Turning onto Halsted Street,
I noticed the dull orange glow shining through the canvas awnings
outside the bar. I eased through the wooden saloon style doors and
let them flutter shut behind me. Their hinges squeaked as they
cracked together over and over. The crowd at Kingston Mines was
larger and older than I had come to expect from other Thursday nights
I'd spent there. Nonetheless, I became another shade in the
welcoming, knowing burnt orange glaze that typically coated the bar
and it's patrons.
A singer named Nellie
“Tiger” Travis was on stage with her band. “I ain't gunna
stop,” she screamed, “'til I get my lovin' right”. She sang
with authority, and I had no reason not to believe her. I ordered a
pale ale and found a good ledge to lean on in the back as she waded
into a BB King cover. The sadness of drums, strings, and vocals
drowned the chat that filled the bar. Customers and bar tenders met
halfway over the bar, shouting from a whisper's distance to
communicate drink orders. Tables full of people tightened as they
struggled to carry on conversation. All the while, Tiger's emotion
filled the place. “The thrill is gone baby... The thrill is gone
away”.
Discount chandeliers and
orange light bulbs illuminated the weathered murals and faces that
covered and spanned from wall to wall. Everything assumed that hue.
Attempts at individuality were defeated, and everyone became a
different shade of a sunset suspended in time. I looked to directly
to my left and found myself in the company of dozens musicians, their
likeness' sketched on paper, framed, and fixed to the wall. The
place has “character”. I give it that great buzzword of my
approval.
As Nellie finished her set,
I detached myself from my ledge and nodded “So Long” to
musicians past and present. The sun never sets, and the music never
stops. I shuffled my way through a passageway leading to another
room and a second stage. I sat on a wobbly stool as another set
began. Joanna Connor riffed through the opening moments of “Tush”
by ZZtop, and I noticed a sign I always notice. There are white
poster-board signs that hang above both makeshift stages. In sloppy
black writing, they read “Illegitimus Non Carborundom”, which
supposedly translates to 'don't let the bastards grind you down'.
I'd heard this set before
from Connor, but didn't mind because it was a good one. There's
usually a good mix of people the bar. It usually strikes some
balance between college students, middle-agers, and even some
gray-haired people who sip their drinks and tap their feet all the
same. The typical demands of the night life, the self-centeredness
and showmanship, usually melt away under the influence of the sounds
of blues and shades of orange. But on this night that wasn't so.
I've never felt like Kingston Mines was a bar that catered to
professionals looking to unwind after work, but on that night there
were too many professionals looking to unwind after work. A collage
of button-ups, ties, and buckets took away from the aesthetic and
authenticity.
It was a shame too because
Joanna Connor is a great guitarist. I made my way back toward the
room with the main stage, which now had many open tables. I took
Connor in from an old television that broadcast the performance
taking place just a room away. Luckily, the speakers continued to
blare. I watched her pluck through solos as I tried to put my
disappointments aside and salvage the night. She whacked the strings
like a kid whacking gophers at Chuck E. Cheese's. With closed eyes,
she put the crowd from her mind. Her head gyrated as her hand and
fingers spazzed back and forth between frets. She stood on stage
where the orange lights burned brightest and radiated herself towards
the crowd. I poked the ice at the bottom of a drink and wondered
whether anyone else noticed that the sun is always setting in the
mines, just like in a good blues song.
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