Ephemeral Creation:
Music and Art in Chicago, 1978 - 1982                                 ← Part 11. →

by Ken Mierzwa

	The Max Grey Band in the alley behind Club 950 November, 1982 Photo by Ken Mierzwa, copyright © 2003-2006
Fall 1982 to early 1983 By the fall I was actively seeking out bands that were beyond the tolerance limits of the general public. In October I photographed Kino Eye, the latest incarnation of one of the Art Institute bands. They were one of the few musical aspects of the block-long Judy Chicago art festival held in the south loop area. Then in November the Max Grey band played Club 950. Max was a bartender and manager at Club 950, and sometimes played with The Men and a couple of other local industrial acts. He had been telling me about his band for so long that I was beginning to wonder if it was for real. Finally, here they were; and there were a lot of them. No wonder it had taken a while to get things together. I did enjoy the show though, and afterwards we lined up a few group photos in the alley behind the club. I can't remember if it was at this show or an earlier one; but even though I neglected to write it down, I vividly recall an incident that took place outside of Club 950. Art MacQuilkin was a major player in the Chicago industrial music scene. Besides being the founder of The Men, one of the better known local acts within this obscure genre, he also was the owner of Snat 5 Records, which supported several of the local acts by booking shows and sponsoring records or tapes. It was the only local record company that was run like a real business, out of a sparkling clean west loop loft office buzzing with activity. He was a Northwestern University grad, and was a few years older than many of the other music enthusiasts. Smart and charismatic, on this night he was in a mood to test what he could get away with. He was leaning against the brick facade of Club 950. It was between sets, and several of us were outside. I was the only one talking to him at that moment. A bum, an older guy in torn clothes and with a week-old stubble, staggered by; not an unusual occurrence in that neighborhood. Art started up a conversation with the bum, friendly at first. Without changing tone or cadence, the words suddenly became insults. The bum protested, threatened violence, talked about how he had been recently released from prison on a felony rap; Art than brought him back down, friendly and reassuring. A few minutes later, more insults, followed by another recovery. This went on at least three or four times. It seemed to me to be a game; could he play the bum like an instrument? Apparently, he could. Suddenly, the conversation was over, and the bum knew it. He shuffled away, grumbling into the night. It was one of the most amazing demonstrations of verbal skill I have ever seen. A little later, I was surprised by the moderately large turnout for David Thomas at Stages. I must assume that most arrived on the basis of advertising. As lead for Pere Ubu, Thomas had uttered the most unconventional, and often the most un-musical, things... certainly fitting for a band named after Jarry's bizarre fictional character. Usually it was far removed from any conventional melody, and sometimes it was hard to listen to. As a solo act he had toned it down quite a bit, although there was still little danger of him ever cracking the top-40. I must assume that most in the crowd were disappointed. I was too... I would have preferred the rantings of Pere Ubu. By now the regulars had mostly drifted away. As I explored art and industrial bands, others had also gone in different directions. Sometime in late 1982 I saw Gang of Four at Metro. Then I went to one last show in early 1983 after a long absence, and there was hardly anyone left from the old days. In February Bauhaus returned to Chicago. It was hard to believe that only two years earlier I had been able to walk right up to them in a nearly empty room. This time Metro was jammed to the four walls, and the balconies were overflowing too. I watched from a distance, enjoying the music; the sound had evolved, but they were still a very good band. I tried to ignore the crowd. I talked to Michele Fitzsimmons for a while; she had recently done an art exhibit at an Oak Street Gallery, showing nude photos of herself taken in assorted public places. She would quickly drop her coat, the photograper would shoot, and as soon as the coat was back on they would move along. It was actually a pretty strong exhibit, laced with all sorts of cultural commentary. But my talk with Michele was about the only thing that would pass for an intellectual conversation that evening. I saw only a few other friends. My final writings for CR, a couple of record reviews, were published in the January 1983 issue. I wanted to write about other things, cultural and political things, and wasn't hearing a lot of enthusiasm for that. The 'zine dragged along, without me and several of the other writers, for a few more issues before fading away. The last one seemed superficially full of enthusiasm, but it was forced and contrived. No one felt that way anymore. It was over. There was no longer any doubt about it. Partially, it was the changing music and the ever-growing crowds. There were still good people, but it was getting harder to sort them out from the hordes. Mostly though, it was me. I was burned out. It had been such an intense time, maybe too intense. Probably it was unsustainable even under the best of circumstances. A particularly dreary winter of '82/83 had contributed. It was one of those long, gray winters, with little snow but lots of cold and clouds and slush. It was time to move on to brighter things. I spent some time out in the woods, first nearby and then later on the west coast. I tested the musical waters briefly in Los Angeles and San Francisco, and with my friend Marci saw a breathtaking Christian Death show. But there was no going back there. New directions, new relationships, a whole new lifestyle waited. So what had come out of it? For me, a series of experiences I would never forget. For society at large, a creative burst that forever changed the music industry. The big companies had been forced to anticipate change instead of just dictate taste. Although the big money is once again the main player, things are better than they had been. The ability to self-publish, whether music or images or words, has been a more profound change, one which cannot easily be reversed. It is no longer limited to paper... the internet has made it possible to reach an international audience. There have been many books written already on the cultural influence of "punk." More will be written. Mostly, I'll leave it to them to try to explain, at least for now. I'll say only that while there certainly were negative aspects to the whole thing, it had many subtle and a few not so subtle influences on our present-day world, and some of them were positive. Like any burst of creative energy, much junk was generated along with a lesser amount of quality work which holds up well today. Some of it continues to influence creative minds. continued..... ← back † next →
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