Last Friday I took the Blue Line down to the UIC stop and walked down to South Union Arts, a newish music venue/art gallery in an old Baptist church on a frontage road by I-94 and surrounded by almost completed condo developments riding on the coattails of a boom around the UIC campus area. I had trekked to UIC--an area in which I don't exactly hang out--to see Calvin Johnson, that primary icon of the DIY world, the Morrissey of American indie pop, or whatever. As far as I'm concerned, indie rock was born when Beat Happening toured Japan. Anyway, it's a big deal to me, so I made sure I went to this show (even though I couldn't get anyone to come with me) since I hadn't seen a listing for an act I gave a fuck about since Lily Allen played the Metro about a month before the Beamish and Bulmers ruitine foiled her tour.
South Union Arts is an interesting place. It has a (free) parking lot, which is unheard of. The cover charge is on a "donation" basis, so I guess if you're a college kid living on a shoestring, you can actually just be like "uh, I'll get you next time, guys." And it's BYO, but I suggest planning ahead, because the only nearby source of liquor is a 7-11 that has a less than ideal selection. I ended up getting an ass-pocket of Jack Daniels for something like $7.89, a purchase that I will simply characterize as "retarded."
Although the Chicago Reader gave a fawning notice of the opening act--some Lilith Fair "c"-rag from Canada--I spent her set in the venue's designated "smoking section," i.e. the front stoop and parking lot, polishing off the bottle of whiskey while talkative college kids yammered about writing poetry and repeatedly made unexplained literary references, each reference totally lost on everybody except whoever had made it.
When Calvin went on, I dutifully entered the unusual theatre space--the part of the church that would have been used for worshipping--accented by an actual neon crucifix above where the alter would have been. The turn-out was less than I had expected. About 100 people occupied the movie theatre-like seats. Every one in attendance without exception was younger than me--and I was two years old when Beat Happening was formed. The stage was maybe six inches off the floor and about three feet from the audience. Calvin, almost inevitably, casually held a yellow Telecaster and wore a white oxford shirt and gray jeans, his hair cropped exactly as it is in every photograph you've ever seen of him. Calvin strummed the 'Caster with his fingers as if it hadn't occurred to him to play it any other way; he was accompanied only by a dude playing drums. As I told myself I didn't know he could sing with this much strength and subtlety, college girls stared at Calvin, transfixed, with their mouths open. I had come to see some old-fashioned twee-pop with a lot of attitude, but it became clear that Calvin had much more than just swagger; he had written really well-phrased songs and he performed them with real aplomb. As Calvin did a few numbers a cappella, I thought "I'd say he's got amazing range, but I don't really know how to measure that," and "Does he look like Joe Beatty? Like if Joe looked even more like his dad?" As the set continued, my delusions became more absurd: "Did Stephen Merritt build his entire career by mimicking this guy?" "I got it: he's like the blonde Elvis."
South Union Arts, 1352 S. Union, Chicago, www.southunionarts.com
K Records, Olympia, WA, www.kpunk.com
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