Hard Labor Made Easy
New Web site documents the history of Chicago’s working class
by C.T. Ballentine
Chicago’s reputation as a hard-working, blue-collar town is impossible to ignore, as cross-generational labor history is integral to the city’s culture. “Chicago is the immigrant industrial city. Working people in Chicago created what became the model of urban industrial life,” says Jeff Helgeson, Labor Trail’s administrative coordinator. “They made a city that worked out of a remarkable diversity of ethnic and racial backgrounds, and their struggles largely created the opportunities, and limits, of life in the city.” The Chicago Center for Working-Class Studies (CCWCS), which already hosts educational panel discussions and historical exhibits, is adding to the documentation of the working-class community by launching Labortrail.org.
The online component of Labor Trail is offered as an expansion to “The Labor Trail: Chicago's History of Working-Class Life and Struggle,” a map of “140 significant locations in the history of labor, migration and working-class culture in Chicago and Illinois.” The map is available through the site for five dollars and for free to educators. The site also invites contributions from its visitors by encouraging them to post additional sites or primary-source material for already-documented locations.
Below are a few of the neighborhoods featured and a small selection of the presented sites. The Near West Side features the location of the Haymarket Riots -- one of the most famous events in both Chicago's and America's labor history (though the map offers very little detail, focusing instead on lesser-known events). Labor Trail itself does not provide live guided tours, but does recommend that anyone interested in them visit the Illinois Labor History Society (kentlaw.edu/ilhs). Whether live or virtual, these tours provide an important, and oft overlooked, view of the Chicago cultural landscape.
Pilsen
The map lists sites from Pilsen’s Bohemian past in the mid-19th century, after a large portion of Chicago’s Czech community were driven from what are now Lincoln Park and the Gold Coast. At 16th and Halsted streets in 1877, a union composed of Czech and other European immigrants battled with a combined force of the Illinois National Guard and Chicago police, resulting in the death of 30 workers. There are also sites from the thriving Mexican community for which the neighborhood is now known, including the Chicago Public Library Branch at 1805 S. Loomis, named for Rudy Lozano, a community activist and organizer assassinated in 1983.
Back of the Yards
Back of the Yards was home to a great number of stock yards in the late 19th and early 20th centuries, the poor working conditions of which were dramatized famously in Upton Sinclair’s The Jungle. The map shows the BO Packing Co., one of the neighborhood’s few remaining packing plants, which can be found near 43rd Street and Loomis Boulevard, as well as the Colombia Hall on 48th and Paulina streets, a community center and tavern where meetings of the Stockyard Labor Council were held.
The Loop
This tour shows the site of the Bread Riots at LaSalle and Kinzie streets, where in 1872 unemployed workers gathered in protest and were beaten by police, as well as Printer’s Row, the six-block chunk where Chicago’s once vibrant publishing trade thrived, now redeveloped for commercial and residential use.
Chi-Town Sirens: Cover Story for The Machine Newspaper
I know a lot of Chicagoans who like watching girls on roller skates beat the living shit out of each other. Perhaps they thought the oft-recognized Windy City Rollers were the only outlet for their insatiable blood lust. If so, they were dead wrong. Now in their second full season, the Chi-Town Sirens have been jamming through the Chicago area, leaving blood on the tracks and nary a drunken soul unsatisfied.
Recently I attended the “I Pity the Fool!” match, pitting the Ultraviolent against the Wheelers, and featuring a promotional poster with none other than Mr. T himself, a truly suitable image for the decadent hedonism inherent in a sport involving both body checks and mini-skirts. I could imagine no better lead-in to the event than “The Party Bus” hosted by former Siren Diva Copperfield (all the derby girls’ names were plays on words: Robin Zombie, Jane Reaction and, probably the best, Shoka Conduit) bouncing up and down the aisle with green apple flavored vodka, offering bus shots to any and everyone who wanted them. It was every rebellious impulse I’d had as a youngster lived out with no nagging adults to be seen.
“Can I smoke in here?” asked one timid party-busser.
“You can smoke,” Diva replied, “but if it’s green, I want some.”
Diva moved to the sidelines after her first season because she “broke too many bones.” Watching her charge through the bus aisle, sucking down clouds of smoke and shots of vodka, I imagined there were quite a few girls thankful she was no longer charging at them.
Entering the arena with a decent buzz going, the plastic cheese nachos lingering under the heating lamp in the sorry excuse for a concession stand seemed a lot more appetizing than perhaps they ought to have. I snagged them up and took my seat, joining the other fans in yelling and pumping my fist as the girls skated by. What was I cheering for? How did the scoring work? I didn’t know or care. I had a can of Sparks and people were falling down. During intermission some other people played with fire. There was a fight at the end. The whole affair started with an awful version of the national anthem. Where is my trucker hat? I pondered. Can a full on carnival or demolition derby be far off, in this monument to ironic white trashery? My queries were answered with loud cheers, as one of the hated Wheelers took a nasty spill.
The Wheelers were certainly lacking a crowd, or else their fans were the quiet, contemplative sort. In the beginning, it seemed the Ultraviolent and their loyal legions had much to cheer about. They went out to an impressively dominant lead, one they maintained throughout, until the third period when a tie (64-64) was reached.
I had this much figured out: One girl on each team wore a star on their helmet. At the beginning of each jam, the roller derby equivalent of a play, the starred player, the jammer, started from the back of the pack and needed to lap the rest of the crowd. Any subsequent members of the opposing team passed gained their team a point. It seemed easy. But it happened fast. All these skates spinning around a spinning room: It was enough to give me a headache. By the second period I stopped pretending. I watched the action and glanced periodically at the scoreboard, holding my Sparks in the air and yelling like a damn fool.
But still, during the sixty four point tie the tension was tangible. Who would emerge victorious? Would the Ultraviolent maintain their lead? Or would the Wheelers capitalize on their momentum and pull ahead? It was the eternal suspense of sport that transcended, that was applicable in everything from kickboxing to tiddlywinks.
I cheered for the Wheelers because I decided everyone in Ultraviolent was probably really mean. Why else would they be known as Ultraviolent? Nice people do not call themselves such unseemly things.
And the Wheelers, indeed, emerged victorious. Shoka Conduit, it turned out, not only had the cleverest name but was a pretty bad ass jammer to boot and rallied the Wheelers to substantial victory. By the last few minutes the end was a done deal, punches of frustration were thrown and the rink erupted into a full on fight. Everyone cheered.
Through my drunken haze, I found some truth in this, some meaning. Something integral to the very essence of roller derby, something Mr. T might as well have said, and something most of the Chi-Town Sirens’ fans can surely get behind: It’s not whether you win or lose; it’s whether or not you see a fight.
Recently I attended the “I Pity the Fool!” match, pitting the Ultraviolent against the Wheelers, and featuring a promotional poster with none other than Mr. T himself, a truly suitable image for the decadent hedonism inherent in a sport involving both body checks and mini-skirts. I could imagine no better lead-in to the event than “The Party Bus” hosted by former Siren Diva Copperfield (all the derby girls’ names were plays on words: Robin Zombie, Jane Reaction and, probably the best, Shoka Conduit) bouncing up and down the aisle with green apple flavored vodka, offering bus shots to any and everyone who wanted them. It was every rebellious impulse I’d had as a youngster lived out with no nagging adults to be seen.
“Can I smoke in here?” asked one timid party-busser.
“You can smoke,” Diva replied, “but if it’s green, I want some.”
Diva moved to the sidelines after her first season because she “broke too many bones.” Watching her charge through the bus aisle, sucking down clouds of smoke and shots of vodka, I imagined there were quite a few girls thankful she was no longer charging at them.
Entering the arena with a decent buzz going, the plastic cheese nachos lingering under the heating lamp in the sorry excuse for a concession stand seemed a lot more appetizing than perhaps they ought to have. I snagged them up and took my seat, joining the other fans in yelling and pumping my fist as the girls skated by. What was I cheering for? How did the scoring work? I didn’t know or care. I had a can of Sparks and people were falling down. During intermission some other people played with fire. There was a fight at the end. The whole affair started with an awful version of the national anthem. Where is my trucker hat? I pondered. Can a full on carnival or demolition derby be far off, in this monument to ironic white trashery? My queries were answered with loud cheers, as one of the hated Wheelers took a nasty spill.
The Wheelers were certainly lacking a crowd, or else their fans were the quiet, contemplative sort. In the beginning, it seemed the Ultraviolent and their loyal legions had much to cheer about. They went out to an impressively dominant lead, one they maintained throughout, until the third period when a tie (64-64) was reached.
I had this much figured out: One girl on each team wore a star on their helmet. At the beginning of each jam, the roller derby equivalent of a play, the starred player, the jammer, started from the back of the pack and needed to lap the rest of the crowd. Any subsequent members of the opposing team passed gained their team a point. It seemed easy. But it happened fast. All these skates spinning around a spinning room: It was enough to give me a headache. By the second period I stopped pretending. I watched the action and glanced periodically at the scoreboard, holding my Sparks in the air and yelling like a damn fool.
But still, during the sixty four point tie the tension was tangible. Who would emerge victorious? Would the Ultraviolent maintain their lead? Or would the Wheelers capitalize on their momentum and pull ahead? It was the eternal suspense of sport that transcended, that was applicable in everything from kickboxing to tiddlywinks.
I cheered for the Wheelers because I decided everyone in Ultraviolent was probably really mean. Why else would they be known as Ultraviolent? Nice people do not call themselves such unseemly things.
And the Wheelers, indeed, emerged victorious. Shoka Conduit, it turned out, not only had the cleverest name but was a pretty bad ass jammer to boot and rallied the Wheelers to substantial victory. By the last few minutes the end was a done deal, punches of frustration were thrown and the rink erupted into a full on fight. Everyone cheered.
Through my drunken haze, I found some truth in this, some meaning. Something integral to the very essence of roller derby, something Mr. T might as well have said, and something most of the Chi-Town Sirens’ fans can surely get behind: It’s not whether you win or lose; it’s whether or not you see a fight.
Of Montreal Profile-UR Chicago Magazine
Kevin Barnes, under his nom de plume Of Montreal, spent ten years recording saccharine sweet vignettes detailing a variety of characters culled from a fictional world of psychedelic twee. Yet it’s his latest album, Hissing Fauna, Are You the Destroyer?(Polyvinyl), a shockingly confessional portrait of emotional pain, that’s finally achieved widespread success. After extensive international touring with a five piece live band, Barnes retreated to his Norway home and was not taking calls at press time.
Of Montreal sprang from an Athens, Georgia scene that produced such critical darlings as Neutral Milk Hotel and Olivia Tremor Control. But Barnes never completely found acceptance locally, despite shared aesthetics. “Kevin always had a chip on his shoulder,” says guitarist Bryan Poole, who’s been playing live with the band off and on since its inception. “Athens was never really into Of Montreal. We were always too happy: too much candy, too many chord changes.”
The 2004 release of Satanic Panic in the Attic(Polyvinyl) brought the band to a new label with a retooled sound—cloaking jangly guitar pop in glammy Prozac synths—moving the band beyond cult status and into sold out venues and major music festivals.
But it’s bittersweet success for Barnes, whose separation from his wife led to intense bouts of depression.
“The Hissing Fauna songs come from a two year period when Kevin was about to be a father and his wife had to stay at home [while he toured.] He was caught in a catch 22; any decision he made that was good for his band was bad for his family.”
Some of those decisions, most notably to license “Wraith Pinned to the Mist” to Outback Steakhouse, proved baffling to longtime fans.
“Kevin was basically an idiot,” says Poole. “He got pressured; he’s got a baby girl. He tried to get out of it, but it was too late. It’s total crap. Outback is not cool. He hates it.”
All the emotional pressure hasn’t made performing easy.
“There’s songs on the last album [Kevin] can’t play live. They put him in a weird frame of mind. They’re heavy songs. I’m lucky I don’t destroy my guitar. I’m not smiling for the next 5 songs after some of them.”
But the band’s theatrical live shows are connecting with audiences.
“A lot of our fans are dressing up like Kevin,” says Poole. “To have people participating, stepping outside of themselves, that’s great.”
Of Montreal sprang from an Athens, Georgia scene that produced such critical darlings as Neutral Milk Hotel and Olivia Tremor Control. But Barnes never completely found acceptance locally, despite shared aesthetics. “Kevin always had a chip on his shoulder,” says guitarist Bryan Poole, who’s been playing live with the band off and on since its inception. “Athens was never really into Of Montreal. We were always too happy: too much candy, too many chord changes.”
The 2004 release of Satanic Panic in the Attic(Polyvinyl) brought the band to a new label with a retooled sound—cloaking jangly guitar pop in glammy Prozac synths—moving the band beyond cult status and into sold out venues and major music festivals.
But it’s bittersweet success for Barnes, whose separation from his wife led to intense bouts of depression.
“The Hissing Fauna songs come from a two year period when Kevin was about to be a father and his wife had to stay at home [while he toured.] He was caught in a catch 22; any decision he made that was good for his band was bad for his family.”
Some of those decisions, most notably to license “Wraith Pinned to the Mist” to Outback Steakhouse, proved baffling to longtime fans.
“Kevin was basically an idiot,” says Poole. “He got pressured; he’s got a baby girl. He tried to get out of it, but it was too late. It’s total crap. Outback is not cool. He hates it.”
All the emotional pressure hasn’t made performing easy.
“There’s songs on the last album [Kevin] can’t play live. They put him in a weird frame of mind. They’re heavy songs. I’m lucky I don’t destroy my guitar. I’m not smiling for the next 5 songs after some of them.”
But the band’s theatrical live shows are connecting with audiences.
“A lot of our fans are dressing up like Kevin,” says Poole. “To have people participating, stepping outside of themselves, that’s great.”
The Maps-We Can Create-Record Review for UR Chicago Magazine
In a time where countless generic indie bands dabble in electro-dilettantism, Northampton’s Maps rise above the swill, crafting their debut LP We Can Create (Mute) on a 16 track home recorder without the aide of a single computer. Born from James Chapman’s years of bedroom tinkering, Maps blend the best of drone psyche à la Spiritualized or La Monte Young with organic samples harkening back to the exciting pre-digital spirit of French musique concrete. Opener “So Low, So High” builds a sample of Mark Witz’s easy listening opus, “From a Teenage Opera,” into a shoegaze soundscape worthy of My Bloody Valentine. “It Will Find You” seamlessly morphs a beat reminiscent of the golden era South Bronx into Radioheadesque melancholia. All these influences could easily lead to one manic pile of mess, but it’s the time these songs spent germinating that produce a finished product aged like fine vintage wine.
The Safes Profile-UR Chicago Magazine
At a recent family birthday party Frankie O’Malley, one third of Chicago’s the Safes, recorded 9 of his nieces and nephews performing a Disney song. For the O’Malley’s music is lifeblood, so it should come as no surprise that all three of the Safes—Frankie, Patrick and Michael—are brothers. They’ve released three albums in as many years, to increasing critical acclaim, most recently Well, Well, Well (O’brothers) an album full of incessantly catchy power-pop.
“It’s funny how it worked out,” says Frankie, “I wrote most of the first one [the aptly named Family Jewels (O’brothers)], the second [Boogie Woogie Rumble (Pro-vel)] was mostly Michael, Patrick wrote most of this latest one. But it’s always been collaborative; we’d show up with our songs and work on them together.”
Well, Well, Well shows the band shifting from the rough edges of their early garage rock, opting for the polished harmonies of early Kinks. O’Malley claims this doesn’t necessarily represent a dramatic shift in the band’s sensibilities.
“A lot of these songs were written over the years. We try to group albums together to make them cohesive. We have 3-4 albums worth of material already demoed. We have an album of country material ready to go.”
If the Safes are defiantly resistant to genre categorization, it is the songwriting that defines the band’s sound, says O’Malley.
“The songwriting will always be good,” he says, “It’ll always be catchy and the lyrics will be smart. Diversity is something I look for in bands.”
Given their family history, it’s no wonder the Safes have confidence in their songwriting ability. Their father was a saxophonist of some local acclaim.
“My dad quit playing when I was 6 or 7,” Frankie says. “My parents had 11 kids. They were busy. But he’d still sit at the kitchen table playing accordion, and he’d give us advice, like, ‘listen to Merle Travis…or learn to play the guitar well before you start adding lots of effects.’ And I had two older cousins, he’d shown them stuff. They taught me to play Johnny B. Goode. They showed me stuff like r.e.m. and Husker Du.”
The band’s young niece, Siobhan Lau, and nephew, Michael Lau contributed strings to Well, Well, Well, so while theirs no word about the release of the O’Malley Disney cover, it’s certain the family will continue contributing quality music to the Chicago scene for years to come.
“It’s funny how it worked out,” says Frankie, “I wrote most of the first one [the aptly named Family Jewels (O’brothers)], the second [Boogie Woogie Rumble (Pro-vel)] was mostly Michael, Patrick wrote most of this latest one. But it’s always been collaborative; we’d show up with our songs and work on them together.”
Well, Well, Well shows the band shifting from the rough edges of their early garage rock, opting for the polished harmonies of early Kinks. O’Malley claims this doesn’t necessarily represent a dramatic shift in the band’s sensibilities.
“A lot of these songs were written over the years. We try to group albums together to make them cohesive. We have 3-4 albums worth of material already demoed. We have an album of country material ready to go.”
If the Safes are defiantly resistant to genre categorization, it is the songwriting that defines the band’s sound, says O’Malley.
“The songwriting will always be good,” he says, “It’ll always be catchy and the lyrics will be smart. Diversity is something I look for in bands.”
Given their family history, it’s no wonder the Safes have confidence in their songwriting ability. Their father was a saxophonist of some local acclaim.
“My dad quit playing when I was 6 or 7,” Frankie says. “My parents had 11 kids. They were busy. But he’d still sit at the kitchen table playing accordion, and he’d give us advice, like, ‘listen to Merle Travis…or learn to play the guitar well before you start adding lots of effects.’ And I had two older cousins, he’d shown them stuff. They taught me to play Johnny B. Goode. They showed me stuff like r.e.m. and Husker Du.”
The band’s young niece, Siobhan Lau, and nephew, Michael Lau contributed strings to Well, Well, Well, so while theirs no word about the release of the O’Malley Disney cover, it’s certain the family will continue contributing quality music to the Chicago scene for years to come.
The Stills Profile-UR Chicago Magazine
Dave Hamlin, former drummer and current singer/guitarist for Montreal’s the Stills, says he’s been listening to a lot of Dylan lately, particularly his early electric work.
“You know [at the Newport Folk Festival] they booed “Like a Rolling Stone.” Pete Seeger wanted to cut the [electric] cords.”
Hamlin says he feels an affinity with the scorned Dylan, and it’s not hard to understand why. Although their post-punk heavy 2003 debut, Logic Will Break Your Heart(Vice) received a plenty of positive press, there were just as many detractors accusing the band of trend following opportunism and jumping into a New York scene stuffed to the gills with artsy eighties revival acts.
“We were really green. It got the best of us emotionally,” he says of the critical accusations.
The tensions led to the departure of guitarist Greg Paquet, which Hamlin says was amicable.
“The vibe we were getting from him,” says Hamlin of Paquet, “was that he didn’t think being in a band was all it was cracked up to be. He thought it was stupid, and he’s right. It is. A lot of people in the music business don’t love music. Everyone’s just blowing smoke up peoples’ asses. I think that really got to him.”
The band retooled, Hamlin moving from drums to guitar and sharing vocal duties with Tim Fletcher, and released this year’s Without Feathers(Vice), a radical departure of the highest degree, sounding more like roots rock in the vein of Neil Young, with nary a hint of the Cure influence from their past. But Hamlin insists the change has nothing to do with Paquet’s departure.
“I wrote a lot of the guitar parts for Greg on the first album…He was not a driving creative force. But it was a highly reactionary record. We didn’t want to be lumped in with that scene. We didn’t want to be dance punks. We didn’t want to be another fucking hi-hat band.”
And that’s clear right from the start of Without Feathers, which opens with warmly distorted guitars, Hammond organ and bright twinkling piano progressions. If the band was looking to make the exact opposite of their debut, they couldn’t have done any better.
“It was good,” Hamlin says. “We got a lot of stuff out of our system. We’re kind of over our demons. I think we’re finally a good outfit. We’re excited to go out and conquer the world.”
“You know [at the Newport Folk Festival] they booed “Like a Rolling Stone.” Pete Seeger wanted to cut the [electric] cords.”
Hamlin says he feels an affinity with the scorned Dylan, and it’s not hard to understand why. Although their post-punk heavy 2003 debut, Logic Will Break Your Heart(Vice) received a plenty of positive press, there were just as many detractors accusing the band of trend following opportunism and jumping into a New York scene stuffed to the gills with artsy eighties revival acts.
“We were really green. It got the best of us emotionally,” he says of the critical accusations.
The tensions led to the departure of guitarist Greg Paquet, which Hamlin says was amicable.
“The vibe we were getting from him,” says Hamlin of Paquet, “was that he didn’t think being in a band was all it was cracked up to be. He thought it was stupid, and he’s right. It is. A lot of people in the music business don’t love music. Everyone’s just blowing smoke up peoples’ asses. I think that really got to him.”
The band retooled, Hamlin moving from drums to guitar and sharing vocal duties with Tim Fletcher, and released this year’s Without Feathers(Vice), a radical departure of the highest degree, sounding more like roots rock in the vein of Neil Young, with nary a hint of the Cure influence from their past. But Hamlin insists the change has nothing to do with Paquet’s departure.
“I wrote a lot of the guitar parts for Greg on the first album…He was not a driving creative force. But it was a highly reactionary record. We didn’t want to be lumped in with that scene. We didn’t want to be dance punks. We didn’t want to be another fucking hi-hat band.”
And that’s clear right from the start of Without Feathers, which opens with warmly distorted guitars, Hammond organ and bright twinkling piano progressions. If the band was looking to make the exact opposite of their debut, they couldn’t have done any better.
“It was good,” Hamlin says. “We got a lot of stuff out of our system. We’re kind of over our demons. I think we’re finally a good outfit. We’re excited to go out and conquer the world.”
Miracle Fortress-Five Roses:Record Review for UR Chicago Magazine
With the excellent “Five Roses,”(Secret City) Montreal multi-instrumentalist Graham Van Pelt (a.k.a. Miracle Fortress) draws influence from two Brians, specifically Eno and Wilson. The one man band achieves an ethereal bliss comparable to Eno’s ambient work and borrows Wilson’s penchant for sunshine melodies--note the harmonic interplay on Maybe Lately. That the band previously released a John Cale cover is telling; Next Train sounds like a lost track from “Paris 1919” with its repetitive drone and detached lyrical ennui. If the album suffers it’s from too much ambition. The vocals tend toward over-processed inaudibility--like back-up singers without a lead--which works sometimes (Hold Your Secrets to Your Heart), though not always (Have You Seen in Your Dreams); and the title track’s melodic collage fails to build any real dynamic tension. But overall these are minor glitches in one of the best pop albums you’ll hear all year.
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