Writer’s block

Be careful what you wish for

One man’s disappointment at not being able to make the most of the music scene in the big city

By Jeremy Schnitker

I was lying on the living room couch reading one night while my roommate was in his bedroom surfing the Chicago concert listings via the Internet, and a conversation that went something like this ensued:

“Damn, there’s a really sweet band playing at Subterranean tonight,” he said.

We both looked at each other for a moment like there was something drastic that should be done about this newfound knowledge.

“Let’s go. Right now! We’ll cab it down there and make it in time, no problem,” I say from my horizontal post on the couch.

“But I’m totally broke,” he replied, less enthused. “And I’ve got to get up early for work tomorrow.”

I sat there, and in my mind scanned through the balance in my bank account, my pending expenditures for the rest of the week and tomorrow’s early morning responsibilities.

“Shit, same with me,” I said dejected, then paused for a moment. “Ah, hell with it. We’ll catch them at one of the festivals or something.”

And I lied down and went back to my book.

On it’s surface, this was simple exchange between two music fans that occurs probably a hundred times a day in this city.

As I sit and attempt to write a music column about moving from a small-market music town to a big-market one, though, I realize that this anecdote, in a microcosm, represents so much of what is frustrating about concertgoing in Chicago: I never seem to go to any, despite the fact that the chance to experience more culture and music played severely into my decision to move here from Omaha in late March.

When you’re 27 and into music, you move to Chicago from Omaha because you want more of it. More bands, more venues, more festivals, and more people that like the same bands, venues and festivals that you do. This move is supposed to, in some way, satisfy the seemingly insatiable quest for music in you that your hometown didn’t.

Peculiar, because so far, it’s kind of ended up being the other way around. I’ve actually gone to fewer shows and seen fewer bands in the three months I’ve lived here than I would have in an entire month back in Omaha.

This is a great source of angst and guilt for me because I’ve missed a ton of awesome shows: the Yeah, Yeah, Yeahs, Sam Prekop, Franz Ferdinand, Neko Case, Rogue Wave, The Arctic Monkeys, Metric, Roky Erickson, The Silver Jews… the list goes on and on.

The reason being? Time, cost and distance.

There’s a good show every weeknight in this town, and usually two or three on the weekends. But on a fixed income and work schedule, one can realistically only go to two or three shows a week, maximum.

Part of the time issue here is that it takes so long to get to many venues because they are so spread out. None are within reasonable walking distance of my apartment (except Schubas, if I get really ambitious) and they’re all, in general, scattered throughout the north and west side.

Back home, or in most any other smaller city in America, the venue is usually a 5-to-10-minute drive if you’re living in the more hip part of town.

Chicago shows may be only incrementally more expensive here than in other towns, but what gets you are the drink costs and cab fares. The Metro’s cocktails are a tad pricey and you have to wait an hour to get served at the Logan Square Auditorium, but the Double Door can be manageable if you have the right (cheap) taste. The only exception I’ve noticed is the Empty Bottle, as you’d be hard-pressed to find a bar in Neola, Iowa that charges less. (You’d also be hard-pressed to find a bar in Neola, Iowa that is smaller and dirtier).

And really, who wants to wait around for the Ashland bus at 1:30 a.m. on a still-chilly spring night? I’ve done it, and after five minutes alone at the stop, I was practically molesting every cab that drove by.

I know to native Chicagoans I’m coming off as overly cynical here. Complaining about being surrounded by too much music is akin to a Midwesterner moving to Southern California and bitching about the weather being too nice. And if this is my only gripe about the city (which so far it has been), then I ain’t doing too bad.

Whiner or not, it’s still frustrating.

Back home I never missed a show. And when there was a big show, it was a big deal. I remember going to Modest Mouse, The Shins and Built To Spill with an excited posse that had been itching to see these bands for weeks.

Here it’s been more like me picking up The Reader a couple days late, realizing I missed an act that I would have been anxious to see back home, but since I either didn’t know about it, couldn’t afford to go, couldn’t get there or didn’t have anybody to go with, I give my shoulders an apathetic shrug.

“I’ll just catch them at festivals or something,” I always say to myself. But with the nearing of the Pitchfork Festival and Lollapalooza, I don’t know if I’ll have the time or money to hit both of them.

Maybe one day of Pitchfork, if I’m lucky.

I’ll probably have to skip just about every decent-sized show between now and then to save up for it, but oh well.

Moving from a small town to the big city wasn’t supposed to be that easy, I guess.

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