April 2 , 2019
Chris was the first of us to drive. He also had the advantage of owning a pair of mutton chops that made him look much older than sixteen in the right light. After meeting him in my final stint as a student athlete, we groomed our friendship over time with our mutual love of punk rock acting as the shears. Just how many riled up, eager teenagers can you fit in the Farnesi family Astro van? The answer is a lot though I’m still not sure of the exact number and the randoms that came and went still remain unnamed but we made sure to make good use of it.
On Fridays, you could always find us at Chris and Ian’s place. Their parents were caring, and accepting of each and every one of us. Each like a trading card with our own stats, strengths and weaknesses. All of us doing our best Ramone reincarnation. Anything that was not rock and roll was essentially laughed at and taunted.
We loved the New York Dolls, The Misfits and Chuck Berry. Glam Rock, skinny jeans, chuck Taylors, creepers all were par for the course. Punk rock kids from 2005 liked the fall and winter better. Scarves and leather jackets were some of our favorite things. Bonus points for animal print. Some hand me downs, some from thrift stores. Some chose to paint theirs, others chose a few select buttons for their lapels. Kids with nothing better to do than listen to music, play music, drink, smoke and fornicate or at least attempt to. Age didn’t matter if you knew and accepted the fact that Glenn Danzig was superior to Michale Graves, you were all but in.
Chris and Ian’s place was one of a few safe havens for us deviants. If we were thirsty we were given something to drink and on those cold winter nights when we had nothing in our bellies, there was food even if it was during the Farnesi’s cherished family dinner time. Nobody went hungry and so long as someone’s fake i.d. worked, nobody had to walk around sober or without nicotine. Bonds tighter than a union weld were formed and went unbroken for quite a long time. Many, to this very day.
The first time I had ever been to the Farnesi house, I rode the bus to Chris’ one day. He had a bands worth of music gear and finally, after gaining interest in middle school to play some sort of rock and roll, I had arrived. Still, uninitiated I had yet to actually learn an instrument but I could at the very least keep a beat on the drums. We hung for some time and Chris introduced me to his younger brother Ian who was sifting around places he shouldn’t have been in order to find some weed.
Neither Chris or myself had any idea of what we were trying to accomplish. I think it just felt good to play music and share a common bond. We talked band names and ended up landing on ‘Free Drinks’ because maybe people would show up expecting free drinks. Unoriginal, I know but teenage Shaun agreed this was brilliant. We never practiced or played a show.because one day Chris came in and said “Hey, I’m kind of in this new band but if you ever need me to jam just let me know.” I understood, things didn’t seem too promising for Free Drinks anyhow. Plus, ten years later Chris’ band The Frantic would put a lot of miles on the road and even an album with production from the platinum record producing Andrew “Mudrock” Murdock. I think Chris made the right call.
As the Frantic started playing out more, our circle of friends started to widen. The advent of MySpace and text messaging made things criminally easier. Kids like myself with pirated copies of Photoshop could make fliers and album art for demo cds that would inevitably end up in the trash. A small network of punk bands with members rotating in and out would set up at house parties or Mojoes, the diviest coffeehouse you could imagine for nights of debauchery. I’ll never forget the stench of smoke combined with sweat of a hundred or so hastily bathed teenagers or the time that to our extreme elation, a band we’d found through some internet rabbit hole called The Plastic Letters came and played at our beloved coffeehouse. I don’t exactly remember what happened but somebody got taken away in an ambulance and the singer from the band stood nonchalantly sipping a mixed drink, watching the person get care moments before the ambulance drove away. It was an odd site at the time, and it still is.
When we weren’t playing shows or sitting in garages listening to music, we were spending as much of our time that we could in Chicago. We loved to venture around Belmont and Clark. Visiting Hollywood Mirror, Ragstock, The Alley, Belmont Army. Our eyes grew wide looking at the posters that plastered the walls of the infamous Metro venue.
No venue though holds a more dear place in my heart than the original Bottom Lounge. Over the span of two years or so, my friends and I would visit many times. Again, we would all pile into the Farnesi family van and head to O’hare airport to hop on the blue line. The main attraction? Groups such as The River City Rebels or The Street Brats. Playing in terrible bands myself, I strived to attain what these bands brought to the table. Raw energy and a no nonsense sensibility.
The Street Brats played a solid band of melodic yet powerful street punk. They were local but had established themselves as quite the act at least in the eyes of a van full of high school kids looking for something to latch on to. They sang songs that were easy to relate to with song titles like Dead End Kids, Destination Nowhere, or You’ll Never Walk Alone. Through their music alone it felt like we were friends but as fate would have it, The Frantic would later play shows with these guys, many of which I got to be a part of by ways of being a half-assed stage hand.
By this time, River City Rebels had released an album called Hate To Be Loved. An album with pure emotion and no fluff. This to me was the real deal. Produced by glam rock hero Sylvain Sylvain of the New York Dolls, this album introduced me to a world of decadent rock and roll which I would cherish for the rest of my life. Just as our little band’s lineups changed, so did the Rebels. We didn’t care. We knew that every time we saw them, Bopper and company were going to bring it. One night, I remember a shapely figured, dark haired woman adorned with a sailor cap in the audience. Before, the show Bopper had walked through the crowd and exchanged pleasantries with her. She then gifted a bottle of some sort of booze. This was the dream. Play music, “associate” with attractive women and have people give you free stuff. What a life. Time after time, after time, we would leave the Bottom Lounge mesmerized and inspired by what had transpired to put forth our souls into a rock and roll mold.
Standing outside of The Bottom Lounge exposed us to interesting characters. Typically we’d talk to flier peddlers. Judging them by their band or worse, DJ name. I once received advice from a photographer who said that if we ever wanted to get free shows, just flash a fake press pass and have a convincing looking camera and take photos of the gig. I never tried it. I wonder if this would have worked and if so, is it still a viable option?
On one particular night, we met probably the most interesting person in the general vicinity of The Bottom Lounge. Will Pillowman, lead singer of The Streetwiseman. He looked like a homeless Santa Claus with Coke bottle glasses. Not thick horn rimmed glasses, legitimate Coke Bottle thick glasses. He was kooky but more than willing to talk to us. “What are some of your songs?” we asked. “Take the L to Hell” he said “Rock and Roll Will Save Our Souls” and a handful of other powerful numbers. We enjoyed his company but couldn’t help but chuckle around the conversation the longer it went on. We went home that night and looked up The Streetwiseman. There were conflicting stories on whether or not Will was homeless but it made sense as his band was named after a magazine distributed by homeless people of Chicago. Needless to say, his music was actually quite enjoyable and by the looks of the photos, his shows were as entertaining as his cracked out spaceman outfits that glittered amongst the stage lights.
After these shows, we’d leave bullheaded and oftentimes find ourselves at Philly’s Best. Attracted by the orange glowing neon sign, pizza by the slice was hot, cheesy and cheap much like us. Replenishment for our bodies from the beatings we had taken in the middle of it all. We’d talk about the show and who did what and how they did it. Admiring and claiming we should rip something off of their performance and put it into ours. After all of the adrenaline would wear off, we’d rest our heads on a window of the blue line and daydream some more until we reached O’hare. From there we’d pile into the Farnesi family van once more and head back to Will Cook Road shining much like the streetlights off of 355, none of us were getting sleep any time soon.
