Tag Archives: writing

Bio-rhythms

Music


While the week’s writing has waned, I have been busy. Dick Prall is a local musician I met when he asked me to moderate a political debate, hosted by the Chicago Council on Global Affairs. He’s on staff there, and apparently thought I’d be good for the gig after someone there saw me read the Richard Marx letters. No, I’m not sure I see the connection either, but I guess they were looking for someone who’s comfortable on stage with a beer in his hand and let’s face it: I can hit that mark as easy as dropping a tennis ball on the floor.

In any case, we’ve been friendly since then and recently he asked me to write a bio to accompany his new album, Weightless. You’ll find that here.

I’ve never taken on an assignment like this before, and probably wouldn’t have if Prall hadn’t been a musician I enjoy or if he’d been looking for me to write the kind of fawning, lots-of-words-here-but-nothing’s-being-said bio that I see countless examples of in promotional one-sheets. He said he wanted something straight-ahead and journalistic, so I ended up approaching it like most of the other band profiles I’ve done.

Like everyone with access to electricity and a guitar, Dick’s got a MySpace page and I’d encourage you to check it out. Seriously, have I ever steered you wrong on music?

The week in work

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Imagine me being so busy that I haven’t had time for self-promotion. The mind reels, but it’s true. Here’s what I’ve been working on lately:

As alluded to yesterday, TOC‘s beer issue is out. TOC editors can deliver on the bon mots, so the the story about the non-alcoholic beer came out pretty well. Also, check out our quiz on Chicago beer. You can win some fabulous TOC-related prizes including our Eating and Drinking 2008 guide, which hits the streets next month.

In addition, we’ve been running a Chicago sex survey online. We’re going to publish the results in an upcoming issue, but the survey expires on Monday so spill your secrets now. You may also notice a certain familiar brand of humor with some of the answers.

From the archives, vol. 3: The unwinnable argument

Music,

I know I’m not the only person who feels like this, but when your job is to work with a computer all day, sometimes the last thing you want to do at night is work with a computer, even if your job keeps you so busy that you really ought to be spending some time at home reading blogs and otherwise taking the temperature of the Internet so you can keep up with your chosen profession, which you’re not able to do at work because you have So Much To Do.

Of course, this also makes it difficult to blog regularly. But luckily, I have a wealth of short, punchy blog material from my days at Chicagoist, just aching to be lazily re-posted here.

The following is a post I was reminded of this weekend, while I was at a wedding. I think it’s pretty obvious as to why. Notes follow.
——-
With all the Lollapalooza hullabaloo yesterday, I missed the chance to put in my* two cents into an argument that Richard Roeper started. It’s an argument guaranteed to inflame any barroom in the city when you include just three little words: “…of all time.”

Confusing popularity with quality, Roeper argues that “Sweet Home Alabama” is the “greatest rock and roll song of all time.” His anecdotal proof: its inclusion in a NASCAR video game; its use in a concert by the Duff sisters and a recent movie trailer; and the joy it brings to drunken barroom patrons. What? No mention of its status as a top karaoke pick?

To be fair, Roeper also cites Skynyrd’s “killer” guitar work and ballsy vocals (no argument there) as well as its catchy chorus (so does this make “Since U Been Gone” the 2nd greatest rock song?**). But then it’s back to the movies with Roeper alleging the song’s cultural weight can be confirmed because it was in…Con Air! If countless appearances in the cultural zeitgeist make a song great then ladies and gentlemen, I’d like to nominate James Brown’s “I Feel Good.”

*crickets chirping*

Yeah, that’s what I thought.

We generally worship the ground Roeper walks on*** (his column this week on jerky behavior in bathrooms had guys all over Chicago nodding their heads in agreement) but I thinks he’s got it wrong here. Does “Sweet Home Alabama” kick ass? Hell yeah it does.**** Does that make it the greatest rock song of all time? Well, no. There are plenty of songs that can get a room full of drunks singing in full voice but it’s going to be a while before you see Journey***** or REO Speedwagon getting a call from the Hall of Fame.

But Roeper’s right: The Greatest Rock and Roll Song Of All Time should kick ass. It should have universality to it as well. All people should be able to rally behind its lyrics which have survived time and tide and stand apart from politics or current events. It should be perfect for any occasion be it live concert, baseball game or bar mitzvah.

And that is why AC/DC’s “You Shook Me All Night Long” is the Greatest Rock and Roll Song Of All Time.

* Chicagoist fans will note that I stripped out the collective Chicagoist “we” here. My name is Our Man In Chicago, and I approved this message.

** It doesn’t, though “Gone” would easily make my top 100.

*** This was true at the time I wrote it, but isn’t now. Between the books and his work on Ebert & Roeper, his column’s suffered for quality. But I’ve been pretty much done with him since he idiotically railed against the Dove campaign for “real beauty.” This post pretty much says it all. I’m not entirely sure which parts of it are mine, and which are Erin’s though I distinctly remember writing the Herb Tarlek line. Actually, the whole thing’s pretty ironic considering all the railing she does about the Sun-Times. Let that be a lesson, kids: insulting a potential employer can lead to $$$.

**** It does, even though it probably wouldn’t make my top 100.

***** This was true at the time I wrote it, and still is now. Every time I hear “Don’t Stop Believin'” I wonder what it is The Lovin’ Spoonful has that Journey doesn’t.

This week in self-promotion

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I was going through some old posts last night, and discovered this post wherein I predicted that Arcade Fire tickets going for $1000 would be “the straw that broke the camel’s back for scalpers.” Now, ignore for a moment that I meant “nail in the coffin” (I do love a good metaphor and/or cliche) and consider all the Police tickets that were going for face value last month on Ebay, Craigslist and the like thanks to scalpers (both the professional scalpers and the unprofessionals who took advantage of their season ticket privileges and flooded the secondary market). Can I call it or what?

Anyway, I pitched in on TOC‘s gambling issue this week. I spoke to an expert gambler named John Patrick, who gave me some valuable tips on playing mini-baccarat (2nd item), which I immediately squandered at the Harrah’s casino in Joliet (6th item). Still, if I can manage to find a $5 table the next time I’m in Vegas, I’ll give it another go. Click through those links for the full story, and be sure to check out the 2nd page of that “Beginner’s Luck” story, where you can see an illustration that is clearly meant to be me in my sharp-ass blazer.

By the way, if you ever want to have the easiest, most entertaining conversation of your life, ask me for Mr. Patrick’s number. He and I talked for about 45 minutes over the phone, and I am pretty sure I said less than 250 words the whole time, but it was the most fun I’ve ever had interviewing a source. Never was I so sad to have so little room in a piece for quotes.

Speaking of disappointments, I reviewed the TV series Voyagers! in last week’s issue (last item). Holy crap, is that show way better in my memory than in reality. With respect to plot and acting, it’s Knight Rider bad (hey, I love Knight Rider too but come on: there’s more ham in that show that your average slaughterhouse), but it does retain a ridiculous charm, even if it has production values on par with a couple of the short films I was in during college.

Finally, the archive of my appearance on Outside the Loop radio is up. I sound much more coherent here than I did on Rachel’s show last month.

Please keep in mind that I am available for your next birthday party, bar mitzvah or quinceañera.

Best story of the weekend

Music, ,

Lollapalooza was a long weekend. You can see TOC’s reports – including write-ups from me about The Hold Steady, the 1900s, Sam Roberts Band and Silversun Pickups on our blog. Plus, we’ve got loads of pictures on our Flickr site.

I know this is an overused cliche, but for me, it felt a bit like Groundhog Day: wake up, check schedule, get laptops, walk to Lolla, set up, walk to show, sweat, walk back to tents, check the blog, walk to next show, sweat, squeeze in two minutes to talk to friends you haven’t seen in a year, check blog, walk, sweat, write, walk, sweat, watch, pass out.

Every time I bitched about having to work at Lolla, people would say “Oh yeah, that’s a lot of work to be outside and watch music.” Except, that’s not what I did. Because I was working, I missed the massive audience participation of Iggy Pop’s set (easily the most talked-about event in a weekend sorely lacking in them) and Daft Punk’s reportedly mind-blowing performance (though I overheard it whilst in the press tent uploading photos). I missed more than I saw due to all the running back and forth, and blog editing.

But that doesn’t mean I didn’t have any fun. Like at the Hard Rock after-party on Friday.

As I mentioned, Lolla is usually a chance to catch up with people I’ve met at previous fests, like Abbey at PunkPhoto, Scott at Stereogum, Whitney from Pop Candy and Rachel from Rachelandthecity. Friday night, I was on the list for the Hard Rock party and knew a couple other folks were going to be there so I headed over around 11:30 after a long, sweaty day. As expected, I was met with a line, but it was short so I queued up.

Now, I have two hard-and-fast rules about bar-going: no bar is worth waiting in line for and no bar is worth paying a cover charge if there’s no live band. (I retain a $5 and under exception for the latter if there is a DJ and/or it’s past midnight.) But Friday night, I broke my first rule and waited in line for 45 minutes as barely anyone from the press line was let in. I figured this would be the one time when I’d be in the mood to tolerate the kind of manufactured cool that events like this create. Plus, I wanted free booze.

At around the 40-minte mark, Whitney showed up with her friend Mariah, and we chatted for a bit as even she and her fancy laminated pass weren’t being let in. Suddenly, bouncers started ushering folks in, and I – along with two guys I was talking with in line, one of whom was wearing an Iron Maiden t-shirt – were swept in, and up the stairs. Moving with the momentum of the situation, I stuck close to Whitney as we neared the VIP Lounge and she told Mr. Clipboard that I was with her. In the span of about two minutes, I went from standing on the street to potentially rubbing elbows with celebrities (and Danny Masterson). This was going to be the one time I played this game, and I intended to win, so I scanned the crowd for potential famous people.

Sure enough, standing next to me was a short, dark-haired, woman with heavy eye makeup who was being fawned over by someone else. “Ah ha,” I thought. “Amy Winehouse, my first sighting.” Despite the “no-that’s-not-her” protestations of my fellow partygoers, I decided to open with a question that would get me an easy “yes” and go from there. “Excuse me,” I said, “are you still touring with the Dap Kings?” She looked me dead in the eye, smiled – with suddenly worrying perfect teeth – and said:

Amy Winehouse: “I’ve never toured with the Dap Kings.”
Me: “…”
Totally Not Amy Winehouse: “I’m Lady GaGa.”
Me: “Ohhh. Um, hi. I’m sorry, I thought you were someone else.”
Lady GaGa: “Who did you think I was?”
Me: “You know, I….it doesn’t matter. Say, you’re from New York, right?”
Lady GaGa: “Yes, I’m from Man-haht-tan.” (in the thickest New Yawk accent ever)
Me: (determined to salvage this opportunity) “And you’re playing the MySpace stage tomorrow, right?”
Lady GaGa: “BMI.”
Me: “Oh-KAY! Well, it was nice meeting you, have a nice night.”

I turn back to Whitney and her friend, who are looking at me as if they’ve just witnessed someone willingly throw themselves through a plate-glass window. “So, that wasn’t her,” I said, confirming the obvious.

Later we met up again with Iron Maiden t-shirt guy who said he ran into Iron Maiden’s manager at the party, and he promised him free tickets next time they came to town. He also took the kid around the party, and helped him pick up hot girls (“I didn’t really have much to say to them except for ‘How’s it going?'”). Raise your hand if that totally sounds like what you’d expect from Iron Maiden’s manager.

Sadly, the night mostly lacked for celeb-spotting, but I did see:
* A great show by Polyphonic Spree
* Rachel and her friend standing onstage during said show
* A woman get a tattoo of a musical note behind her ear
* Another woman getting a makeover
* A flat-out trashed bathroom, rock-star style

I ended up having a really good time. I don’t think I would have had I not known people there. But it wasn’t as douchebaggy as I thought either. And, like I said, the booze was free.

Reading and writing

Music

Thanks to everyone who showed up at Quimby’s to listen to me read, and pretended like you didn’t notice all the porn comics on the shelves around you. The literary crowd was all at Printer’s Ball that night, so the crowd was sparse, save for all of you. So thanks for filling up those seats.

Thanks also to the grey-haired gentleman who, as I came off stage, asked me to take his iPod and create a playlist for him. That was a treat, though I usually prefer to have 3-4 hours to spend quality time with such a task. And props to the two dudes who stopped looking at the porn comics to listen to what I had to say.

And thanks to Kelsey who gave me a Colt 45 before I started. Oh and asking me in the first place.

For those of you who couldn’t make it, I’m posting the piece here. Enjoy.

—————————
The other day, I installed something called Last.FM on my computer.

For those that don’t know, Last.FM is a sort of social networking software that constructs a profile of you, based on what songs you listen to on your computer. This same profile is then published on its website for the entire world to see. As far as Last.FM is concerned, you are what you listen to.

After your install Last.FM, it scans your iTunes and other audio software to come up with a list of your most recently played tracks, favorite artists, etc. My top five most played artists ended up looking like this:

1 Johnny Cash
2 The Who
3 The Police
4 James Brown
5 The Faces

I was surprised to see Johnny Cash at number one but certainly not disappointed. It was now clear to all that I liked his music, and I didn’t need one of those t-shirts of him flipping the bird to prove it.

Most of the rest of that list was pretty respectable, and dead-on. The songs of The Who, The Police and James Brown are practically a part of my DNA, and I have a tendency to get drunk on whiskey and crank up The Faces, so that makes sense as well. Last.FM and I both agreed on who I was, and what I liked.

The problem began the other day when I turned on the iTunes party shuffle, which is guaranteed to play the lousiest music you own. For people who pride themselves on having good taste in music, it’s the equivalent of your parents pulling out a book of naked baby pictures in front of your Prom date. Sure enough, less than five songs in I was hearing “Into The Void” by KISS, a song that’s so awful, it doesn’t show up until Disc 5 in their boxed set. Two songs later, it got worse: my apartment filled with the sounds of Aersosmith’s “Don’t Want To Miss A Thing.”

Normally, this would be a minor annoyance. But with Last.FM humming in the background, my heretofore stellar music taste could now be called into question by the entire Internet. Sadly, there was no “I was listening to this ironically” button.

(As an aside, there’s no such thing as listening to a song “ironically.” If you are alone, and purposely cue up a song and hit play? You like that song. Irony doesn’t enter into it. And the same thing goes for mustaches.)

I quickly discovered I could delete songs from my Last FM profile, and couldn’t right-click fast enough to clear those two musical atrocities. I bailed on the party shuffle and cued up Carole King’s Tapestry so I could have a few minutes to think and not feel betrayed.

There are few things one can do that cultivate more self-intimacy than listening to music alone. No matter what the world tells you about yourself or whatever façade you try to present to the world, you can be secure in the knowledge that no judgment is being passed over you while you cue up songs from Kansas, Men at Work, or Sheryl Crow’s latter albums (her earlier stuff still holds up).

I realized that Last.FM now had me putting all those private moments I’ve kept to myself on display for the world to see. I might be fine with the Internet knowing I love Johnny Cash, but I’d prefer it never found out I own not one, but two Kylie Minogue albums.

After thinking about it some more, I realized that ever since high school, I’ve defined myself by music.

When I started dating my high school girlfriend, she would get countless notes from me filled with nothing but song lyrics. It would literally be a piece of paper upon which I’d written the title of the song, the name of the band and then the lyrics. I wouldn’t even bother to write “Dear Colleen” or “Hey baby, I heard this song and it made me think of you.” We had a rather rocky relationship, and broke up and got back together numerous times. I don’t remember much about the details behind most of those numerous breakups, except for one. Why? Because as we were breaking up, the song “I Know I’m Losing You” by The Temptations was playing in the background. Sure, it was painful. But you don’t get better timing than that, and when I tell the story of our Big Breakup, that’s the detail I use to illustrate it. Even though it probably wasn’t our Big Breakup at all, but more likely Three Breakups Before The Big Breakup.

It was this kind of musical myth-making that I started to cultivate in college.

The first time I had sex, was with a girl named Angela while we were listening to Meatloaf’s Bat Out Of Hell album. Anyone who has ever heard this album knows that it doesn’t exactly create the ideal backdrop for losing one’s virginity. It’s akin to saying that Def Leppard’s Hysteria was playing when you had your First Communion. To be honest, I didn’t have much choice in the musical selection that evening. We started getting down to business in her dorm room, and I hadn’t known in advance that this was going to happen so I hadn’t thought to bring any “mood music.” She had a few tapes, most of which were lousy. The only one that seemed palatable to me was Bat Out Of Hell. Perhaps I thought the ten minute title track that led the album would be loud enough to keep the people in the hallway from overhearing the sounds of our ecstasy. If so, I admire the moxie I had that led me to think the experience was going to last much more than ten seconds, nevermind ten minutes.

A few years later, I attempted to rewrite this portion of my sexual history by claiming that it was not Meat Loaf, but Marvin Gaye who was the soundtrack to my first fumbling attempts at lovemaking. Of course, the first time I said this I was pretty drunk, so what actually came out of my mouth was “The first time I had sex was with Marvin Gaye.”

So there it is: rather than stick to the truth of a situation, I chose to describe my entrance into manhood as being accompanied by a soul legend, rather than an obsese, sweaty screamer prone to Wagnerian musical excess.

People who define themselves by the music they listen to, worry about what Last FM says about them, while people who don’t, have nothing to fear.

The thing is, I listen to my share of “bad” music. The very first live show I ever went to was The Monkees Reunion tour in 1987, with “Weird Al” Yankovic opening for them. I have, on occasion, psyched myself up by listening to songs by The Alan Parsons Project. And, swear to God, I will knock you to the ground for saying anything bad about “Sussudio” by Phil Collins. So I
don’t exactly have an impeachable record of coolness when it comes to music.

Let me be clear: people define themselves by the music they listen to, aren’t really interested in making sure their taste in music is seen as particularly cutting edge. It has more to do with tracking your personality or the personality of others by how they relate to music. Deleting those Aerosmith and KISS songs from my Last.FM profile was just like telling people I lost my virginity to Marvin Gaye. So to speak. I didn’t do it because those songs are terrible. They are, but that’s not why it bothered me. I just didn’t want to claim them as my own. They weren’t part of who I considered myself to be.

I know there are people out there who don’t use musical taste as a means of discovering things about other people. Whereas me? I am sure I can tell everything about you by asking you which Beatles album is your favorite. I know whether or not we’re going to get along by your preference for either the German or American version of “99 Luftballoons.” Or whether you even have a preference at all. I’m also a firm believer in the notion that you can tell how much fun someone might be at a party by whether or not he or she can sing the chorus of “Jungle Love” by The Time.

I know there are other people out there like me. In fact, it’s given me an idea for a speed-dating service called MixDate. You will sit down at a table across from someone, and they will hand you a CD of their favorite songs, and you will hand them one of yours. And then you’ll get up, and move to the next table. After you listen to all the CDs, you tell MixDate which ones you liked the best, and they’ll tell you who liked yours. If there’s a match, you trade phone numbers. I guarantee this would be the most successful dating service of all time.

Best thing all week

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Most of you probably saw the Create Your Own Simpsons avatar activity on The Simpsons Movie website. The site allowed you to create a Simpsons character that supposedly looked like you. I came close, but it was never quite right.

Today my co-worker Margaret sent me a link to Simpsonizeme.com, which allows you to do essentially the same, but with a picture of yourself, thereby offering a more lifelike depiction of yourself as…er, a cartoon.

I ended up with this:


Seriously, how much does that look like me? The eyebrows aren’t quite right, and my normally lantern-jawed chin is given short shrift, but otherwise: damn. You probably have a picture of me (drunk) making that exact face.

And if you’re saying to yourself “Say, I don’t remember you looking quite that way,” then perhaps you ought to show up here:

It’ll be fun, I promise. If not, you’ll get a beer for your trouble.*

* Offer good only for Old Style

Early warning

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I’ll be reading at Quimby’s (1854 W. North Ave) on Friday July 20th at 7 p.m. The reading is part of MachineFest, which works to make local music and art accessible to everyone in Chicago. The ‘fest is put on by Machine Media, and include rock shows, DJ sets, and readings throughout July. You can get info on all the shows (prices are free to $6) at their site.

As for what I’ll be reading, it won’t be Corgan-related like last year, but most likely will be about music. If that sound vague, it’s because…well, I haven’t quite finished my piece. But it’ll be hilarious, I promise. If it isn’t, I’ll buy you a beer at the Double Door show afterwards.
– 30 –

Saturday in the park, a man selling ice cream

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I’ve been doing some writing in Time Out Chicago recently. This week, I contributed to an article in TOC‘s ice cream issue, now on-sale at local newsstands, but also available on the Interwebs. The piece is here (last item), complete with a stunningly handsome picture of yours truly. I walked around Rogers Park, Edgewater and Andersonville selling paletas and other ice cream treats. How did I do? Well, you’ll just have to click on the link.

Also in this week’s issue, we have a Web-only feature that lets our readers choose their favorite ice cream treat from the places we reviewed in this issue. Definitely worth checking out because it’s very pretty. Keep up with the results on the TOC blog.

And finally, I wrote the third item for this article on the history of Chicago’s parks. If you haven’t had a chance to check out these nifty TOC Google maps detailing everything there is to do in the city parks, or the many attractions of Milwaukee, you really should.

I do hope you’ve made the TOC blog a regular part of your day. I write occasional posts there, and you also get insightful pieces like this one on the whole “crush on Obama” phenomenon from our sex and relationships writer, Debby Herbenick.

Finally – and this is completely free of all self-promotion – I’ve got my money on Wes Craven in this fight.

From the archives, vol. 2

Music,

It’s not as if I haven’t had things on my mindgrapes this past week (specifically the full-on revival of girl group rock and the end of the 2nd season of The Ultimate Coyote Ugly Search). Due to lots of work-related stuff and some technical difficulties*, I haven’t been blogging. Right now, my PC is in safe mode (throw ’em up, geeks!) as I type this, due to a busted video card. It’s like using a computer with no peripherals whose display is rendered by a sloppy child wielding a crayon. So it’s making blogging a less than enjoyable undertaking.

And much as it pains me, I’m not going to get up this week’s Oblivious Living post, which is a shame because it’s a really solid track, though sung by a band with a very unfortunate name.

Still, it’s been a solid week since new stuff went up here so I’m again posting a piece I wrote last year around this time.

This piece was written in June 2006 for a series of readings and events that fell under the banner of Music With Meaning, which was a fundraiser for Rape Victim Advocates and America’s Second Harvest. I was asked to read for this event by two of the Machine Media folks, and immediately agreed before I realized I had nothing to read that would fit the format. So over the course of a week (though mostly during a caffeine-fueled Friday night), I composed the following.

The piece deals with the often difficult relationship Chicago has with its rock star past, and specifically with Billy Corgan. I’ve been meaning to go back to it, and do some additional editing, but I’ve never quite gotten around to it. The last lines’s amusing considering what I wrote on TOC‘s blog last week, and it’s also a little dated now, what with the Smashing Pumpkins reunion/Zwan 2.0 relaunch. But I still think it’s worth it for the line about Corgan and Jimmy Chamberlin running a series of bait shops.

Enjoy, and I promise more this week.

Where Have You Gone, Billy Corgan?
(A City Turns Its Lonely Eyes To You Then Proceeds To Give You The Finger)

For a long time, Chicago rock fans have been a lot like the guy in his mid 30s who won’t shut up about the year he made the game-winning catch in the Homecoming game then proceeded to take the hottest girl in school with him to Prom. That is to say, we’re having a really hard time getting over the year 1993—the last time Chicago was both a critical and commercial force in the music industry. But more than that, we’re having a hard time adjusting to life without Billy Corgan.

There’s no denying that Chicago is responsible for some of the best rock music of the last forty years, and Richard Marx. But in the summer of 1993, Veruca Salt, Urge Overkill, Liz Phair and the Smashing Pumpkins all released the albums that, for better or worse, defined their careers and created the last great movement in Chicago rock music: American Thighs, Saturation, Exile in Guyville and Siamese Dream.

Now in actuality, Veruca Salt’s American Thighs didn’t actually come out until October of 1994, but I think in the minds of most people who bother to care about such things, that release date got swapped with the August 1993 release date of its doppelganger, the Breeders’ Last Splash, because it makes for a much tidier story. So that’s what I’m going with here. Truth is important, but it doesn’t always make for good entertainment, which is why Lifetime movies based on real events, but starring Tori Spelling are so much more fun than that A&E show with Bill Kurtis.

Anyway, it’s probably unfair to expect a band to stay together for more than ten years but I can’t help but think most people in town are disappointed with the fact that the four great white hopes of the last Chicago rock movement have all fallen apart in one way or another. Both Veruca Salt and Urge Overkill followed up their breakthrough albums with solid, but underappreciated records that failed to build on their previous success.

This left Liz Phair and the Smashing Pumpkins to battle it out for the hearts and minds of the city of Chicago. Though Liz has outlasted the Pumpkins as a working artist and just about matched them in terms of output, if you asked most people in Chicago, “Which artist more accurately represents the city?”, they’d undoubtedly say the Smashing Pumpkins. Ask them which is the more influential artist and most people will still probably say the Smashing Pumpkins. Yet I don’t think this is the case outside of Chicago, at least in terms of the albums that launched each into national prominence.

While writing this piece, “Never Said” off of Exile came on Sirius’ “Left of Center” satellite radio channel. I swear this actually happened. I always thought writers made up bullshit coincidences like this just to make their work more organic or something while at the same time allowing them to prattle on about topics that wouldn’t fit anywhere else. And while the latter isn’t any less true, maybe those coincidences aren’t so bullshit after all.

But here’s the interesting thing. Not once have I heard a Smashing Pumpkins song on Left of Center. Not once. On the off-chance that I just wasn’t listening at the right times, I asked my roommate (who practically has Left of Center’s playlist jacked into his brain in the same way that Keanu Reeves learned kung-fu in The Matrix) how often he’s heard a Pumpkins song. “Maybe twice,” he replied. How often do they play Liz Phair? “All the time,” he said.

This makes absolutely no logical sense to me and probably most other Chicagoans. While “Never Said” is a fine enough song (though not near as good as two of her other singles: “Polyester Bride” and “Supernova”), the Pumpkins probably outsold her by at least 10 to 1 (I’m completely guessing here but that sounds about right, doesn’t it?). Plus, most people would argue that the Pumpkins albums all remained challenging, while Liz’s albums eventually got played on The Mix.

While judging an artist’s total accumulated sales is hardly a measure of influence, chart position at least indicates what audiences were willing to digest at the time. Exile’s highest chart position was 196, barely cracking the Billboard Top 200. Siamese Dream? #10. But really, this makes perfect sense. The alt rock revolution was in full swing by the time Siamese Dream came out so audiences were already primed for Corgan’s metal-meets-psychedelia breakthrough. A woman talking about being your blowjob queen? Not so much.

Critically speaking, the Smashing Pumpkins, as important as they were to the larger alternative rock movement, were really nothing more than an amalgam of other influences, while Liz Phair was a phenomenon that no one saw coming and is therefore more influential as a result.

Yet people in the city still identify more strongly with Corgan and the Pumpkins and are still wishin’, hopin’, and prayin’ for a Pumpkins reunion. For better or worse, we have decided that Billy Corgan and the Smashing Pumpkins represent the last time Chicago was a major musical touchstone. Despite the litany of great Chicago rock acts that are revitalizing the sound of this city, we continue to cling to him as our cultural ambassad
or. If the Pumpkins reunite, it means we as a city are relevant again and New York and the Strokes can both go and suck it.

How did this happen? How did a band that took a smattering of admittedly awesome but not exactly groundbreaking metal and rock influences become the symbolic White Knight? I’ve grown up in the Chicago area my whole life and the only explanation I can offer for this is that people are very particular about what gets chosen as the unique Chicago cultural experience. If it doesn’t reflect THEIR experience, then it isn’t REALLY Chicago and is derided as false. This is ridiculous, but it’s true. My Chicago experience is way different from yours and way different from some dude in Pilsen, Portage Park, Roseland, or Lakeview.

So why did we pick this guy, rather than say…Nash Kato? It’s very simple. I think it’s because he likes the Cubs. And he doesn’t just like the Cubs. He LOOOOOVES the Cubs. Do you think ‘XRT thought “Hey, let’s get Billy Corgan to do Cubs commentary for us?” Of course not. You and I both know Corgan talked himself into that job just like he did the time he subbed for a Chicago Tribune sports beat reporter. It’s almost as if one day in gym class, Corgan’s gym class was picking teams for baseball and he was picked last. And at that moment, little Billy knew he would never display enough athletic ability to play for the Chicago Cubs. So he figured the easiest way to get himself a spot in the Cubs organization would be to become a famous rock star and then they’d have to let him participate. The entire Gish album was essentially a request to start spring training and if there’s a song other than “Suffer” that better describes being a Cub fan then I haven’t heard it.

That’s a very Chicago kind of fandom. Think about it: Even if you yourself are not a Cubs fan, you’ve probably encountered people who are as ravenous about them as Billy. And because you’re probably a Sox fan, you can’t stand them (or at least that aspect of their personality). But this doesn’t take away from the fact that they are your people. Sox fans need Cub fans. We are the yin and the yang. We are Chicago. And therefore, Billy is Chicago. I am he and you are he and we are all together.

Oddly enough, I think we as a city were just about ready to take our Smashing Pumpkins albums out of our collective hope chests and move on until last summer when Billy Corgan started acting like a total rock tease. At that point, Corgan was like an emotionally distant ex-boyfriend. He had started dating somebody else (some slut named Zwan) and then decided he needed his space to find himself so he started working on a solo album.

Then all of a sudden he makes the equivalent of a drunken phone call to us 3 in the morning in the form of a full-age ad in the Trib and the Sun-Times. Not since Lloyd Dobler held a boom box under Diane Court’s window had a suitor made such a nakedly bold declaration of love. In the ad, he said, “I moved away to pursue a love I had, but got lost.” At first, we didn’t believe it. Did he still love us? Did he still care? He must have because he then he started leaving cryptic comments on his MySpace page. “The surprise I have in store for you all will be announced soon enough….hold on to your horses. After all, good things surely comes to those who wait….Don’t you just love the suspense?”

But we didn’t start getting wet until it was rumored that the Pumpkins would be reuniting, first at Coachella (which turned out to be false) and then Lollapalooza. The latter rumor was fueled by one line in an article from Billboard magazine that said “Chicago media reports have suggested a primary target for a headliner is Smashing Pumpkins.” Intrigued, I emailed the New York editor who wrote the piece and asked about his source. It turned out to be nothing more than an aside muttered by a Billboard intern who used to live here. And there it was. Chicagoans so wanted Corgan to reunite the Pumpkins that they were willing to furnish a reunion themselves in the same way that William Randolph Hearst helped fan the flames of the Spanish-American War.

The problem with all this now is that a reunited Smashing Pumpkins isn’t going to look anything like the Pumpkins of old. No, a reunited Pumpkins is going to end up looking more like a reunited Styx, which is really just a reunited Damn Yankees and holy shit, nobody wants that. Unless The Nuge is involved. Then maybe.

See, Corgan hasn’t spoken to D’arcy since 1999 and James Iha found out about the plans for the reunion the same way you and I did when the Tribune ad ran. Jimmy Chamberlain’s in, but you get the feeling that if Billy Corgan asked Jimmy Chamberlain to help him start a chain of bait shops in Northwestern Indiana then he’d probably do it. Essentially, our old flame has invited us over to his place to rekindle our passions over a romantic dinner, but once we arrive he’s had the game on, a couple of his buddies are passed out on the couch and someone is in the corner trying to get the dog drunk. Plus? While we were there? That skank Melissa Auf Der Mar called and left a message saying, “My services are there for him whenever he needs them.” Bitch.

So fine, Billy. You go. We’ve had our affections toyed with for the last time. You do your own thing with your fancy new friends. Anyway, we’re seeing someone else now. His name is Fall Out Boy and he’s young, and hot, and sends us naked pictures of himself over the Internet. And he’ll probably love us forever.