Me To the Moon” and the like, which is fun if the song is fun but if not, not. But the evening was salvaged by a trip up Lincoln Avenue to the Horseshoe to catch the end of the rockabilly New Year’s show: Art Adams and his band closed, and we were lucky to get there while the embers of the place—Art having been engaged in burning it down since he took the stage—still smoldered. Adams is a living legend for the rockabilly kids because he is one of the keepers of flame: after two hits in 1959 and 1960, Art quit the music business in 1968 for thirty years, until 2003. He is a kind of time machine allowing direct access to the past—no joke, because Art plays as if the past fifty years never happened. It’s like imagining what might have happened had the Beatles never went to Hamburg. Art Adams, used to salvaging careers and lives, saved New Year’s.

The Friday following, New Year’s Day, was expectedly quiet. The girl and I barely arose to make what is usually the Hoyle Brothers Honky Tonk Happy Hour slot at 5:30 (yep, that’s right) at the Empty Bottle. The Hoyles were taking a well-deserved break however, with their time filled by the Fairfields, Tim Tobin’s band. With low expectations, we joined a sparse crowd that had fought its way through the Arctic chill, provided free of charge by our Canadian continent-mates, to the Bottle. The Fairfields however put up a sonic barrier against the cold, playing a loud and aggressive sound that was fun to dance to—which was easy since, as usual, the dance floor at the Bottle was virtually empty. Tim ought to get his guys to play out more.

That was it as far as dancing went on the night of the First, leading in to Saturday’s show at Fitzgerald’s out in Berwyn on Roosevelt Road. Now, let’s talk a minute about the venue. First, several of the best shows I’ve seen and danced to have been at Fitzgerald’s—yet, I also wouldn’t say that it is the most dance-friendly venue around either. In part of course this is due to the dance-unfriendliness of the larger Chicago music scene; whereas in, say, Austin, Texas dancing is expected, the default, in Chicago quite the reverse. Most people, when they go to a show, expect to stand around looking at the band the whole time. This is, I now realize, horrifying on several levels, but it isn’t really until you look into the mouth of the beast that the numbers of teeth become readily apparent. There were a lot of teeth, or tools, at Fitzgerald’s last night. Often that sort of resistance can be countered by quickthinking and movement-in-force (we can define those terms later), but without support from the rockabilly kids, admittedly not unexpected, the space we managed to clear for the opening act, the Del Moroccos, dissipated by the time Los Straitjackets came out. By which time, so did our tolerance for Blues Brothers-suits-matched-with-Mexican-wrestling-masks-and-surf-music.

That brought us to the California Clipper, maybe the best bar in Chicago. Fulton County Line, one of the better bands in town, was playing, first. But let’s go out singing the praises of the Clipper: it’s run by folks who understand their business and won’t put up with Lincoln Park shiny shirts (they will take their money, unfortunately), you can get a grape soda, the dance floor is empty most nights (and if it isn’t it’s easy to intimidate the drunks out of the way), and did I mention the bands they get. I swear to god every weekend it is the same: we go out trying some new band or venue, and end up crawling, with apologies to Joyce, “like the descent of our last end,” back to the Clipper every time. Clipper forgive us, for we know not what we do.