A couple weeks ago I went up to Ball Hall to check out a show featuring Names Divine. As always, they put on a great fuckin' show, (as did the Gapin' Vortex). but more on them later, in another story. what I really want to tell you about right now is motherfuckin' Connie Olivia.
The lead singer of Redeemer is this insane, badass chick I've seen dancing & moshin & goin apeshit in crowd pits before- Connie's kinda hard to miss- she's this badass transgrrrl clad in tattered neon tights & giant pink toesmashin platform hooves. when she dances she's a fuckin tireless whirlwind, when she performs, in short punkish bursts of deth thrashy screaming haphazard metallic frenzy with a touch of robot, she is a snarling demon diva. at one point she banters, from behind the keys, "I'm bored of singing, fuck that. you sing motherfucker." but she can't keep up that act long, and is screaming again shortly.
halfway thru the act, the little table that the crowd had kicked up into the mics becomes a serving platter for hubert the maggot. the maggot is split open so its guts spill out. Connie walks around the crowd offering them to us, few takers. a dude picks him up and dances around with him. the heavy (wtf? ceramic?) maggot glances off my hed; i reflexively fling it on the floor and keep fuckin' dancin'. sum chick who probly made it scoops it up and scolds dude, "no touching!", holding it in her arms like a christ child on display to the unwashed, unruly masses.
Later, when a kinda lame act I won't bother namin' requested into the mic, that Redeemer clean up the fuckin' "whipped cream" (nope, it was pudding, he was corrected) that was on the floor so no "lovely ladies" would slip and break our delicate lil' heinies, Ms. fuckin' Badass did him one better like the helluva crazy-ass performer she is and fuckin BREAKDANCED all over the fuckin mess, cleanin' it up with her fuckin' back, and kept on dancin'.
Showing posts with label underground. Show all posts
Showing posts with label underground. Show all posts
4/5/11
Nite Crawl: not-so-secret loopdive, 3036 basemeat cram & coughin on yups
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.
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.
3/5/11
Nite Crawl: Screamin' Smoketent Striptrip
Chicago's Broke Artists don't bother dealing with bars & clubs too often these days; they make their own venues, a vast network of underground playgrounds, ranging from the sick & sad to the fucking amazing. Warehouse Wonderlands like Mortville in the near South (straddling the ghetto and immigrant enclaves on the cusp of gentry-invasion) with insane themed sets like Nightmareland and Playground (complete with real sandbox and working swings & see-saw), Loft apartments in long-since-gentried Wicker Park like the recently-gone-legit In Con Ven i -ence where patrons (were) cautioned to take their squares(cigarettes) on a walk so as not to reveal the secret location; there are tiny little Industrial District half-flats inexplicably located over the homes of sleeping babes, Middle-of-Nowhere haunted band houses, briefly lived venues outta friend's apartments like Red Floors (the roof on that place!), Post Pilsen, & the Mustache Gallery, even a joint aptly titled The [fuckin'] Attic, a narrow little space that reeked of catshit on the way up but could barely hold the fevered crowd when I was there a year or so ago.
At an undisclosed location in Humboldt Park in an unimpressive building hiding a spectacular loft space that is transformed into a dynamite performance hall. I'd tell ya the name but not sure if that would get me in trouble with anyone considering what's about to go down. Suffice to say if you get invited to something vaguely reminiscent, fucking go. fuck the cold, fuck inertia, fuck social anxiety, fuck work, just go. you'll thank me.
or maybe you won't. I tend to get overenthusiastic about these things. but sometimes ya gotta choose adventure over same ol' shit. It's been months but I have to get this down now, as like a dream it is fading from my head, windblown brain- sand wise...
I arrived at "The Hall" on maybe two days of no sleep, but insteada headin' home to pass the fuck out already i loaded up on a delicate balance of booze and caffeine and made it to Humboldt because Roche Moche was playin', and I try to see them every chance I get. I'm not really hip to the music scene, I'm a fuckin' geek and my music knowledge is limited to a handful of blues dudes, grunge guys, folky wierdos & punkers on repeat, cuz when I hear something I like I can't get enough - and Roche Moche fits that description perfectly. Plus they're genuinely cool folks I like hangin' out with. good deal all around.
I'm really fucking glad I went because I got to experience like the most amazing Noise MindFuck I've had in a while. I'm talking about Meester Magpie (+9). Holy Shit.
I got there an hour late which is early and sorta hung awkwardly around like I do. I watched a tall skinny blond kid that looked like a Norwegian hacker or something in some sorta colorful knitted garb setting up a tent in the middle of the room. Last time I was at an event with a tent it was for poets, which fits- shy, antisocial, oft pretentious creatures would naturally delight in hiding from the audience to read their secret code. But Music? In a Tent? crazy! wasn't sure if it was meant for the band or unruly audience members. Perhaps there was to be an orgy after? Maybe it was a medical station?
The Hall is a good place to set up camp, with its' huge, skylit ceiling. All over the walls are posted notes from grateful couch hoppers and friends. the back door opens to a stunning fire escape view and, when not crowded with smokers, is a great place to imbibe some fresh cold air straight outta a sweaty mosh. It was a free show with a very trusting donation bucket at the door and a thoughtful coat rack that filled up quick.
The first band, name of which I forget, featured "Grimes" of Roche Moche with a mask over face crawling around on the floor like some crazed wounded monster from outer space. it was your basic punk noise fun.
Then the lights went down, and smoke started to creep outta the tent, with loud strobe lights. this was not a show for the faint of heart, apparently, nor the epileptic or asthmatic. I'm not especially good at describing music, so you want to hear it, here. Heart attack music I think is the technical term. Meester Magpie is one dude, nine is another, together rounding up to awesome. This was followed up by Roche Moche and a follow-up band that were pretty decent.
In the end no one wanted to go home, all these sweaty exhausted bodies hanging around talking like joyful ghosts while hosts circulated gently urging exit. One guest in particular refused to leave and starting stripping off her clothes. She'd been wigging out all nite, dancing frantically with a gutter punk girl, groping random strangers, posing for photographs; this was the culmination of a long euphoric nite, a weird protest against being sent home. the girl, it turned out, was some sort of 17 year-old runaway on acid- at least that's my remembrance of the rumor. to me the nudity was not the problem at all, just that she'd chosen the wrong time for it- when your Gracious Hosts are trying to close up shop, that's the time to fucking put your clothes on and get the fuck out, not perform an awkward striptease. 'Course you can't expect that kinda sense of decorum from a strung out teenager. "Flo", a friend of hers, explained that she is a "performance artist" and all of life is a performance, that she's seen some shit in her time, too. & what the hell, when did we decide that 17-year-olds were children anyway? I mean, they're generally plenty dense but so are most adults, and maybe they'd be sharper if we didn't insist on infantilizing them (just as nudity wouldn't be necessarily sexual if we didn't constantly censor it). In a few months she'll be old enough to vote, gamble away the rent, and die for her country, but she won't be allowed to enter a bar and buy a beer. But for now we'll leave her dancing drunkenly against the floorboards while the Hall folks urge her, via microphone, to get dressed and go home.
Flo is a total sweetheart, a beautiful lanky queer poety musician with a tremendous beard, very huggable and lovey-dovey, so of course he's really good at getting rides. Flo didn't want to put this ride out too much so he had them drop us at a bus stop for the ashland, which we both thought ran all nite. but nothing was running, as nothing does between 2 & 4 am in this shit city. alrite, shit runs, but few in far between in some spaces. you can get stuck, easy, if you're a broke motherfucker like us, walking miles, for hours, which is alright on a nice summer nite when you got a drunk on but nothing you'd envy when it's cold with maybe snow & ice on the ground. We weren't quite sure where we were heading at this point, it took a few false starts for Flo to get his bearings and I had no fucking clue even tho I've lived here my whole goddamm life. Despite the cold it was pleasant to walk in my friends' long thin shadow, to share in the adventure despite the discomfort. Poor Flo woulda had a better time of it if I hadn't been slowin' him down & whinin in his ear the whole time, barkin at his heels like a lost puppy & pissin in the alley every five minutes, but he took it with grace as he's apt to do and in time we made it to a Red Line. It was cold as hell and probably took four hours for me to get home and finally pass the fuck out. Few sleeps have been better.
At an undisclosed location in Humboldt Park in an unimpressive building hiding a spectacular loft space that is transformed into a dynamite performance hall. I'd tell ya the name but not sure if that would get me in trouble with anyone considering what's about to go down. Suffice to say if you get invited to something vaguely reminiscent, fucking go. fuck the cold, fuck inertia, fuck social anxiety, fuck work, just go. you'll thank me.
or maybe you won't. I tend to get overenthusiastic about these things. but sometimes ya gotta choose adventure over same ol' shit. It's been months but I have to get this down now, as like a dream it is fading from my head, windblown brain- sand wise...
I arrived at "The Hall" on maybe two days of no sleep, but insteada headin' home to pass the fuck out already i loaded up on a delicate balance of booze and caffeine and made it to Humboldt because Roche Moche was playin', and I try to see them every chance I get. I'm not really hip to the music scene, I'm a fuckin' geek and my music knowledge is limited to a handful of blues dudes, grunge guys, folky wierdos & punkers on repeat, cuz when I hear something I like I can't get enough - and Roche Moche fits that description perfectly. Plus they're genuinely cool folks I like hangin' out with. good deal all around.
I'm really fucking glad I went because I got to experience like the most amazing Noise MindFuck I've had in a while. I'm talking about Meester Magpie (+9). Holy Shit.
I got there an hour late which is early and sorta hung awkwardly around like I do. I watched a tall skinny blond kid that looked like a Norwegian hacker or something in some sorta colorful knitted garb setting up a tent in the middle of the room. Last time I was at an event with a tent it was for poets, which fits- shy, antisocial, oft pretentious creatures would naturally delight in hiding from the audience to read their secret code. But Music? In a Tent? crazy! wasn't sure if it was meant for the band or unruly audience members. Perhaps there was to be an orgy after? Maybe it was a medical station?
The Hall is a good place to set up camp, with its' huge, skylit ceiling. All over the walls are posted notes from grateful couch hoppers and friends. the back door opens to a stunning fire escape view and, when not crowded with smokers, is a great place to imbibe some fresh cold air straight outta a sweaty mosh. It was a free show with a very trusting donation bucket at the door and a thoughtful coat rack that filled up quick.
The first band, name of which I forget, featured "Grimes" of Roche Moche with a mask over face crawling around on the floor like some crazed wounded monster from outer space. it was your basic punk noise fun.
Then the lights went down, and smoke started to creep outta the tent, with loud strobe lights. this was not a show for the faint of heart, apparently, nor the epileptic or asthmatic. I'm not especially good at describing music, so you want to hear it, here. Heart attack music I think is the technical term. Meester Magpie is one dude, nine is another, together rounding up to awesome. This was followed up by Roche Moche and a follow-up band that were pretty decent.
In the end no one wanted to go home, all these sweaty exhausted bodies hanging around talking like joyful ghosts while hosts circulated gently urging exit. One guest in particular refused to leave and starting stripping off her clothes. She'd been wigging out all nite, dancing frantically with a gutter punk girl, groping random strangers, posing for photographs; this was the culmination of a long euphoric nite, a weird protest against being sent home. the girl, it turned out, was some sort of 17 year-old runaway on acid- at least that's my remembrance of the rumor. to me the nudity was not the problem at all, just that she'd chosen the wrong time for it- when your Gracious Hosts are trying to close up shop, that's the time to fucking put your clothes on and get the fuck out, not perform an awkward striptease. 'Course you can't expect that kinda sense of decorum from a strung out teenager. "Flo", a friend of hers, explained that she is a "performance artist" and all of life is a performance, that she's seen some shit in her time, too. & what the hell, when did we decide that 17-year-olds were children anyway? I mean, they're generally plenty dense but so are most adults, and maybe they'd be sharper if we didn't insist on infantilizing them (just as nudity wouldn't be necessarily sexual if we didn't constantly censor it). In a few months she'll be old enough to vote, gamble away the rent, and die for her country, but she won't be allowed to enter a bar and buy a beer. But for now we'll leave her dancing drunkenly against the floorboards while the Hall folks urge her, via microphone, to get dressed and go home.
Flo is a total sweetheart, a beautiful lanky queer poety musician with a tremendous beard, very huggable and lovey-dovey, so of course he's really good at getting rides. Flo didn't want to put this ride out too much so he had them drop us at a bus stop for the ashland, which we both thought ran all nite. but nothing was running, as nothing does between 2 & 4 am in this shit city. alrite, shit runs, but few in far between in some spaces. you can get stuck, easy, if you're a broke motherfucker like us, walking miles, for hours, which is alright on a nice summer nite when you got a drunk on but nothing you'd envy when it's cold with maybe snow & ice on the ground. We weren't quite sure where we were heading at this point, it took a few false starts for Flo to get his bearings and I had no fucking clue even tho I've lived here my whole goddamm life. Despite the cold it was pleasant to walk in my friends' long thin shadow, to share in the adventure despite the discomfort. Poor Flo woulda had a better time of it if I hadn't been slowin' him down & whinin in his ear the whole time, barkin at his heels like a lost puppy & pissin in the alley every five minutes, but he took it with grace as he's apt to do and in time we made it to a Red Line. It was cold as hell and probably took four hours for me to get home and finally pass the fuck out. Few sleeps have been better.
2/25/11
Happenings: 100 Foot Ride @ Happy Collab
2/26 (Sat) Happy Collaborationists Exhibition Space 1254 N. Noble St. 6 - 10 pm
"The Happy Collaborationists (in partnership with ACRE) present a looped 16mm film installation work by Chicago artist Alexander Stewart, 100 Foot Ride. Continuing a series of projects that use the 100-foot length of a roll of 16mm film as a formal constraint, 100 Foot Ride combines durational performance art with a Structural-film format. In this piece, the artist constructed a contraption with a loop of wire connecting a stationary bicycle with a 16mm Bolex camera. As the artist pedals the bicycle, the wire turns a handle, which cranks the film through the camera. While 100 feet is not traditionally a challenging distance for a bicyclist, the 100-foot length of the roll of film translates into a difficult task for the artist as he struggles with the physical task of pedaling while battling the entropy of his jury-rigged bike-camera contraption."
happycollab
ACRE
alexstew
(as cribbed from face-eating-book).
"The Happy Collaborationists (in partnership with ACRE) present a looped 16mm film installation work by Chicago artist Alexander Stewart, 100 Foot Ride. Continuing a series of projects that use the 100-foot length of a roll of 16mm film as a formal constraint, 100 Foot Ride combines durational performance art with a Structural-film format. In this piece, the artist constructed a contraption with a loop of wire connecting a stationary bicycle with a 16mm Bolex camera. As the artist pedals the bicycle, the wire turns a handle, which cranks the film through the camera. While 100 feet is not traditionally a challenging distance for a bicyclist, the 100-foot length of the roll of film translates into a difficult task for the artist as he struggles with the physical task of pedaling while battling the entropy of his jury-rigged bike-camera contraption."
happycollab
ACRE
alexstew
(as cribbed from face-eating-book).
2/24/11
Happenings: WSSD Launch, Chi-exchange
West Side School for the Desperate, now located at 3608 w. Wrightwood, is celebrating the new digs with a reading Saturday, 2/26. Featuring Zach Green & Evan Collins.
"there will be an open mic with sign-up available the night of the show for those of you who like to get down. Per usual, there will be beverages at an extremely reasonable price (we ask that you do not b your own b).
$5 donation or pay-what-you-can (no one turned away for being broke). All proceeds go toward paying the performers, the space, and to fund future projects."
This is basically a house party so please respect the space.
"there will be an open mic with sign-up available the night of the show for those of you who like to get down. Per usual, there will be beverages at an extremely reasonable price (we ask that you do not b your own b).
$5 donation or pay-what-you-can (no one turned away for being broke). All proceeds go toward paying the performers, the space, and to fund future projects."
This is basically a house party so please respect the space.
The City is Yours! Chicago Exchange
Thursday 2/24th @ wicker well & Friday 2/25 @ multi kulti/Q4
the Fest promises a shit-ton of music, mural painting, poetry reading, they're gonna sell food, they're gonna have "dance collectives", it seems like the kinda show you can just kinda bring a djembe, a poem, or some cool pins to hustle. they want community involvement, give it to 'em; bring art supplies, perform a skit, wear something silly. donations at the door, refreshments in the back, respect the space. it's an undisclosed secret hideout visible only to wizards {floating somewhere around 1000 N Milwaukee) and has been host to story slams, jams, free expression & empanadas.
This event has an ambitious purpose: "There will be music from all over the world each day, and with your help we can create or awaken a new culture in Chicago."
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Coming on the heels another round of The Bullshit Olympics, I dunno whether to laugh or cry reading that.... but that's something I hear all the time from mostly outtatowner kids traveling the city's artist underground. "we gotta build a community." I feel like we are building it, maybe based on nothing more than just a group of people united in being fucking wierdo loners, a segment of the hive, one of many tribes in the city. we trade with each other, we go to each other's shows, we have each other's backs. Multi Kulti doesn't need to panic; there is consistently a voice for people from diverse backgrounds on a stage in front of a pretty mixed group- it's not just white kids, it's not even just kids or just hippies; there is a strong Latino presence, poets and music people, friends of friends. it's just Chicago folks who are chill and like art. as far as I'm concerned, Multi Kulti already building a space that brings people together. Spaces like West Side School for the Desperate, a home for poets, are springing up all the time. There are many collectives hiding away in the city. I'm keen to see if these guys can wake Chicago outta hibernation. I'm sure they can manage it at least long enuf to put on a good show.
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