Bullets in Madison Emotes at the Empty Bottle
Special to the
Flannel DiariesIt's about seven-thirty on a Tuesday night and I'm being dropped off at the Empty Bottle on Western Avenue on the beautiful West Side of Chicago. My girlfriend, the Woman who Holds the Bottle Opener to the Beer That Is My Heart, has an annoyed, peeved look on her face. I get that look a lot. It's a masquerade for true love. Especially for when I make her drive me around the city.
"So...have a good time," she intones, checking her watch and thinking about cookies. "Enjoy the show. Don't stay out too late."
"Decidedly."
"Tell the band I'm sorry I couldn't make it, but I had to, you know, whatever."
"Assuredly."
"And be sure to take out the garbage and walk the dogs when you get home."
"Abso....wait.
What?"
Before I can protest that I surely
will get back late, that I
won't enjoy the show, and that I have
no plans to be in any condition to do anything productive upon my return, she speeds away, still holding the keys to the car that I realize, belatedly, I'm supposed to drive home that night. Screams after her are unheeded. Frantic calls to her cell phone remain unanswered.
This sort of shit always happens to me when I'm sent to review a Bullets in Madison concert. Of course, none of it is their fault. I mean, it
sort of is when you figure that if they didn't play these dives at these ridiculous hours, and if they would only spring for a press limo to take the reporters like me home...actually, it
is all their fault. Bastards. I will make them rue the day they even
formed a band. I have that power.
I am a music reviewer. I review music.
And occasionally, I listen to it.
**************************************************
I stalked into the Empty Bottle surly and mean. The place looked like the kind of joint BiM loves to headline: walls and a ceiling. I sidled up to the bar and growled at the guy behind the counter, "Gimmee a whiskey. Double. Leave the bottle."
He casts an eye over me, measuring me for manliness and ability to control strong drink. "I think you might want a nice Lemon Wedge," he offered. "They're tasty and nutritious, and there's nothing like--"
"Whiskey," I growled again. John Wayne doesn't have shit on me, I tell you. "The bottle."
"You're going to be on the floor in twenty minutes."
I ignored him, and eventually he went off to fetch it. It's at this point that somebody comes up to me. "Hey, man. Nice to see you again."
I cast a bleary eye in his direction. "Who the hell are you?"
"Brendan. Brendan Losch."
"Oh, great. But I already ordered my drink, so..." I made hand motions indicating that he could leave me alone.
"No, I'm the guitarist. For the band? We've spoken before. You've interviewed me like twenty times."
"Oh, Bren-DAN Losch. I thought you said BREN-dan." I made a face that I hoped looked friendly. "So. Uh, what are you doing here?"
Brendan made an effort to be patient. "We're doing a show tonight. You're reviewing it, right?"
"Right. Right." I made a mental note to do just that. "But you
can't get me free drinks, right?"
Brendan stared at me. "No."
"Oh. Well...good. Got to support the economy, right?"
He eventually stalked off, looking pissed. Man, musicians and their big heads. I made another mental note to make a comment in my review about his shoes or something. However, before I could compose a pithy
bon mot, I was interrupted by the bartender, who returned with my whiskey. I downed it in one gulp, just like they do in the tough-guy movies. Blech. It tasted like paint thinner.
"That's bad for you," the bartender remonstrated. "You're going to have the megrims."
I ignored him.
"Sure you don't want that Lemon Wedge?" the bartender offered.
"Go away," I muttered.
Three or four more whiskeys later, the house lights came on and the crowd started cheering. The show was apparently starting. And I was ready to
review the show. After all, I am a Music Reviewer, right? It's what I came here to do, yes? So here's the body of my article, compiled straight from my painstaking notes during the performance:
Bullets in Madison rocked the joint. They really did. We Became Your Family When You Died is one hell of an album, I tell you. Full of...meaning and...vibrancy...junk like that. Man, my head is killing me...That trumpet thing they do? Woo. Powerful stuff...Don't know about all the bugs on the wall, though...This band, they've got rhythm...they've got music...who could ask for anything more? Ha. What is with the moving walls, though? Now they're moving and they've got bugs on them. Crap. Why didn't that jackass bartender just give me a Lemon Wedge? I hear those are good. Well...oh, man, I love this song! "Wiiiild thing...You make my heart..." ...wait...that's the jukebox...show must be over. What did I miss? Damnit. Oh well. I'll get some stuff about them from Wikipedia or something. Maybe I can go get some after-show interviews right now...Ugh. Floor won't stay steady.
Unfortunately, before I could corral any of them for additional comments, the band had sped off in a hired limo, champagne and caviar practically flying out the windows, Losch tossing a few oyster crackers in my direction and laughing as I scrabbled on the pavement for something to eat.
After a moment, they were gone, the last remnants of their esoteric performance ringing in my ears.
I was alone in Chicago. No review written. No car. No money. And a seventy dollar bar tab with a smug bartender waiting for me inside.
The perfect setting for a closing paragraph:
In a top single from their new album, "Sarah is a State of Mind," vocalist John Morton sings, "You slam the door shut to break it through / No one hears you." That may apply to Sarah, whoever she is. But BiM has slammed the door shut, doublebolted it, and set fire to it, which makes their breaking through it all the more impressive. Not to mention the fact that it is impossible not to hear them.
WBYFWYD is an album that pulses with a heartbeat never heard before in the Chicago indy rock scene, and a melody that grabs you by the lapels and throws you off your seat. The more BiM tours and gets this music out there, the better.
There. That should do it.
Now...where's a hotel?
