Rodrigo y Gabriela @ The Hideout

Another random weekend night landed me in a hilariously long line outside one of my favorite spots: The Hideout. The bar is aptly named; hidden in an industrial area of town near North Ave and Elston and it’s not an easy find if you don’t know where you’re heading. Then again, judging by the queue, the place isn’t exactly “hush-hush”. Hideout has a stellar entertainment reputation (comedy, poetry, music, etc), a great low-key vibe and a line that stretched out the door and down the block.


(Images taken From www.RodGab.com)

My pal Kate had tipped me off to a free early show hosted by WXRT. It’d be fair to say that XRT is “slipping” a bit as far as being a relevant Chicago music resource goes (XRT listener pole, the loss of Sound Opinions), but they’re still an authority if they highlight fabulous musicians like Mexico-via-Dublin’s Rodrigo y Gabriela. Hell, before I even saw them I relished saying their names in a thick, fake, latin accent: “Rrrodureeego Eeee Gabreeeeyayla.”



While we're trying to keep warm out on Wabansia, there's terrific music floating out the windows of The H/O... more slackers (myself included) begin to line up outside, annoyed that we’re not being let in. While we’re standing, and shivering, and smoking, snippets of gorgeous guitar work emanated though the open window facing the front patio. Intrigued outsiders started taking turns peeking into front window in hopes of catching a glimpse.

Within 10 or so minutes the crowd thinned out and the kindly Hideout staff let us in, so long as we promised to stay at the front bar. All of us promised and about half of us complied. Being a good kid I took a seat at the front bar, ordered a round of Old Styles, and took it all in: The bar aglow with homemade paper snowflakes and Christmas lights, the mixed-bag crowd, and the gorgeous acoustic onslaught that was filtering in from the crowded room behind us.

Eventually my curiosity got the best of me and I joined the dozen or so that opted to just stand on chairs and tables in the bar in hopes of seeing the stage. The backroom was packed with the exact type of people I picture listening to XRT and some terrible world music CDs. (Also, side note: RodGab would politely punch you in the gullet for saying they were “world music”). Peering over the adult-contempo crowd, I spotted two mild-mannered guitarists laying out beautiful, seemingly effortless classical guitar picking with a flair that married Latin and Led Zepplin.



When Rodrigo Sanchez would occasionally drop into complicated fretwork, the capacity crowd remained absolutely silent. At other times the sound assault was so dynamic you’d think there were more than a pair of acoustic guitars on stage. Part of that sound is Gabriela Quintero’s percussive style--occasionally punishing her guitar strings to create jagged rhythms and using the hollow body of her guitar in substitution of a proper drum kit. The combined effect of the duo was overwhelming--a full sound that belied the two dexterous and mild-mannered performers on stage.

The show ended (after a superb rendition of Stairway... NOT joking), and Gabriela graciously thanked the crowd in charming, broken English. A few minutes later, (and after a much-appreciated appearance by those Nomadic Tamale Guys) the pair waived goodbye to the handful of onlookers and hopped into a waiting cab.

Office - Live at The Double Door

“If you don’t know by now... ask somebody else!” frontman Scott Masson exultantly sings to a home-team crowd. The line seems like a rallying chorus for his band, Office, and rightly so. For well over a year now the talented and peppy rock outfit was the worst-kept secret in Chicago. A group that, apparently, was only a mystery to A&R types.


Apologies for the lame cell-phone camera pics. Hey. They're better than nothing.

Yeah, everyone at The Double Door on this mild Friday in December knew by now -- including James Iha, Smashing Pumpkins' guitarist and Office’s new best friend. The bash thrown at the Wicker Park club Ohm after the set was heralded as a label-signing party, as Iha nabbed Office for his own Scratchie record label. (The signing itself is old news as Office’s website let word slip in October.)

Thank god the show was fabulous. Pre-show, the night was looking pretty dismal for me. Our plan to stake out the paradoxical "hi-concept dive" Empire Liquors failed when they were having a private party. Instead, our group set up camp at Debonair Social Club just down the street. The place was vacant -- a hollow space which I immediately realized was the former (and equally uncrowded) Tre Via.

From what I read, I liked the concept behind Debonair, but the high ceilings and non-intimate setting made the place feel more like a cavernous gallery than an enjoyable social setting. That said, my impression might not be a solid one as we were there at 8ish --well before the W.P. crowd started filtering in.

But there was definitely one dude that stood out from the crowd. Prettymuch looking like Fat Joe (give or take some bling) he decided to stand up on one of the booth seats near us and take a biiiiiiiig stretch. Those of us with ADHD who’d been watching film projections of balloons and androgynous twenty-somethings were instead distracted by this guy's ill-fitting hoodie creeping up his torso to reveal his weird, pale, PBR-belly. I tried not to think much of it and considered him merely an effective confrontational installation piece.

So, yeah, post-tubby’s striptease we hightailed it to the Double Door, missing Someone Still Loves You Boris Yeltsin, and walking in just as Mannequin Men took the stage and efficiently rocked the place. I concurred with my two pals that they were not too shabby, but the set was more spot-the-influence than we’d hoped -- not that MC5, Jet-like AC/DC, 60s Mod, and New Wave are bad influences to work with. All-in-all, a good band to check out, but it was clear the crowd was there to see the other hometown group on the bill.



The collective venue had high expectations, and Office delivered, projecting the kind of confidence and enthusiasm that creates a magnetic live experience. With sharp guitars and punchy delivery, the fivesome keys off each other’s energy -- all seemed so excited to be on stage they could probably make a desolate rehearsal space the most exciting place to be in the city.

Regaled in a Santa cap and a god-awful sweater, Scott Masson delivered snide commentary and sing-along choruses, while guitarist Tom Smith switched between jerky Cars-like chords and playful Guitar Hero posturing. Meanwhile bassist Alissa Noonan battled illness to pump out bouncy basslines and bop around shoeless. Team cheerleader and universal rock-crush Jessica Gonyea switched from keyboard to tambourine to cowbell and played most of the show jumping up and down to the beat played solidly and exuberantly by drummer Erica Corniel.



Office called Mannequin Men and SSLYBY back on stage for a joyously amateur rendition of John Lennon’s Happy Christmas before crowds emptied out onto North Ave. The night for me ended with some cheap drinks at Estelle's (a fairly unremarkable bar which manages to get LINES outside it), and a half-serious razzing at Western & Armitage’s Green Eye for rocking a tie on a Friday night. Pshaw.

Hot Chip, Cool Bar

Remember the time when people said "synthesizer" instead of keyboards? Incidentally, it was also when fashionable gals were wearing like, tights under skirts, and um, leg-warmers. Well, my nostalgia-prone friend, for better or for worse, that time is back.



When Hot Chip (nay "Hawt Chip") took the stage at The Metro earlier this month, four-fifths of them took their stations behind a wall-o-synths. Shaking the venue's collective booty as much as 5 pasty Brits can shake an equally pasty crowd, they started the set with the throbbing dance-funk of "Boy From School" and carried the energy through the set. Mind you, Hot Chip is NOT a poke-around-behind-a-laptop band. The emphasized live element makes for a terrific show -- for every electric drone and bass beat there's dreamy pop harmonies, guitar hooks, and yes, even the beloved cowbell that's all the rage these days. Can't wait for the triangle to make it's homecoming.

For the encore they banged out a riotous version of "Over and Over" and a few days later someone reminded me I screamed "SYNTH GODDDS!" at some point. Probably when the song segued perfectly into a cover of New Order's "Temptation" -- a well-deserved nod to the Kings of Pasty Dance-Pop.



While my friend was busy slurring tequila infused come-ons downstairs at Smartbar, the remainder of our group took two quick lefts out the door and ducked into arguably the most tolerable bar in Wrigleyville: The Gingerman Tavern. An oddly shaped spot that occupies the wedge between N. Clark and Racine. It's no coincidence this bar is stumbling-distance from The Metro. The mix-matched chairs, tables and billiard balls complement it's equally eclectic clientele. That said, if anyone knows of a better Wrigleyville bar, I'd like to hear it, drink there, and then tell you why you're wrong.

photos by Pegs. Thanks Pegs.