Rossi's is a neat little dive in the North Loop, about the only place you can get a cheap anything round those parts. All it was around there was flocks of rich drunk young assholes, the poor grunts workin' in service to them, and beggars.
Rossi's was full and loud. i been sick as hell for about two weeks, had to work long hours all through it (& still so deep in debt to utilities i lost my ring in pawn) doesn't help i've turned my lungs to shit smokin for years. I can't smoke no more and even the fresh air was makin' me cough, but I was grateful for the cigarette-ban induced outings so I didnt havta strain and shout to converse with my buddies.
"whenever I get sick of a job, I just stop trying," 'Boner' says, "I'll sleep at my desk, pick up the phone, yell 'whaddya want! ...I don't give a fuck anymore." so I guess he'll be fired soon, which will make him happy, as happy as that bastard ever gets, unless you count "enjoys being miserable" as happy.
The little barfly dude beside us laughs along as we slag the Catholic church. "Rat", a barfly herself, speaks with him frequently, and when she's in the can invites us back to his pad, where he will have some marijuana. I stiffen, as to me it seemed maybe the poor sap was trying to get laid and I'm about as creeped out by any kinda flirtin on the part of straight men as most of them would be at a Mr. Leather convention. Rat, a tough tho deceptively petite chick, handles these situations effortlessly; she gets hit on a lot but never seems quite aware of it, never threatened by it; but I tend to overreact. At any rate, he seeks to reassure me, annunciating slowly in simple spanish so I could follow, something like "I'm not a bad man". "I know that!" I slur, in English, "I can see that!" like damn near anybody I happen to be drinking with who isn't a complete asshole, I thought he was a swell guy- but really, I think he was, just a sweet harmless little dude.
Rosy & I pour out onto the streets, babbling drunkly together over something of great import or other, repeating ourselves a lot. Walk over to the Chicago bus, which'll take us to the secret location of 3036, which disguises itself effortlessly as a warehouse in the warehouse district, near the confusing (for those of us bred on the grid) cross-sections of Grand, Chicago, and Kedzie.
on the painted door, a small photo of a ghoulishly grinning former Mayor Richard M. Daley greets me. They need to update the door, add a Mayor Skeletor, tho I spose they're two Bosses cut from damn near the same cloth. I mean, who's gonna question a Mayor sent from onheigh, from the throne of Holy Obama? Not a single rubberstampin, smile n nod, Bobblehed Aldertwerp. Not the fuckin 60% of Chicagoans who didnt bother to fuckin vote against Skeletor & the Bobbleheads, nor the 40% mostly Machine Goons who voted for patronage. Rah Rah. Where the fuck is Royko when you need him?
Ugh. Anyway, all that has fuck all to do with 3036, whose patrons mostly exist in a world where interest in ugly politico feuds rank well below a splatter of paint on the sidewalk, which (in a way) is as it should be. The Man exists only as a shadowy threat; their biggest concern is probably getting busted- hence the secrecy, and a sign on the door saying "please do not hang out in the alley or the CPD will not like us". Careless drunk smokers clump up in front of the building instead, despite the fact that the joint, with the benefit of being underground, certainly doesnt bother trying to conform to any bullshit smoking ban laws. Havin been sick for weeks, my shitty ex-smokers lungs do not appreciate the cloud of smoke that used to hover everywhere there was drink and music, but I'm damned glad the fuckin smokers are allowed to fuckin smoke anyway, because here in the underground you can get a taste of the fucking freedom the square brigades have willingly given up.
Mostly what you get is Righeous fucking Noise. Glorious Noise. Unfortunately, at 3036, it can sometimes have that quality of buzzing feedback drownin the subtler harmonies. You gotta cram into a tiny fuckin basement space that couldn't hold the crowd- but no worries, if you're the antisocial type you can sit on the stairs with yr hed in yr hands and still hear beautifully, maybe even better, from a distance. For me, crammin in on the band was great fun, particularly when Nude Sunrise played.
Seeing as how I suck at descriping music, check it out here, on the soundcloud: Nude Sunrise
basically, it's like jammin out to aerial bliss, mad rythm dance time for dosed robots. somethin like that. I dug all the bands that nite, not that my opinion is anythin' to go on, but there it is. By name, they were: The Great Valley, Wumme, I Love You, Terrior Bute.
...towards the end of Nude Sunrise's set the jostlin' crowd, the shitty acoustics, my shitty lungs and a drink or two too many drove me out onto the streets, where I puked my guts out. that and squatting in the alley with no toilet paper made me feel not so up to fuckin crammin back into a crowd of other humans, so I stumbled out into the messy streets. Unfortunately, the clearest path home was too far to walk and with few buses runnin' in the dead zone, I had to trek all the way back thru the loop, thru the crowds of dumb rich yups. This put me in an ugly mood, and with the drink in me I soon found myself loudly, joyfully cussin out rich fucks in childish song. Assuming I was an insane street person, as well they should with the smell and the torn rags and the fuckin' crazy hateful warblin issuein' forth, the crowd stepped back and ignored me. I finally made it to the ever faithful 60 bus, and home for a much needed shower and sleep. Had I biked it, the two hour trip home woulda taken about 30 minutes and considerably less utter disgrace.
anyway, boring-personal-fuckin-disgrace-bullshit-you-don't-give-a-fuck-about aside, I had a helluva good time at 3036. good crowd, good folks, great bands- tho I think their venue would be better suited to poetry or film screenings or something more acoustic, played upstairs rather than the basement. crammin a bunch of people into a basement with a subpar soundsystem kinda sucks, but a multimedia art show with a smaller crowd would be perfect for the space.. The upstairs is fucking beautiful- nicely painted, high ceilings, step up to a nice little bar area and hang out couch, step down to a neat little room in this carved out warehouse. Still and all, ya gotta give it to them for tryin'; anyone who gives kickass bands a place to play is a fuckin saint in my book.
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