Scene Report: How Long Gone in Chicago
On Tuesday I went to the How Long Gone show at Schubas Tavern with my friend Michael and roommate Alex. We stopped into a local watering hole called Lincoln Tap room, which offered exceptional hospitality. The room was wide and the ceilings were tall. The place had a deepness to it, where in the back lived a pool table and lounge seating area. Jazz music blared from the speakers, presumably hooked to the ceilings, as the sound carried well.
The bartender wore long hair turned gray and a band T shirt. He looked at our ID’s aggressively under the bar light. Upon handing them back we were given our drinks. I ordered a Stella and a man sitting at the bar asked if I knew why my beer of choice bears the name “wife beater.” I innocently said I was unaware of this title and he explained it.
He was Australian, but I was hardly listening to his story as I was attempting to decipher whether John Coltrane or Miles Davis was playing. I asked the man where he lived in the UK and Alex, standing obediently beside me as though a consciences secretary, informed me, “he’s Australian.” We laughed, toasted and I hoped that confrontation wouldn’t be representative of the night.
We finished our beers then walked to Schubas. A freshly printed sheet of paper was taped to the front door that read “HOW LONG GONE.” Naturally, this would be my first photo of the night. Upon entering, I was cut off by a man, resembling more of a woman, with long blonde curly hair and an Issey Miyake cardigan. My only preconceived notions of this show were that New Balance would be worn in droves, as well as the occasional Aimé Leon Dore piece. I was pleasantly surprised to see Issey in the building.
While waiting impatiently at the bar for a Lagunitas on draft, I peered into the backroom where there was several rows of seats and a stage. We walked in and to our right was the merch stand. Exactly four shirts were available for purchase. I debated buying the white long sleeve which had a tennis ball in motion screen printed on it. “Better get it now,” Michael said. I didn’t.
We sat in the second row, audacious yet safe. I chose this row as my vision is fleeting, and I’d never seen Chris Black in person (I ran into Jason in Manhattan’s Nolita neighborhood back in August). My Lagunitas was finished and the two hit the stage.
The show was both as expected and exceeding all expectations. I was most impressed by the sheer ease in which Chris and Jason held an hour-long conversation in front of a room of strangers. Topics discussed included: hot dogs, San Francisco, the Ralph Lauren restaurant, Malort, and my personal favorite, Chris’s disdain for marathons. I say this only because I’ve ran a marathon, which, per the two asking for a showing of hands as to who’s ran them, I promptly raised.
If my memory serves me correctly, Jason asked if I am, or have ever been a drug addict. My answer was no, to which Chris responded by saying I’m too young and Jason calling me a pussy. Suffice to say, the show exceeded my expectations.
Following the show was a guest performance by Ratboys which I didn’t end up staying for. To Ratboys, I sincerely apologize. But it doesn’t go without reason. Earlier in the day I’d RSVP’d tickets to a joint in Chicago’s Fulton Market called Blind Barber, where DJ Them Jeans, formally known as Jason Stewart, would be doing a set.
I called the Uber to Blind Barber. As we walked out of Schubas there was a well-dressed platoon smoking cigarettes in a circle formation. One of the faces belonged to Benjamin Edgar, a Chicago-based designer. A few years ago I happened to DM the previously mentioned designer asking for an internship, though the only thing I felt inclined to say was, “big fan.”
The uber was punctual and got us to Fulton Market. Having never been to Blind Barber I was surprised to see only one man in the place. We went in and a security guard asked for our names. There was a singular door in the corner and, having watched enough movies showcasing the seediness of nightlife, I knew all too well this door led to a night to remember.
We walked into a dark hallway and out into a red lit room. Skepta played at a volume that made Lincoln Tap Room amateur. A disco ball hung in the corner and a few well-dressed ladies and gentlemen were seated along the narrow walls drinking cocktails. I once again settled on Stella, and how could I not? The only beer on draft was that and Michelob Ultra.
Them Jeans, as well as the crowd I’d seen at Schubas did not arrive for about an hour or so. I eventually saw an unusually tall figure in the DJ booth. He wore a navy hat with “gone” stitched on the front. We moved closer and became a petri dish of like-minded people.
Next to Them Jeans was a booth where Benjamin and Chris sat infrequently head bopping. Around the booth stood a crowd of fairly well-dressed and refined individuals. Bottega Veneta boots consumed the floor, and New Balance 990v5’s took on a new life. The red strobe light complimented the Chief Keef coming from the speakers.
The clock was approaching two o’clock in the morning and much of the crowd had dissipated. Chris had left the building long before Jason played The Smiths, which is a shame, because I think it would’ve kept him around.
Before I knew it Alex and I, as well as a few stragglers in all black outfits, watched Them Jeans DJ a near empty room as though it were sold out. This was a man who simply loves his craft.
The security guard came up to me and said they were closing. I didn’t want to intrude on the set, but I figured if there was any time to DJ dap, it was then. The music cut off and I simply asked for a picture. We walked outside and Jason unveiled a pack of American Spirits and leaned against a streetlight. We struck up a conversation about when we ran into each other in Nolita, my mom’s interest in the podcast and how disturbing of a place San Francisco is. Alex boarded the Uber and suddenly it was just the three of us: Chicago, Jason and me.
The moment was nice, here’s a guy I listen to four times a week, a guy I very much look up to and admire, and here we are in my city. Jason said he needed to head back to the hotel, and I noticeably fabricated that the West Loop’s Hoxton Hotel was in the same direction as my apartment. We walked there together.
We spoke on having family in Virginia, Chicago’s crime scene, working in New York and retiring in Italy and just how great of a hotel the Hoxton really is. The night concluded with a dap from Them Jeans.