When theaters closed their doors for COVID-19 in March, it looked like curtains for performing artists. With distancing guidelines in place for a virus with no cure in sight, an industry based on contact and physical presence was forced to retreat behind a screen–to video, video calls, and livestreams–where dimension and shared space is reduced at best to the illusion of shared time. In the absence of spaces verified by the lives of others, never has time seemed so fictional (“What is time?” we all ask). And yet dancing has never ceased.

In the shock of sheltering in place and as the city has begun to reopen, dancers and dance companies have found ways to come together in person, rediscovering ways to make contact at a safe distance. Their methods favor the small, the nimble, and the improvisational–and create more community than cash.

After the May 25 passing of George Floyd, at the rallies, marches, and vigils that have proceeded since, people are coming together again, driven by the need to take space and express what can only be experienced in the fragility and resilience of the body.

There is risk to dance, but also passion, power, beauty, and love. Bodies are continuing to speak.

MAY

May 24: In a parking lot in Bridgeport, 12 cars gathered beneath a blazing sun at high noon. For 30 minutes, in a city that had been under lockdown for ten weeks, with theaters worldwide abruptly and indefinitely shuttered, humans gathered for live performance. Three masked dancers (full disclosure: I was one of them) on cracked concrete, surrounded by a canyon of industrial edifices. Beyond them, quiet streets and closed doors–a city hibernating through its loveliest season. And yet, for a moment, alive and beating.

“We had a show March 14 on Navy Pier, for the Holi celebration for the arrival of spring, that got canceled,” recalls Kinnari Vora, codirector of contemporary Indian dance collective Ishti. It was a moment every performer has by now experienced: “We realized, this is real. Getting together, moving, and sharing what we have is not happening and doesn’t seem like it’s going to happen.”

“We had been trying to do Zoom classes and rehearse together, but physically we hadn’t seen each other since February,” says codirector Preeti Veerlapati. An Instagram post of a diagram by set designer Emanuele Sinisi showing cars arranged in a circle with headlights shining inwards to light a performance space set Ishti into motion. With parks and the lakefront closed, parking lots could serve as a space for people to gather safely in the shelter of their own cars.

“We have done pop-ups before,” says Vora. “You don’t need a stage, you don’t need a tech. You just take your speakers, set up in the middle of a square, and start performing there. And drive-in concerts exist all over the world.”

They began to envision an array of cars at night tasked with lighting cues to create a theatrical experience. Composer and collaborator Bob Garrett, who assisted at the event, intervened. “He said, ‘Guys, 16 cars is too much. Don’t worry about the formation,'” remembers Vora. They queried an artist friend about the parking lot at the Zhou B Art Center. “He said, ‘When?’ I said, ‘This weekend?’ We talked on Wednesday night, and we performed Sunday.”

Ultimately, keeping the event small and simple was essential for safety and success. They decided an even dozen cars would allow for ease of distancing and direction by just two volunteers. To limit the size of the gathering, Ishti announced the location two hours before the start time to a restricted list of guests, who had agreed to their own costume and choreography: arrive on time, park where directed, wear a mask, and remain in or near your vehicle.

The program opened with Sparsh, developed by Vora and collaborator Tuli Bera in 2019. “Kinnari and Tuli were exploring touch last year in the Bharatanatyam space, which has an absence of touch and physical contact. It was an opportunity to say, ‘We built this on touching and sensing, how do we continue to do that today in this new world?'” says Veerlapati. The experiment was conducted in real time: like the audience, the dancers came together for the first time that day to explore what was possible at a safe distance. “They talked about what they were going to do and did one rehearsal on Zoom. That day was like, ‘All right, what is this going to look like?’ We had to take the risk.”

Yet they entered new territory with little fear. “Let’s think of this as a family backyard gathering,” recalls Vora of an audience largely composed of artists. “The people who were there would be there with us even if we failed, to stand with us. The people who said, ‘Yes, we’ll come’–that was enough. That empowered us to be present. And being there and being together was the most important aspect. As soon as [dancer and choreographer Ayako Kato’s] car came in, with Ayako popping out of the top, I knew everything would be good–however it happened.”

“The drive-in performance was like returning home,” says Bera. “I was surrounded and witnessed by those I hold dearly in my soul. The sun was out. The ground was hot. It was a huge hotspot of energy and a performance where I truly felt alive!”

“We want to do many outdoor series, not just one,” says Vora. “We are thinking about organizing and cocurating with other artists. This platform can be shared with different people in different neighborhoods working in different media–dance, music, painting, sculpture.”

“After the first one, we were thinking, ‘Why can’t we take over United Center’s parking lot?'” laughs Veerlapati. “But we also need to be mindful of our capacity in this moment: keeping it intimate, connecting, and expanding a network by including other curators and other forms of art. At the end of the day, I want to be sharing space with you.”

JUNE

June 12, 18, 22, ongoing: the Seldoms are bringing dance to residential neighborhoods in a privately commissioned series called Sidewalk Dances that brings live music and dance direct to your doorstep.

“Like everyone, I felt completely derailed [by the lockdown],” says artistic director Carrie Hanson. Following the Wisconsin premiere of FLOE, a dance theater piece on climate change, the Seldoms were on the cusp of bringing the work to the Art Institute of Chicago and touring it to Cincinnati. “It wasn’t as if I was in a process where I could keep steadily working, and it would come out in a different form. We were ready to do shows!”

In contrast to many companies that shifted work online, Hanson says, “I felt no attraction to figuring out how to do things online or virtually.” Instead, she focused on a different project, GRASS, currently scheduled to premiere in March 2021, and turned to analog modes of connecting: storytelling and house calls: “I wanted to invite people to talk about their relationships to turf grass and cannabis. And maybe folks will want to have a small dance ensemble perform outside their house or apartment building.”

Three commissions in the month of June affirmed the desire for live performance. “I think people have been almost relieved to have a live event. It’s energetically, visually, and sonically revitalizing after so much time in the same four walls and probably too much time on a screen.” In contrast, Sidewalk Dances is “totally low tech. We take along a live musician, Bob Garrett, who has worked with us for 15 years. We show up 30-40 minutes ahead of time to look at the lay of the land. In Hyde Park, it was a one-way residential street, so we moved into the street, with 25 to 30 people standing in masks on their front yards. In Edgewater, it began to pour, Bob played his instruments from his hatchback, and the dancers went on for 15 minutes in solid rain. We’re all a little bit numb right now. To have this opportunity to be in a small crowd, with a group of people and a musician creating something outside your home, a really familiar space on this street you see all the time, it changes how you see that space.”

Sidewalk Dances has also given Hanson the opportunity for on-the-ground research, allowing her to test movement phrases for GRASS with the dancers and meet people at their homes to discuss lawns and weed. “My past work has explored the environment and political power, and GRASS [inspired by Paul Robbins’s 2007 book Lawn People: How Grasses, Weeds, and Chemicals Make Us Who We Are] bridges both,” she says. “The American lawn is a green space but also a white space, hand in hand with the American suburb. Monoculture is a key word: how do we look at biodiversity and what is gained there in terms of resiliency, and how do we think about social diversity?” Robbins considers lawns in conjunction with cannabis, the legal status and licensing of which has transformed an illegal drug into a profitable business–for some. Says Hanson, “The people able to access those licenses and gain profits are white, to the detriment to Black and Brown communities decimated by war on drugs–in other words, a plant is upholding white capitalist culture.”

The performances, which have lasted 15 to 20 minutes, have been commissioned to celebrate events including graduation and retirement. They have also required more logistical work by Hanson. “I’ve never worked in this model,” she says. “It feels really direct. Usually I work through a venue, and they’re selling the tickets.” Practical matters dominate the conversation: “What is the street like? How wide is the sidewalk? Is there a place for the musician? Can we go to the bathroom? How long would you like us to perform?”

Yet the work has been “invigorating for the dancers,” she says. “And I’m able to give 20 percent of our fees to Forward Momentum Chicago, an organization committed to increasing access to dance, founded by former Joffrey dancer Pierre Lockett. That feels good.”

JULY

July 10, 19: “A tap jam is a gathering of tap dancers, a cypher, or ‘trading,’ as musicians call it. It’s all about dancers getting together, motivating one another, inspiring one another, stealing from one another–that’s how the original tap dancers created the art form,” says Bril Barrett, founder of tap company M.A.D.D. Rhythms. “We honor that tradition of stealing from each other by holding tap jams twice a month. It’s all levels. Some people come and watch and get motivated to try it, some people just come dance, some people just come watch. It’s really whatever you want it to be. We have fun sharing each other’s energies, rhythms, and steps.”

For almost 20 years, Barrett has upheld a practice that dates back to the early development of the dance in the nineteenth century. Every second Friday and third Sunday of the month, he and other members of M.A.D.D. Rhythms can be found at the Harold Washington Cultural Center in Bronzeville in a circle of dance anyone can join. “The last one we had in person was the third Sunday in March, which was literally when the stay-at-home order went into effect. In April, May, and June, we did them virtually. I was determined to not let the virus or the circumstances take that joy away. It was cool because people joined us from all over the world, but in terms of sharing energy with each other, it wasn’t the same.”

In July, as the city moved into new phases of reopening, the tap jam reconvened outside–which both observes guidelines for safe gathering during a pandemic and carries the jam closer to its origins. “From Master Juba to Chuck Green, Hoofers would create, practice and perfect this artform….OUTSIDE!” Barrett wrote in a letter explaining tap jams last January. “In those times, the United States still had a long way to go when it came to black people and their treatment. Many dance schools didn’t allow African Americans, so the streets became our studios and the dance became our resistance & perseverance at the same time.”

“Art forms based in choreography are privileged over art forms based in improvisation,” notes Barrett. “It follows the hierarchy of the white supremacist power structure that is of this country. This society is used to privileging documented forms. But [in improvised forms] you have to take the years of training and apply them in an instant. We don’t have the luxury of working through the thing. Our process is done in front of your eyes.”

“That’s why the jams are so important for us. M.A.D.D. Rhythms rehearsals are part improvisation, part choreography, part technique. The tap jam is a way for us to improvise with people whose style we don’t know, whose cadences we aren’t familiar with, and sometimes it gives you a new way to think about or approach something. A lot of times their level is not even important to that process. It is simply that I never would have thought to do that step in that way at that time!”

Beyond building community among dancers, the jam brings people from around the city to Bronzeville–and thus more awareness of the neighborhood and more economic opportunities for its residents. “Little by little, with jams and classes, we’ve broken down the barrier of the south side being unreachable. We used to think we couldn’t be an internationally renowned company based in our own neighborhood, because that’s what we were taught growing up.”

On July 10, tap dancers came together again for the jam on a wooden floor set up in the parking lot of the Harold Washington Cultural Center. “It was only supposed to last an hour, but we were so happy to be in the same space that we went almost two hours,” says Barrett. “Even though we were all out of breath, and our stamina was not the same because we haven’t been dancing as much, the joy of being together and having the opportunity to be in that space with each other was very different. We’ve all reexamined the value of being able to connect with other souls.”

“Jamming with a group of people is the most selfish and unselfish thing you can do at the same time,” he says. “When that one person is dancing, everybody else is holding time for them, i.e., supporting them. When you really get into it, some people ‘sing’ together–one person will be wrapping up, and another will start, and they’ll start dancing together. We have this conversation before we pass it on. But usually it’s about each person taking their turn to say what they want to say, and we all support, and we all listen. The jam is the perfect opportunity to be heard but also to hear.”

“No matter what we’re doing, we try to always have the jam,” he says. “We do them for ourselves, and if people come, it’s a bonus. We’re going to have them, and if nobody ever shows, it’s still going on, and we’ll have a great time.”

AUGUST

“I was a participant in Cairo during the 2013 occupation of the Ministry of Culture,” says social practice dance artist Shawn Lent. Though the Fulbright she had been awarded to teach at the state-run Higher Institute of Ballet had been suspended because of the Egyptian revolution, Lent, who first went to Egypt on a UN Alliance of Civilizations fellowship in 2010, stayed to stand by artists and activists against a regime that sought to ban dance and other forms of art and expression (“I was supposed to be there six months and stayed almost four years”). “Every night for 33 days, not only did activists occupy the complex, they did street performance. As it led up to June 30, the biggest political demonstration in modern history, I was realizing all the marches coming to the square were all led by artists–film artists, musicians. There were pop-up installations, ballet performances–it was so infused in the arts.”

When Lent moved to Chicago in 2016, she continued to support and participate in social movements. “One of the first things I did coming back to the U.S. after years abroad was join a Black Lives Matter march. I noticed that while there were witty signs, there wasn’t much artist leadership of the march or the movement. The morning after Trump was elected, there was a big rally in front of Trump Tower. I just felt it in my body. I couldn’t do the witty signs. I did a solo demonstration for about a half hour by myself at that rally and then decided to mobilize other dancers to join.”

These demonstrations, initially organized over Facebook, began to grow as Chicago dancers joined Lent in peaceful expression. “We had a pretty big one for Inauguration Day. We had a big one for President’s Day. People brought their babies and danced with their children. During the health-care crisis, dance movement therapists came. Sometimes they’ve been very planned, with choreography people rehearsed. Other times, like after Charlottesville, there was just one young woman who said, ‘I need to do something.’ And no one else came, so it was just the two of us.” Most demonstrations have taken place at the Heald Square Monument, a sculpture on Wacker Drive directly across from Trump Tower that depicts the Statue of Liberty on its base, reaching her arms out to all people, beneath George Washington and two financiers of the American Revolution (“It’s about diversity”).

Though initially organized by Lent, the dance demonstrations have frequently been collaborative in nature and led by others in the city, incorporating marching bands and entire dance companies, with Kristina Isabelle Dance Company joining for the 2017 March for Science.

In recent demonstrations, Lent says, “I’ve been reconsidering my role as a white woman. It was my time to listen and not lead. I’ve been joining others, following, supporting.” However, when word of the Black, Indigenous Solidarity Rally July 17 at Buckingham Fountain reached her, Lent was moved to act. “When I saw the theme and the 16 organizations that were putting this one on–and that it was a solidarity rally–I thought, ‘If I can get a few people there, I think it will mean a lot to them. I need to move. I need to be there. Solidarity for the Indigenous and Black community right now! I put the word out the night before.”

Five dancers joined Lent at 5 PM that day for a 20-minute demonstration. “The prompt was, ‘Do we all want to dance together? Yes.’ That was it. Solidarity. A circle. Twenty minutes of dancing together. There was no other agenda, plan, or structure.” As they finished, two more dancers arrived, and the crowd had begun to march. “It’s very common for a rally to turn into a march, and usually we try to dance as we march, and we try to collaborate with musicians in the crowd. We found some drummers who were interested in collaborating, but there was a lot going on, social distancing, and we didn’t know where the crowd was going.”

The march arrived at the Christopher Columbus statue in Grant Park. “Protesters were spray painting and throwing things at the statue. There were fireworks. One person was climbing and trying to put ropes around it. From Cairo I knew property damage is symbolic and important. I thought the police must be standing back and letting this happen.” Minutes later, however, riot police arrived. “They came in and beat two protesters heavily and started attacking a medic who had come to their aid. One of the cops was trying to push me to leave over the wall. I said, ‘Shame on you.’ He said, ‘This is city property! Trump 2020!’ and spat in my direction.” As violence intensified, the dancers decided to hold their ground. Finally, they were marched out, hands up, down Lake Shore Drive. “I’ve been through many large-scale rallies and demonstrations in Cairo, and never felt the fear I felt on Friday,” says Lent. “The cops had their batons ready to use on anybody, no matter where you were standing or what you were doing.”

“I do not use the word protester,” she says. “Within the movement, people say, ‘Are you here to demonstrate or to protest?’ There’s an inside language that a protester is there for action and ready to defend the other protesters. There’s a lot more risk involved. A demonstrator bears an undertone of peace. I felt uncomfortable asking dancers to choose that level of risk. If they want to protest and put their bodies at more risk, that window is open, but what I’m organizing is demonstration through the body. I’m now questioning if it is even possible to do a dance demonstration on city property even with a permit. By inviting people to join me, am I setting people up? Are they at risk? I think I will continue myself, but [do others] really know what they are signing up for if they come to dance?”

“In Cairo there were farmers doing installation art pieces, gestural or sculptural expressions in [Tahrir Square]. Not because they’re artists but because they’re fully expressing what they wanted to express. There were pop-up galleries. Murals. Anywhere there was destruction of property, there was some sort of art: original song, dances everywhere, a full expression of what the protester was trying to get out of their body or tell the world or realize for themselves. It’s a claiming of space: we are not leaving the square; we have built a whole gallery. It is important for the individual protester to realize what they’re trying to say, and to build a collective message and common ground for demands, [whether] in song, in artwork, or in the gut–in the body.”

“Here we march in a straight line. We hold comedic, witty, satirical signs, and we’re flanked by police on both sides who tell us what we can do. When I started dancing in demonstrations, I felt I was saying so much more from myself to the world. That’s the importance of the arts.”

Among those who have joined Lent in dance demonstrations is Kierah King, a 2020 graduate of Columbia College. “A lot of my work in dance and empowerment started in school,” says King, who majored in dance and minored in Black world studies. “I have worked with different communities and socioeconomic backgrounds, particularly kids dealing with traumatic experiences, bringing dance into programs and educational settings.” King and Lent first met working with Educare Chicago, teaching dance to children in Bronzeville. When she joined the dance demonstration Lent organized for the Women’s March in 2017, King says, “I began seeing how the power of dance could be used to change people’s perspectives.” She has since participated in several dance demonstrations, including the Black, Indigenous Solidarity Rally.

“I think all artists bring something beautiful to a space,” she says. “Especially at a protest, having dance in the space creates a certain energy, where you see not only the work that goes in but also the beauty that comes out of it. A dance demonstration is such a strong way to say something, be political, create community, and be empowering: this is what joy looks like. This is what freedom can look like. This is what it can be when we come together and create something beautiful. This is what a movement is, and this is what it’s supposed to be, because this is the natural movement of our body.”

During a march the weekend after George Floyd’s death, King recalls a particularly potent expression. “They were raising all the bridges. The last one was the one at Trump Tower, and [police] started getting really violent with protesters on that bridge. And this one girl started dancing at them. People started screaming, ‘Black Girl Magic!’ Everyone started running towards her and being in this moment and encouraging her. This is beautiful! This is what a woman is! She was twerking, doing African dance, jazz dance, ballet, high kicks, and ended up in a straddle on the ground and just stared at the cops. She just sat there for a good minute. It was a beautiful moment to witness.”

“At that protest, there were people dancing throughout. And I’ve noticed people starting to bring speakers to the protest to play music and dance along as they’re walking. So you see these little dance parties going on as protesters are walking down the streets, and in these little groups you see this joy and happiness and all these different moods and emotions depending on the music, as people are chanting. There are so many different energies going on. People are using it as a way to continue the movement and progress it forward.”

King is determined to continue the work, beginning with a dance demonstration she is organizing this August. “My ultimate goal is to create a really big dance demonstration in Chicago with social distancing, masks, being completely respectful. We did a similar one in Indiana with 25 dancers. It was beautiful and healing for people to connect in that way, even though we can’t touch right now. Right now people are gathering for protests in a state of rage–which is completely understandable–being up front with the cops and having them scream and yell and seeing the physical violence and feeling so upset and overwhelmed with emotion that you can’t feel anything other than that. Dance can bring a sense of calmness, joy, and connection while continuing the movement. It’s so important to maintain that connection when we’re coming together to protest in a way that can take so much out of you. It’s exhausting, being out there for hours all day, with everything in your face, tear gas, yelling, screaming. Remembering why we come together, why we connect, what is the purpose of it–dance has always been a way to express all of those things.

“That sense of community is the biggest thing, and art has been a huge catalyst. Right now, when the arts are standing at such a dire time, people are stepping into roles that have never been held before. It is going to affect the next years and generations to come.” v

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There are no shows to speak of happening on Chicago stages, but the offstage drama has been at a fever pitch in recent months.

Victory Gardens Theater underwent a very public dressing-down from the playwrights ensemble and others in the theater community after the board announced that Erica Daniels, the executive director, was replacing departing artistic director Chay Yew as the executive artistic director, sans the national search the ensemble had requested. Daniels subsequently resigned in the wake of protests, and Roxanna Conner was named acting managing director; the board has announced a new search process for the next artistic director, including a call for public comment.

Andrew Alexander, the longtime owner, CEO, and executive producer at Second City, also resigned after social media criticism about institutional racism at the comedy behemoth, with Anthony LeBlanc named interim executive producer. Charna Halpern, the owner of iO, beset with financial difficulties exacerbated by COVID-19 and facing ongoing allegations about a culture of racism and harassment at her comedy theater, decided to close it down for good.

The release of the “BIPOC Demands for White American Theatre” from the coalition We See You, White American Theater (We See You W.A.T.) last month has also focused attention on issues of diversity, equity, and inclusion across the country. Locally, the collapse of Profiles Theatre after many longstanding allegations of sexual abuse and harassment came to light in the Reader in 2016 has led to a national push to adopt standards for safety and accountability, especially in non-Equity venues, piloted by Not In Our House through the Chicago Theatre Standards.

In late June, David Zak, executive director of Pride Films and Plays and one of the pioneers of Chicago off-Loop theater with the long-gone Bailiwick Repertory, faced a wide-ranging series of Facebook allegations. These encompassed stories of unsafe physical conditions in both the two-venue PFP home (for those who like irony, the theaters were formerly occupied by Profiles) and the company’s Uptown rehearsal space, as well as allegations about Zak engaging in patterns of abuse and harassment toward actors and others involved with PFP, or ignoring such abuse from others associated with the company.

On July 3, the 64-year-old Zak issued a public statement announcing his departure that read in part: “It pains me that my actions and words have hurt many others in our Chicago theatre community and for that I apologize greatly. I would not intentionally offend, hurt, or exclude anyone in our arts community, which plays such an important role to build understanding and bridges in our community. But it has happened, and I am sorry.”

The PFP board simultaneously announced the appointment of Donterrio Johnson as artistic director. Johnson is an actor and director whose lengthy list of credits includes his Jeff-nominated 2019 staging of the musical A Man of No Importance at PFP. The board also announced that JD Caudill and Robert Ollis will continue as company artistic associates.

So what happened? And why did it all come to a head now?

I heard from well over a dozen people who were involved either with PFP or with Bailiwick Repertory–detractors of Zak, champions, and those who fall in between. What emerged was a complex portrait of how much things have changed, in both Chicago theater and the gay community, since Zak first opened doors for LGBTQ theater artists at Bailiwick in the 1980s. (Zak was inducted into the Chicago LGBT Hall of Fame in 2013.) The recent calls to rename “Boys Town” illustrate some of those changes, as does the increased attention in recent years to the racism and harassment young LGBTQ people of color face in the neighborhood.

Some of the conflict seems driven by generational shifts, as the old paradigms of putting up with whatever you have to in order to be in a show have thankfully broken down in the wake of #MeToo and so many other heightened calls for justice inside and outside theater. But there are also lessons here for going forward; about board accountability for the actions of artistic leaders, particularly when those leaders are the organization’s founders; about how even theaters that champion work by marginalized communities can continue patterns of bias, neglect, and abuse toward others; and finally, about what a theater community wracked by the pandemic and facing societal reckonings on several fronts can and should be in the future.

From Bailiwick to PFP

In 1982, Zak started Bailiwick Repertory. Initially identified primarily as a director’s theater (as opposed to a company with a standing acting ensemble, like Steppenwolf), Bailiwick produced an annual directors’ festival (full disclosure: I directed a piece for the 1991 installment). An early hit was the Zak-directed 1987 musical adaptation (by Sir Peter Hall) of George Orwell’s Animal Farm, which won seven non-Equity Jeff Awards.

But by the end of the 1980s, Bailiwick became increasingly identified with work by and about LGTBQ people–particularly gay men. Among many other shows, the company produced the Chicago premiere of Robert Chesley’s Jerker, about two gay men connecting via phone sex, in 1988, and the world premieres of Hannah Free by Claudia Allen, Trafficking in Broken Hearts by Edwin Sanchez, and the long-running hit Party by David Dillon. Long before rising to national fame, Alexandra Billings (Transparent) explored life as a transwoman in her 1996 solo show at Bailiwick, Before I Disappear.

Eventually, Bailiwick’s annual Pride series became a showcase for LGBTQ work. Jerker was a harbinger of things to come, so to speak: over the years, Bailiwick offered a slew of shows highlighting gay relationships, often with men in various states of undress, including the long-running Naked Boys Singing. Alongside the more overtly sexually charged shows, Bailiwick also won acclaim for its musical productions, such as its 2004 Chicago premiere of Jason Robert Brown and Alfred Uhry’s Parade, based on the 1913 lynching of Leo Frank, a Jewish foreman accused of murdering a young girl who worked in his factory, and the American premiere of Richard Thomas and Stewart Lee’s Jerry Springer: The Opera.

Bailiwick primarily operated out of two Lakeview spaces: the long-gone Jane Addams Hull-House Center at 3212 N. Broadway (which housed Steppenwolf in its early days) and then the old Chicago Filmmakers space at 1229 W. Belmont (now the home of Theater Wit). They moved out of the latter in 2008, and dissolved in 2009. (Another company, Bailiwick Chicago, which had no association with Zak, arose from those ashes and produced until 2015 under artistic director Lili-Anne Brown.)

Pride Films and Plays, Zak’s next venture, formed in 2010 and was itinerant for a few years before taking over the old Profiles venues in 2016 and renaming them the Pride Arts Center. According to the last tax forms on file, covering the fiscal year of July 2017-June 2018, PFP’s annual revenues were $361,446, against operating expenses of $348,249.

But a common thread in the histories of both Bailiwick Repertory and PFP has been ongoing financial problems. A 2008 Time Out Chicago piece by Jake Malooley noted that various theater blogs were calling out Bailiwick for failing to pay artists, and that playwright Jim Provenzano was suing over nonpayment of royalties for his play Pins. “There are two really popular misconceptions about the Bailiwick,” Zak responded. “One is that people are always naked on stage, and the other is that no one gets paid. And that’s just wrong.”

Nicholas Patricca, a playwright and former artistic associate at Bailiwick Repertory, praised Zak in an e-mail (one of several pro-Zak missives that landed in my inbox last month) as “one of the most important artists of our contemporary Chicago Theatre movement,” adding, “David has a rough and ready style that suits him and that keeps the theatres he heads ‘up and running.’ His genius and his style overcome great obstacles and often produce great theatre.”

But that “rough and ready style” is precisely what others found objectionable.

The call out

On June 26, director and choreographer Jon Martinez, who worked on two shows at PFP (as choreographer for 2017’s Priscilla, Queen of the Desert by Stephan Elliott and Allan Scott, codirected by Zak and Derek Van Barham, and director for 2018’s It’s Only a Play by Terrence McNally) made a public post on Facebook that began, “People have recently asked me if they should work for PFP. PFP is not a place I think any Chicago artist should work and here is why.”

Among the six bullet points Martinez listed were sets that featured “exposed sharp edges of wood,” and a rehearsal room “that was dirty and had roaches and rodent feces.” He also called out PFP staff for “not swiftly dealing with a robbery in their theatre when in production or providing alternative measures to help the cast feel safe” as well as lack of marketing support for productions and the fact that PFP, at the time of the post, had been without an artistic director since 2018. (Zak’s official title was executive director. Nelson Rodriguez served as artistic director from 2016 to 2018. He could not be reached for comment for this article.)

That post opened up the floodgates. Over 260 comments were posted, with many commenters amplifying Martinez’s complaints and adding stories about verbal sexual harassment from Zak and other associates at PFP, body shaming, lack of respect for nonbinary and trans artists, and marginalization of women’s work at PFP. Subsequently, a petition on change.org to Not In Our House (which has no regulatory authority over theaters) and other organizations circulated, calling for Zak’s resignation.

Reached for comment on Martinez’s post and the subsequent allegations, Zak said, “I’m not denying anything. I apologize to the people who got hurt. But I also think that we wouldn’t have lasted this long if there was not a lot of good stuff going. And that’s what’s interesting about reading comments from people who worked here, in some instances for four or five or six shows.”

In a follow-up interview, Martinez noted that the precipitating event for his post was that he had been asked by Zak to direct a two-person musical, Girlfriend, inspired in part by Matthew Sweet’s 1991 album of the same title and originally slated to open live this month (it has since been canceled). After the McNally play, Martinez said that Zak and some of the PFP board members “asked for my feedback on the experience and I gave my feedback honestly on how I felt the experience was.” That e-mail from Martinez ended with, he said, “And that is why I will never work for PFP again.” He never received a response or heard from the board or Zak, until the offer to direct the musical arrived.

In addition to his unease in directing even a socially distanced live two-person show amid COVID, Martinez said he was discomfited that his earlier complaints were never acknowledged, and that he felt the message was “all is forgotten, because I have this opportunity for you.”

“I think in particular in Chicago, there is this sort of mentality to forgive and forget without actually receiving an apology or anything because of the opportunity,” Martinez said. “I did not have David in my mind whatsoever in terms of listing these grievances. Because I didn’t see him as the sole person that was part of this . . . I’m not calling for the termination of anyone. I’m not calling for the theater to be burned to the ground.”

Martinez added that as the comments piled up on his post, along with private messages he received, “All of them started to focus on David. And what became apparent to everyone, which is what I assume prompted the petition that was started, was that it’s not the company. It is stemming from this one person who has all of this power, logistically, with how the company is set up.” He added that no one from the current board reached out to him after the post went public.

For Martinez and others to whom I spoke, the fact that PFP is one of the few queer-identified theaters in the city made their experiences even worse. “For myself as a gay man, as a queer person, as a queer-identifying person, you live your whole life hardly ever seeing examples of things on TV or in movies or in your real life of people like you. . . . To have this place that not only exists and produces plays, but they have their own actual space, specifically in Chicago? That is so incredibly cool.”

Martinez added that being in the COVID shutdown has led him to reevaluate what he wants in an artistic collaboration. “I refuse to go back to a world where [actors] have to ask me if it’s OK to work at a company because they’ve maybe heard some stories, but they really need to audition because it would be a great opportunity for them. . . . I think I didn’t say anything before because I was afraid for me.”

Women’s work

Like Martinez, director Iris Sowlat was drawn to PFP because of its mission. “I applied to be the assistant director of a show in 2015. The show was going to open in 2016. At that point I had not heard any whisperings about David. I was 22 and had just finished college. So I was just like, ‘Oh, there’s a gay theater. I’m gay.’ And that one show alone [Raggedy And by David Valdes Greenwood, directed by Cecilie Keenan] from my perspective was a good experience.” (That show was produced by PFP at Rivendell Theatre in Edgewater, prior to the company taking over Profiles.)

Sowlat said that her first negative experiences with PFP came in 2017 with (For the Love Of), or, The Roller Derby Play, a world premiere by Gina Femia and directed by Rachel Edwards Harvith, on which Sowlat served as production manager. Nelson Rodriguez, then the artistic director, hired Sowlat for the job. “He was a great mentor, he encouraged my theatrical pursuits, and he was the main reason I accepted company membership when it was offered to me,” she said. But though Rodriguez was the artistic director, Sowlat found that necessary production questions she had–involving everything from budgets to contracts to schedules–ended up going through Zak, who, she said, “basically positioned himself to be the one who had all the information. But I think he also definitely distanced himself from people or things that he just didn’t care about nurturing as much.”

In Sowlat’s view, those people and things often involved work by and about women.

Sowlat directed Corinne J. Kawecki’s lesbian drama The Days Are Shorter in 2018. Around the same time that play was running in PFP’s smaller venue, the Buena, Flies!, a musical parody of Lord of the Flies, was playing in the larger Broadway space. “It was abundantly clear that Flies had more advertising than The Days Are Shorter,” Sowlat said. She also noticed that posters for her show were left sitting in boxes in the theater, undistributed, while posters for Flies! were on the street, and that her show didn’t get the same social media profile from PFP as the musical. In an itemized statement Sowlat prepared for a community meeting on PFP (one that never happened in light of Zak’s resignation), she said that Zak told her a separate company handled poster distribution. Zak said that he thought “Iris, like everybody else, knew that people in many ways marketed their own shows because we didn’t have a full-time marketing staff at that point.”

Sowlat noted, “There were many conversations where [Zak] would say, ‘Oh, we’d do more stuff about women if we had the money for it, but we don’t have the money for it.'” She also said that Zak “started treating me as though I was in charge of the women’s program,” even sending her lists of the “wealthiest lesbians” and asking if she could coax any of them to join the PFP board. She added in an e-mail, “The way that David viewed and treated women, including asking me to go search for lesbian board members, was his way of creating a false problem where there really shouldn’t have been one at all.”

Zak attributed some of the problems with the women’s program to a dearth of available lesbian-themed plays with significant audience appeal. “It’s a national trend, even a worldwide trend, that few lesbian plays are being produced. That creates a vicious circle in which writers, seeing a limited market for lesbian-themed plays, are discouraged from writing about those themes. . . . That’s as old as time. We attempted to overcome this by instituting our LezPlay competition and in fact The Days Are Shorter was a finalist in our 2016 LezPlay Contest.”

Part of the management problems at PFP Sowlat also attributed to an overambitious production schedule. “They ended up growing to a point where they easily had eight or nine shows a year,” she said. “It definitely looked like they were biting off more than they could chew because for most of those shows, the quality was not that good.”

“It may be fair to say we were overly ambitious in our production plans,” said Zak. “After moving into the Pride Arts Center spaces we felt financially pressured to keep both stages busy. Sometimes outside tenants canceled on us and we responded by planning productions of our own on short notice to fill in the gaps the cancellations created. I’m proud of all our work–much of which was recognized through awards and positive critical reviews–but we may have spread ourselves thin in our ability to market all the shows.”

Like Martinez, Sowlat said that attempts to involve the board in discussions about concerns she and others at PFP had with Zak’s management style and “general rude behavior,” as her community statement characterized it (she claimed that this behavior included comments on actors’ body types and “sex appeal”) went nowhere; when one board member found out that she was collecting some stories from other artists concerned about what they had experienced, “he sent me this really nasty e-mail.”

But Keenan, who worked with Zak for many years at Bailiwick Rep, paints a slightly different picture. “Many of us owe our careers to him,” she noted in an e-mail. “He is part of our community and has given thousands of people work. He is complex and complicated but I have more ‘problems’ with others who have less heart and gobs of money.”

Reached by phone, Keenan expanded on her comments. “I feel like we’re starting to kick babies out with bath waters, as opposed to ‘who is responsible for this particular thing?’ It’s the board. The board, when I was there . . . with few exceptions, never ever stepped up. And it’s not just these boards. It’s every board. It’s always the fricking artistic director, executive director, whatever you want to call them, who has to get down on their hands and knees and scrub the floor.” But she also noted that both she and Zak “come from a different generation where we really didn’t expect anybody to give a shit, you know? That doesn’t take away from what other people are wanting now.”

Structural flaws

The lack of board oversight is something others who worked with PFP noted. Derek Van Barham, who served as associate artistic director at PFP and directed eight productions there (two as codirector with Zak) before leaving in November of 2018, first met Zak as a grad student at Roosevelt University. “I’m very grateful for the opportunities that I was given, and I’m very proud of a lot of the work that I created there,” he noted in an e-mail. “Like many directors at PFP, I realized that part of the job was incubating the cast and team, protecting the process.” He added, “There’s a disconnect between the award-winning shows and the experiences of the artists working on them. And that’s not just a PFP thing.”

Barham shared his 2018 resignation letter from PFP with me, in which he wrote, “As AAD, I was often the recipient of people’s frustrations, concerns, and disappointments. And I just don’t have the energy to hold the dam anymore, especially when I don’t know how to justify or defend the decisions from the top.” In an e-mail, Barham noted that he did receive responses from some members of the board, but there were “no action items, or attempts to rectify anything.” The board has turned over completely since Barham’s resignation.

In a phone interview, Barham noted, “There are a few areas of concern being expressed. There’s David as a problematic figure in a queer organization because of insensitive things that he says, and working methods that may feel dated or old school. Then there’s David just as a challenging, difficult person to work with. And then there’s the safety of the building that needs to be addressed.”

Zak attributed many of the problems with the move into the old Profiles space and the subsequent expansion of programming. “We were trying to do all the letters of the LGBTQ and more. We were trying to bring in racial diversity as much as possible. And looking back on it, that’s not something that any organization could have done, no matter the size. Unless you’re the Royal Shakespeare Company or the National Theatre of Great Britain.” He also said that the artistic associates, who were supposed to help fill the gap between the fundraising of the board and the day-to-day operations, didn’t always step up to meet those demands.

John Nasca, 62, a director and costume designer who began working with PFP in its earliest days in 2010, was an artistic associate with the company for several years. “I think there were nine of us [artistic associates],” he said. “And basically we were there in name only as we came to realize that we didn’t really have a voice. We had monthly meetings, but it never really came to much because it was what David wanted to do.”

Nasca also attributed internal conflict to changing tastes for gay theater audiences. “Every show, we have to do shirtless publicity photos, and it’s like, these don’t sell tickets anymore. They might have back then in the early days of Bailiwick, but it’s not enough to get people in the seats anymore. Could we be a little bit more creative rather than doing the same old thing over and over and over again?”

Nasca noted that he wasn’t alone among the artistic associates in feeling that his concerns were not heard by Zak and the board. “David was telling the board one thing and he was telling us another thing. . . . When we did personally talk to the board, it just felt like they didn’t have any position of power.” Nasca finally left PFP in 2018, and he said, “There were like 18 people who left in the same span of two weeks.”

James Anthony, who joined the PFP board in 2014 and also worked as audience services director until they too left in 2018, noted, “Sometimes, it was difficult working with David because cofounders tend to have a way they like to do things.” Anthony, who is nonbinary, said, “There was quite a bit of sexual harassment and disrespect towards people, not just in pronouns, but just in the tone of voice and how things were run and operated.” They added, “That was a recurring theme for me, too. I had conversations with David about it as much as I could when I was there, and it never seemed to stick.” They also said, “PFP, technically, the whole company was just David.”

But Anthony, who has extensive experience in equity, diversity, and inclusion training, cautioned that the problems with PFP, both in terms of EDI and structural soundness, aren’t unique. “Most boards of directors are white folks,” and too many companies are “trying to become something that they’re not too quickly without developing a strategic vision and plan to put it into action.”

What now?

As the new artistic director, Donterrio Johnson is understandably focused on the future. “The first thing is–I spent quite some time reading over all the comments and things that were both on Facebook and the petition–and the first thing is really the inner structure of the company, making sure that we have representation for everybody, both on the board and the artistic associates, making sure that our theater looks like the world that is outside. I know a lot of people have issues with the rehearsal space and dressing rooms and just the upkeep of the theater, so we’ve already started gutting the space and making sure it can be presentable when the doors open again.”

But Johnson, who is Black, also wants to overhaul the kinds of shows that PFP has been best known for. “I think the big thing now is about inclusion. I want every story to be told within a season.” He added, “We’re really looking to broaden what we’re doing and not just focus on the five great gay plays that exist, but kind of go into the world and go ‘OK, how can we tell these well-known stories in different ways, with different genders and different color and all that kind of thing?'” As an example, he cites his dream project: an all-female/femme-identified Sweeney Todd.

Dan Hickey has been on the PFP board for two years, and though he said he was unaware of any “interactions” between artists and the board regarding conditions at PFP or Zak’s actions, he emphasized that actor safety is a priority now for the company. “When I heard that there were actors who didn’t feel safe, or that there were certain things within the theater that made them feel unsafe, that concerned me a lot.” Hickey also noted that the Martinez Facebook post came shortly after PFP was taken to task by a BIPOC actor for announcing a virtual staged reading in their “Pride in Place” series of Brad Fraser’s Unidentified Human Remains and the True Nature of Love that featured an all-white cast. (That reading was canceled.) “That, in my estimation, was what gave people pause to look more closely at Pride as an arbiter and as [an organization] that doesn’t operate within full representation. So that I feel was a precursor.”

The board seems to be making the right noises about encouraging diversity and overhauling both the physical environment of PFP and its vision, which Johnson describes as “rebrand, restructure, and reignite.”

But what still remains unknown is what resources will be available for Johnson and his team to fully remake an organization that has for so long carried the imprimatur of its founder. As with Victory Gardens and Second City–as well as other organizations across the country that have started handing over leadership to BIPOC artists and administrators just as American theater is facing its worst financial crisis in living memory–one wonders if the new generation will be fully empowered by their boards, as well as foundations, audiences, and the larger community to move forward with the changes that are desperately needed.

Creating an atmosphere where artists feel they can speak out about their working conditions and have those concerns heard and addressed would be a welcome first step. v

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On a scorching hot Sunday in early August, drag performers at Hamburger Mary’s in Andersonville braved the heat, wearing showstopping costumes and performing slickly choreographed routines for patrons on the burning pavement. If performers were tired or overheated, it didn’t come across to the audience as they utilized their new performance space, which now includes both a standard indoor dining room and an extended outdoor patio. While the queens’ overall drag styles varied between performers, they all sported the latest accessory within the community: over-the-head face shields to protect from potential exposure to coronavirus.

As is the case for a majority of professions, abiding by COVID-19 restrictions poses new challenges to those who perform drag for a living.

“My style of performance is super interactive, so I’m used to touching people, I’m used to conveying an emotion,” says Cee-Cee LaRouge, a performer at Hamburger Mary’s. “And trying to do that at a distance now is a bit more challenging because you can’t really touch people, so it’s all based on innuendo now, which gets harder.”

When stay-at-home orders were enforced in Illinois in March, it led to the mass shuttering of dine-in restaurants and bars. For drag performers in Chicago, it also meant the loss of a live performance space. Many drag queens turned to online shows, utilizing platforms like Instagram, Facebook, and Twitch to continue working and interacting with fans. For performers like LaRouge–who boasts a Facebook following of more than 180,000–adapting to an entirely virtual audience was rather seamless.

“I actually love [online shows],” she says. “And the reason why is because I can read people a mile away, so I know if they’re not interested. I can command attention, one way or another, I’m gonna get it, online or in person.”

Other performers, like fellow Hamburger Mary’s performer Fay Ludes, found transitioning to a digital audience more challenging.

“For me, drag is so much about community and human interaction,” they say. “I live alone, so performing in my house to a tripod and my dog just doesn’t appeal to me.”

Ludes, whose routines feature intense choreography full of high kicks and other impressive dance moves, briefly turned to digital platforms like Twitch and Facebook Live to compensate for the loss of a live-performance space.

“A lot of drag performers had to go out and get jobs. I basically just suffered,” they say. “I didn’t get unemployment, I couldn’t get it to work. I called so many times and it didn’t work out. Luckily, I have a little bit of an online following and they were tipping me online for some digital shows, but yeah, it’s been really rough. Any savings I had, which is already hard to have when you do drag full-time, is gone.”

To help supplement the loss of live-performance spaces amid the stay-at-home order, several venues created GoFundMe pages to support their employees.

As restaurants citywide prioritize outdoor dining as a safety precaution, venues like the Kit Kat Lounge in Boystown have also utilized outdoor patios to keep a distance between patrons and employees. However, according to showgirls–the term preferred by these trans women who work as drag performers–employed at the club, this presents a challenge in the form of easily preoccupied customers. Showgirl Traci Ross says there is “no way” to divert attention away from various outdoor distractions during a show, like people walking by, dogs barking, sirens, or someone walking down the street just for attention.

“You can’t compete with outside things that are happening,” she says. “So there is nothing I can do. I could jump off the building on fire, and [if] the fire truck is coming down the street, everyone is going to instantly turn and see what’s going on.”

Face shields have also required performers to adapt their looks in order to make them conducive to the over-the-head design.

“I wear a face shield and a different version depending on my outfit,” says Madam X, a showgirl at Kit Kat Lounge. “Sometimes I wear headpieces and so those shields I kind of have to work around. I’ve had to adjust a lot of things, you know, like the way I put on my wigs, picking [them], and keeping in mind that I’m gonna have to put a shield on.”

LaRouge reiterates this sentiment, remarking that the combination of high outdoor temperatures and the high level of costuming makes performing drag a very involved endeavor.

“The main thing I wanna tell people is that if you’re gonna come to a place like this, and there’s gonna be a show, pay attention, please, because we’re doing a bit more than everybody else here,” she says. “We have to do all this stuff, all of it, and it’s homophobically hot, it is so hot. I’m wearing padding, stuff like that, my internal body temperature is already rising. I just wish that people would take that into consideration.”

In addition to having to adapt routines to new safety guidelines, performers have anxieties regarding the uncertain state of the world.

Ruff N’ Stuff, a queen at Lips Chicago in the near south side, recently started doing shows at Hamburger Mary’s, Replay Lincoln Park, and Lark Chicago during the venue’s temporary closure. When asked about the challenges that come with adapting a live routine, she mentions the omnipresent fear of contracting COVID-19–a hardship she does not want to repeat. Stuff, who contracted the virus in March before recovering, says that abiding by safety measures designed to prevent the spread of COVID-19 is a cultural shift that can be hard to keep up with.

“We come from a culture where we’ve never in our lives had to wear masks. We’ve never had to keep social distance,” she says. “So from overnight to go from that culture and then in the last six months or so to now have to always wear a mask or some type of shield, as an entertainer you have to keep those things in mind at all times. And sometimes it can feel a little draining or a bit much sometimes.”

In spite of the hardships presented by working amid a global pandemic, these drag performers feel gratitude for being able to continue entertaining. While appreciative of the ongoing support, queens also want the general public to recognize the hard work that goes into a professional career in drag.

“I would say that a lot of people don’t realize that drag for a lot of us is not a hobby, it’s literally our lives,” Ludes says. “I think that a lot of people take entertainment for granted and COVID just kind of showed us, your local queer community is suffering because our livelihood is entertaining people. And with COVID, we just can’t really do that in the way we once did.” v

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Chicago Bulls: Assessing final 2020 NBA Draft Lottery odds by Ryan Heckman

The Chicago Bulls entered Thursday night’s 2020 NBA Draft Lottery hoping to make it higher than recent years.

What an offseason it has already been for the Chicago Bulls. The team overhauled their front office after the league went on hiatus and followed it up by recently firing head coach Jim Boylen.

Next up? The 2020 NBA Draft Lottery.

Entering Thursday night, the Bulls and their fan base were a little on edge, to say the least. For three years running, the Bulls had come away with the no. 7 overall pick in the draft. Last year, they should have had the fourth overall selection, but dropped three spots.

It’s been a few years of disappointments in the lottery. Let’s be real. If the Bulls aren’t competing for the playoffs, most fans would rather see them obtain a top draft pick, and that simply hasn’t happened.

It has been three disappointing seasons full of underwhelming coaching and a plethora of injuries to multiple players, followed by even more disappointing summers as the Bulls haven’t exactly been major players in free agency or the Draft Lottery.

Those days are in the past, though, as the Chicago Bulls came away with the no. 4 overall pick in the 2020 NBA Draft.

The lottery started out by the Boston Celtics snagging pick no. 14 (via the Memphis Grizzlies), which was no surprise. From there on out, things went just about as planned. Once inside the top 10, though, it got interesting.

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The Charlotte Hornets were most likely looking at the eighth overall pick, but their fans were excited to see them hop up five spots to no. 3 overall. Meanwhile, the Cleveland Cavaliers went from most likely obtaining a top-3 pick down to no. 5.

The Wizards, Knicks and Pistons also fell from their respective positions.

But, the Bulls rose three positions. They did it.

There was plenty of positive energy after hiring Arturas Karnisovas to be their Vice President, and even more excitement after seeing Marc Eversley come in as their new general manager. These two should be a strong tandem in the front office.

With the no. 4 overall pick, Karnisovas certainly has options. The top three players in the draft, according to most experts, are guard Anthony Edwards, guard LaMelo Ball and big man James Wiseman.

Beyond those three, Karnisovas has a tough decision to make. He could go a variety of routes, whether it’s forward Obi Toppin out of Dayton, forward Deni Advija, forward Onyeka Okongwu, among others.

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Could Karnisovas trade the pick, too? We shall see. He has a brighter future ahead for the Bulls than he did going into Thursday night, though. That’s for certain.

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Ne-Hi formed in 2013 and subsequently became one of the most revered Chicago indie-rock bands of the decade. The four-piece called it quits in May 2019, but I imagine their reputation will only keep growing–partly because all four members continue to play in remarkable groups. Jason Balla always juggled a few projects while in Ne-Hi, chief among them postpunk trio Dehd, which he’s helped lead since 2016; their recent Flower of Devotion is one of the most celebrated indie albums of 2020. The rest of Ne-Hi–Mikey Wells, James Weir, and Alex Otake–re-emerged last summer as Spun Out, molding a dance-friendly indie pop that draws on 1980s UK postpunk and leaves a lot of room for synth flourishes. Their new debut album, Touch the Sound (Shuga), also bears the influence of the Madchester scene; the exquisite piano melody and hypnotic percussion on “Off the Vine,” for instance, make it sound like a long-lost Screamadelica outtake. But Spun Out transcend mere pop bricolage–they can adapt their fluid style to whatever grabs them. And as you’d expect from a band with this pedigree, the hooks on Touch the Sound are ironclad. v

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This story was originally published by Belt Magazine on June 26, 2020.

I was looking for Mary Lane because I owed her 20 dollars: ten for the CD, and another ten to apologize for the year it took me to get the first ten to her.

It started one winter night in 2015, at Rosa’s Lounge in Chicago. I was there on accident; came for a storytelling show, stayed for the whiskeys, and danced for Mary, whom I’d never before heard sing, and her husband, Jeff Lebon, whom I’d never before heard play. Mary came down off the stage and began working the crowd, limping slightly. She shouted flirty, dirty things back and forth with the men, hugged the women, and reminded both that she had a CD for sale. Later, after the show, Mary sat at a table with Jeff, drinking water and counting her cash. I went over and told her how much I’d liked her voice. “Thank you, baby,” she said, “but why don’t you buy my CD?” She pressed a copy of Appointment With the Blues into my hands, even after I told her I had no cash. It was a quick decision on her part, and I saw it go down on her face: the smile while I gushed, the drop of that smile when I asked if she took card, the bare exhaustion beneath her bones and skin. Then she looked at me and turned her light back on.

When I woke up the next morning and remembered her face, I felt bad. Work is done for pay, and Mary had worked. “Lemme get closer to you,” she’d said the night before, and then she had. The band was good and her voice was great, but it was the sharp heat of Mary herself–getting right down and dirty with the crowd, calling us baby, calling us other names too and laughing, asking if we wanted it and how bad, talking just enough shit about her band to make them play harder, faster, just because they loved her so–that compelled me up and out of my seat. “I said, do you want me to tell you all about it?” Mary asked, holding the microphone to her face like a bouquet of roses, peering out into the dark of the bar with a slight lift in her mouth and eyes as the crowd hooted and whistled and stomped and gave her the answer she already knew. “Tell us, Mary!” a woman to my right begged. And so, for the next two hours, she did.

I could not stop thinking about that moment when she gave me her album for free: the hesitation, the take-it-anyway vibe, and then her request. “Just tell your friends about me,” she’d said. I promised her I would, and when I scrolled through my texts, I could see that, on my bus ride home, I had. Hungover at work, I googled her, hoping to find a way to pay online, but I was more surprised by what I didn’t find than what I did. A Chicago Tribune article from 1997 popped up, as did a Facebook page for Mary Lane & the No Static Blues Band. But there was no website, no e-mail, no other way to track her down.

On my lunch break, I called Rosa’s, and when the manager, Tony Mangiullo, picked up, I could hear his frown through the phone. “You want to leave cash for Mary Lane?” he asked.

“Like, in an envelope,” I said.

It wouldn’t work, Tony said. He’d been manager since 1984. Mary was too unreliable, too hard to pin down, tough even to book. “I don’t know when she’ll be back next,” he said. She was “like the wind,” blowing in and blowing out. And no, he didn’t have a number or an address. He wished he could help me. He sounded sincere. I made him take down my number anyway, just in case she did come through.

“But let me tell you something,” Tony said. “She should be famous.” If she wasn’t so unreliable, he said, she would be.

For the next five years, I’d hear this over and over from every man of any race I talked to about Mary–that she should be famous, that she was one of the greats, and that the reason she wasn’t better known outside of Chicago was because she was difficult, ornery, domineering, paranoid, impatient, afraid of flying, afraid of trains, afraid of travel, and generally getting in her own way. They’d lay out examples, almost as many examples as there are men in her orbit: club owners and bouncers, harp players and drummers, Grammy-winning producers and blues magazine writers, band members.

A year later, I took a bus back to Chicago from Iowa, where I had moved for grad school, to find Mary and pay what I owed, plus interest. Her band aligned behind her in the shape of a C, Mary moved on and off the stage, a little older, a little more tired than I remembered. During a break in the show, I gave her the money and she gave me another thing free. This time it was a shirt, fire truck red. On the front, in black letters:

The No Static Blues Band

On the back, in the same:

Mary Lane

Ain’t No Man Telling Me What to Do

This is the part of the story of Mary Lane that gets mentioned most often in the write-ups that have peppered Chicago papers over the last few decades she’s been singing: how she knew or knows Junior Wells, Howlin’ Wolf, Buddy Guy, Otis Rush, and other near-mythic Chicago bluesmen. Mary is from the Arkansas Delta. Before Howlin’ Wolf made his 1952 move up to Chicago, he sang every week for years at the White Swan in Brinkley, Arkansas, where Mary’s uncle worked. Eventually, her uncle asked if Wolf wouldn’t mind giving his niece a listen. Or maybe Wolf had heard her before, one slow afternoon when he came by for a beer and passed Mary out front, singing for money, something she learned to do before she learned to read. No one now remembers exactly how the beginning began, but soon, while Wolf sat back and wailed on his harp, Mary Lane went up onstage to sing. She wasn’t yet 13 years old.

This is the part of the story that goes Discovery and Authenticity, then Hardship, then Grit and Survival. If you get all five in, you’ve got a Blues Article Bingo. At 16, Mary sang while Robert Nighthawk played slide guitar at her side. She followed Howlin’ Wolf up from Arkansas, during the second wave of the Great Migration, before she was 20. She landed in Waukegan, then Chicago, living and singing in the Blackest parts of the city’s south and west sides. She had eight kids. She sang with Elmore James just before he died. She sang with James Cotton. She tended bar at the legendary Theresa’s, under the table, while a young Buddy Guy played guitar and Theresa herself reportedly kept a gun in the fur she sometimes wore to work. She is repeatedly, proudly described as “a staple” who has worked so hard and has nearly made it so many times. Always, this litany of men’s names, of men who became famous after their deaths, a lucky few famous in their lives, provided as the backstory to her backstory, proof of her Authenticity, her Grit. Except for Buddy Guy, Mary’s outlived them all.

Writing about, and appreciation of, blues music–especially, I think, when it is written about and appreciated by white people, and when the singer or musician is Black–praises suffering. The writer/reader/listener wants details of the pain as proof of the “realness” of the blues, but they also want to know that the artist is OK, at least OK enough for them to read or listen without discomfort or guilt.

There is a format to these stories, as standard as the blues song itself. Popularly, the blues are sung in three-line stanzas. In the first line, you mean it; in the second line, which is roughly the same as the first, you really mean it, and throw your voice a certain way to open up new understanding to the listener’s ears. In the third line, you bring it home. Like so:

Bad luck and trouble, they run hand in hand

I say bad luck and and trouble, they run hand in hand

You got to treat me right, if you wanna be my man

Many of the stories that have been written about Mary over the years, the stories I’ve been able to find in the Harold Washington Blues Archives, have this arc–they tell about the blues artist’s pain in the first third, repeat that pain in the second. The final third is the twist, where the theme is survival, and words like “perseverance” are used. For example, write-ups on Mary mention her picking cotton, a signifier of pain and a particular kind of southern Blackness, without going into the suffering, or without asking if she did suffer. It’s uncomfortable to wrestle with the real pain that, like bad luck and trouble, comes hand in hand with the pleasure blues artists provide. White listeners want enough pain to prove it’s real, but not enough to implicate us.

I’m not trying to shit all over other writers or lovers of the blues, or claim that, in this sentence, I am doing the writing and appreciating right. I started writing this essay four years ago and have more than 40,000 words in various files with various names, all dormant. I’ve pitched this story, had it accepted, and let that acceptance die, because the version I pitched followed the format I’ve described above, and it didn’t feel true or fair to the Mary I know. Writing the truer version would be harder, and scarier, and would require me to engage with Mary in all her complexity and pain, by which I mean it would require me to practice a kind of love, and I wasn’t sure if I was strong enough to do it. But last year, I moved back to Chicago and thought of Mary every time I saw her shirt folded in my drawer, as tucked away as a secret, as red as a fire truck wailing an alarm. I wanted to be braver for her. I needed to try again.

I tried again because of guilt and love, death and money, the stuff of the blues itself. I also tried because, years after hearing Tony say “she should be famous,” I still had questions to answer about that, and as it turned out, when we did speak again, so did Mary. “I can’t live on my name,” she told me. “I’m Mary, I’m good at this, I did that, but I got to eat.” What is the profession of ongoing love from a community worth if it doesn’t come with ongoing money?

A few months ago, Mary and Jeff’s old mattress finally busted. Now, he sleeps on the couch in their humid apartment, and she sleeps in a recliner. And so the question that needs asking, amid all the accolades, is this: What is appreciation worth if it doesn’t come with cash? Why, at 84, can a musician who is universally admired, who has been called the “real deal” and “the voice of experience,” not afford to buy a new bed?

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Since I came back to Chicago to find Mary, four years ago, I’ve spent a lot of time with her. I started by helping her hawk CDs for money and explaining to white women my age and demographic that no, Mary’s music doesn’t come on vinyl, and no, the shirt doesn’t come in small. Sometimes I slept over on the couch at Mary and Jeff’s overheated Melrose Park apartment. The first time I did that, she told me a little bit about her childhood in Arkansas, a place she’s only been back to three times since moving north more than 60 years ago.

On summer mornings, back then, Mary woke up slow. Before opening her eyes, she’d stretch her child limbs across the side of the bed recently vacated by her sister, Mary Helen. Across the room, Mary Helen might be up and at the stove, eating the biscuits their father left for them, made each morning when it was still dark. The kids knew the rule: they were to stay in the house and play with each other “till the dew dropped off the cotton and the train that run from Elaine to Helena came by and blows.” That was their signal: once the whistle sounded and the dew was dry, Mary, Mary Helen, and their brother, Charlie Jr., headed out to join their father, Charlie Sr., in the field to pick. It was the early 1940s in the Deep South, and, from what I understand, the family worked together for a sharecropper. Over the years, it’s possible the kids were joined by any of Mary’s other siblings, of which there were eventually 20 in total.

“[Charlie Sr.] was a great father,” she said to me one summer day in 2016. I was painting her toenails before a show. Her right ankle–broken in 1985 and never set right due to Mary’s phobia of hospitals–tends to swell, making her foot hard to reach. “He used to sing all the time. And he was funny, because every time it would start stormin’, he would put his boots on, overcoat and everything, and he would go out and sit on the porch. And when there was a high wind blowing, he’d be still out there, holdin’ onto the pole. . . . He would sit out on that porch and sing gospel.”

Following the 2019 release of Mary’s second album, Travelin’ Woman, more than 20 years after Appointment With the Blues, NPR wrote: “Lane remembers her earliest days performing in Arkansas, where she would sing for the workers in the cotton fields. ‘I used to go to the field and all the people were out there picking cotton and everything. I’d always be behind. I’d be back there just singing and everybody say, ‘Come and sing, Mary. Go on and sing.’ And I kept on doing it for years and years as I came up.”

Mary is a professional singer, a businesswoman. She knows what stories sell, what lines of her life people want to hear. She also knows that sometimes, it doesn’t matter what she says–people will hear what they want to regardless, taking what they find inspirational or appealing and leaving the rest.

Besides stories about her dad, Mary rarely shares specific details with me about what her life was like growing up sharecropping in the Arkansas Delta. Even questions I think are banal are met with a kind of rebuke. “What did it look like?” Mary said to me, incredulous, the first time I asked her to describe the house she grew up in. “It looked like a house. Sittin’ on the ground.” Later, when I ask her to describe the land she’s from and farmed: “You always asking what it look like, what it feel like. It was the country; wasn’t nothin’ there.”

Maybe she isn’t used to being asked how she feels, maybe she finds the questions boring, maybe the world taught her a long time ago to put her feelings somewhere deep inside of herself, where no one, especially not a nosy white writer, can reach. As a writer, it’s my responsibility to walk an uneven line between minding my business and asking questions that allow Mary to make herself a little more known, if she wants. For example: Cotton harvest in Arkansas continues through at least late fall. If Mary Lane was singing, or picking, in the field, how did she go to school?

The three times Mary’s been back to Arkansas: to bury her mother, Ada; to bury one of her brothers; and, in autumn of 2019, to sing at the King Biscuit Blues Festival in promotion of Travelin’ Woman. Mary is terrified of flying and was reluctant to go in the first place, so she, her manager Lynn Orman, and the rest of the No Static Blues Band rented a van and made the trip from Chicago in a day. When Charlie Sr. died years back, Mary–grief-stricken, sick, and broke–decided not to make the trip back for his funeral. “Up here,” Mary told me, “I never say yassir or nossir to no white person or nobody. See, when I was down there, you had to do that. It’s a big difference. It’s like I say: I don’t wanna go back down there.”

That’s what singing “for the workers in the cotton fields” means. There’s the version that offers Grit and Authenticity for a white audience, and then there’s the story of a child working so much in a cotton field in the Jim Crow south that she never did have the chance to finish elementary school. That’s a little harder to comfortably bear.

One night in 2017, I was in Chicago, at Buddy Guy’s club Legends, watching Mary sing, when Buddy himself showed up. He joined Mary onstage; this wasn’t long after his seventh Grammy, so more tourists were in on a Tuesday than usual. Within seconds, iPhones shot up. “No recordings!” shouted a bouncer. Mary was grinning so hard I worried the top of her head was going to fall off. Buddy put his arm around her and, after a brief, profanity-laden banter, the two began to sing, tossing verses back and forth as lightly as silk scarves. Buddy was tall and comfortably, perfectly dressed.

Halfway through, Buddy held up his hand and pointed to the tip jar. The band went quiet. Buddy turned to Mary. “Mary,” he said conversationally, “What does that look like to you?” Mary squinted into the jar, where a few bills floated, and then looked away as though she had just witnessed someone doing something rude and probably unsanitary. “It don’t look like shit to me,” she said, and shrugged. The crowd, pressed close to the stage now, giggled nervously.

“Well,” said Buddy, as he slowly opened his wallet and pulled out some green. “Ain’t that a motherfucking shame.” The crowd collectively looked at its hands. “People these days don’t have the decency”–and here, his voice grew louder–“to pay”–the bill dropped into the bucket–“a hardworking artist. But they’re happy to take.” With each emphasis, the crowd squirmed. Then, a rush: folks pressed forward, and money came out. Later, after the show, I asked Mary how she was doing. She sighed. “It just feels good,” she said, “to have some bills in my hands.”

After my second visit, in 2016, Mary called and asked if I’d be visiting her for Mother’s Day, though, she said, she’d “understand” if I was going to spend time with my own mom. I could do neither, seeing as I was a broke grad student in a different state than either woman, but our calls continued, and the visits when I could. One hot night, we watched movies in her bed in front of a fan as she dozed. One day, I ran across the street to buy her lotto tickets and helped her fill them out via a complicated system of numbers she keeps written out on cardboard scraps. “When you find somebody, I want you to find somebody with some money, ’cause you can starve by your goddamn self,” she said to me. It’s one of her favorite bantering lines to sing out from the stage, because it always brings in a laugh–and with that laugh, tips.

I watched her sell her food assistance card for cash. I bought her groceries. She hates most of the food I like, but I like all the food she does, so it worked out. She wouldn’t let me cook, but she would let me do the dishes. We mopped the floor. I held her hand while we walked down her apartment stairs. Her eyes aren’t great, so when her son Elvis sent her letters from prison, I read them to her. She dictated her replies to me, and I mailed them. She asked me about my mom, my dad, my brothers and my sister. She asked me to describe our yard. “I’d like to visit them sometime,” she said. Another time, looking up at me sideways as she set food on the table: “Do your parents know you have a Black friend?”

We talked about sex and love. I asked her about having her first child at 13. The father was 26, 27. “He was an asshole,” she started, then stopped. Sometimes, Mary told me never to have kids if I could help it. Other times, my phone rang and it was one of her daughters on the phone, introducing herself to me, Mary shouting in the background with pride.

Jeff has been with Mary since the early 90s. They met at a show where he was playing bass and she was looking fine. “I love that woman,” Jeff said to me. “We fight, we argue, but I have never hit her and I’d walk out before I ever would. That’s not what love is.” Besides “that woman,” I only ever heard Jeff call Mary by her first and last name both: “Mary Lane, ain’t you doing an interview?” “Mary Lane, ain’t these your earrings?” I asked him why, and he winked. “That’s what they do when you’re famous.”

Mary Lane rarely drinks, except for a single shot of whiskey sometimes, before a show if her throat is sore, but she gave me tallboys before I asked. Also beads, signs printed with prayers, statues of angels. Her favorite words are “motherfucker,” “money,” and “I don’t need that pressure.” She believes in God but doesn’t go to church. She still dreams about Ada, her mom, especially when it storms–and when it storms, even now, she lays shaking on her floor until it passes. She talks about what she calls her “nervous,” about getting so “jitterous” that she can’t sleep, can’t breathe. I asked her once if she’d ever been diagnosed with anxiety, depression, PTSD. “No,” she said.

It was probably after my second visit that we started ending our phone calls with “I love you,” though I don’t remember who said it first. It was around the same time she started asking to borrow money until she got paid after a show. The first time or two, she paid me back, insisted on it. After that, if I had it, I gave it; if I didn’t, I couldn’t. It didn’t feel good. Each time she asked, there was such pain and urgency in her voice that my heart jumped; each time I couldn’t pay, I felt guilty, and her disappointment dropped into me like a stone.

She talked a lot about her death, about how it was coming, soon, she just didn’t know when and that terrified her. Sometimes when she called me and asked to borrow money, she was crying. Sometimes she said I didn’t love her. Sometimes she said no one did, that the whole world had screwed her round, and proceeded into such a fiery litany of accusations against everyone she knows that I grew to dread her calls, feeling like I already had mother figures in my life I disappointed, like all I wanted to do was write about a woman I admire whose music I like. It’s too hard to witness her pain, sorrow, fear, and rage, or to know what I’m responsible for. Our boundaries are all tangled. She told me she hoped that, when this story finally got published, I could split the check with her. I didn’t think she was wrong, but I need money too. It was too hard to parse what I felt, so I started to shrink.

Our calls got fewer as the years passed, and our visits. She stopped calling me, though later she’d say I stopped calling her. When I did call, every few months, she yelled, “Oh my God, I thought you forgot all about me! You ain’t gone and got married or anything, did you?” and ended every call with how she might die before I see her again, but if that’s that, that’s that. One time, I couldn’t take it anymore. “For fuck’s sake, Mary,” I said, “stop threatening to die! I hate it!” There was silence, then her laugh, amber and low, started up. For a little bit, it felt like it used to.

In the fall of 2018, she told me about recording her new album, due out early the next year. She was happy but worried, and concerned that everyone else who was part of the album’s production was already making money on it and hiding it from her. (Later, I interviewed the team, and they showed me numbers that demonstrated losses in the record production.) Money from a GoFundMe for the album’s production went to costs associated with the production, not to Mary, and even though that had been the plan all along, she felt betrayed. “I’m still broke,” she said, “trying to make it day to day.” And then: “It’s been a long time since I heard from you. I was starting to think you’d forgot me.”

It would be a year and a half before we spoke again.

One day, during a rainy fall visit, I asked Mary where she got her ideas for her songs. Mary shrugged. “From my own mind,” she said. “Things that have happened.”

Mary’s first songs were recorded in Chicago in the early 60s. After that, there was a near 30-year gap. When I asked one Chicago blues historian why he thought Mary wasn’t more well-known, more successful, he pointed to this gap with a shrug in his voice. It wasn’t like she was out there recording music all the time, performing much, he told me. This was at odds with Mary’s own recollection of hustling and playing in the late 70s and early 80s, even with the time she took off to raise her eight children. When I pointed this out to the historian, he shrugged. Well, I never saw her, he said. She recorded with Morris and disappeared.

Morris Pejoe originally hailed from Louisiana, and brought some of that brassy Cajun sound with him: you can hear it on his recordings with Cobra Records, a short-lived but influential label run out of Chicago’s west side from 1956 to 1959, and Chess Records. Morris never featured with Chess, but is credited with guitar on a number of tracks to come out of its recording studio on South Michigan Avenue; he recorded more regularly with Checker, a Chess subsidiary. In the early 60s, Mary and Morris recorded two jump tunes together, “He Don’t Want My Loving No More” and “I Always Want You Near.” On the tracks, Mary’s voice shocks me. She sounds so young.

I didn’t hear about those tracks, or about Morris, until one afternoon when she mentioned his name in passing. Tell me about Morris, I said. “He was jealous, Morris, he was so jealous, girl, I couldn’t talk to nobody, not even women.” For the next few minutes, I listened in silence as she spoke.

“He used to jump on me all the time, he the one who used to keep my face all swolled up, black-eyed and everything. I couldn’t go to the club; if I go to the club and go to the bathroom, he be sending somebody to the door, knocking on the door, telling me to come out, and anybody who say anything to me, when he come down off the stage? He be ready to fight. And the kids? He had the kids so afraid and everything, ’cause when we go out and when we come to the house and knock on the door at night, they all start running to the closet, runnin’ up under the bed and hidin’, cause they knew we were gonna be fightin’ when we come home.

“One night, I got tired of him jumpin’ on me, you know. He had me really afraid of him: ‘If you leave me, I’m gon’ kill ya, if I catch you with–‘ He wasn’t gonna catch me doing nothin’ ’cause I know how he was! And then he lost two jobs, he was so jealous. He would go to work, come back to the house, ease the key in the door and everything–this is the God’s truth, I wouldn’t lie to ya–he’d come on in the house, and then he’d keep on through to the back door, talkin’ about somebody run through, run out the door, somethin’ like that? Girl, I went through treacherous, I went through hell, for a long time.

“One night he jumped on me, had me up in the little closet, in the pantry, and he was beatin’ me. I had a big old long kitchen fork, you know, one of these forks you turn the chicken over with, and I grabbed that fork and I stuck it in him like that [motions to her abdomen] and blood shot out and everything, and then he grabbed his side and run, and fell on the bed, and I just took that fork and stuck it in his ass.”

Their relationship had lasted eight years and brought about three children, but after that, it was over, no matter how much Morris cried. He never hit her again.

Mary writes her own lyrics, or rather, she sings them out until she’s got them down and until Jeff has found the right tune to go with them, because her cataracts make it hard for her to read and write. One of my favorite songs of hers is “Candy Yams.” On Appointment With the Blues, it’s about four minutes, but live, Mary lets it linger for longer. It’s a song, to my ears, that’s about oral sex:

I’ve got brown candy yams to slap across his face

They tell me when you feed ’em like that, girl

You don’t have to worry about him going no place

But also, for one line at least, it’s about violence:

Shot my man five times to make sure he was dead

But when I raised my leg, that man, he raised his head

Mary’s never asked me why we stopped talking. When I called her in May 2020 and told her it was me, there was a beat, and then she said my name.

Mary and Jeff haven’t worked since March. Coronavirus has canceled all their gigs in the city, and with them, all of Mary’s album promotion. Touring is key to promotion, and thus to sales, and because she’s so afraid of travel, it would’ve been difficult to make money even without the pandemic sweeping clubs and bars shut, some for good. But still, what money could’ve been made is gone.

In the last year, Mary’s been on local television, been nominated by the Blues Foundation for the Koko Taylor Award, given to a “Traditional Blues Female Artist,” and been inducted into the Chicago Blues Hall of Fame. “A white girl won [the Koko Taylor Award] over me,” she said. “They don’t want an older person. They want a young person, somebody they can put in and make a lot of money on. They don’t think we been out here putting the blues how they supposed to be.” But she doesn’t care, she tells me, about awards. This spring I asked her what she needs to be OK. “I need some money, I need some food, and I need a peace of mind,” Mary said, “and I don’t have it.”

Before COVID-19, Mary’s manager had been constantly promoting her, setting her up for interviews. Travelin’ Woman has gotten a few good reviews in blues mags. Mary’s profile is arguably higher than it ever has been, but she’s poorer. “I done gave interviews. I don’t understand why they be, you know, telling the inside of your life, give them interviews, and when you go to them for somethin’, they can’t even reach out and help you. I don’t understand that one,” she said.

Mary believes she should get paid for interviews, for every time she tells the inside of her life, and the more I think about it, the more I think she might be right. Praise and appreciation don’t pay the rent. Her job, all her life, has been to craft her story in such a way that other people want to hear it, on repeat, when they’re dancing and drinking and holding someone close, or when they’re sitting on their porch wondering where to go from here. By detailing the blues of her life, Mary’s lyrics and voice guide other people safely through their own swampy feelings. In her company, they don’t have to move through their pain alone. Why should she?

“You know how I been doing all these interviews, dealing with the peoples, that wasn’t right. If I live to see November, I’ll be 85 years old, and I ain’t got nothing to show for it. Nothing [but just] a name out here for doing music,” Mary said. “But I’m still broke.” Once again, she had brought up the possibility of her death, but this time it wasn’t funny or aggravating. She’s right: she doesn’t have forever left, and should be able to spend that time, after working so hard all her life, sleeping at night in a good bed. Before we hung up, she asked me if I was in a spot where I could give her some money. I’m not, but I e-mailed some friends who were and asked her if I could apply to some COVID relief grants on her behalf. She said yes.

The blues are not linear; they circle around the listener like smoke or spiral stairs, returning again to the same rounded corner, or what feels like the same. For that, they can sound repetitive, deceptively simple. But it’s not the same stair; you and your ghosts are one floor up. It’s not the same line; there’s a stronger chord, an “I said” where there wasn’t one before, which acts as a streak of lightning in the same dark and illuminates, briefly, the world around you and your place in it.

After all, Mary and I have been here before. This isn’t the first time a year has passed where she and I didn’t talk. It happened the year after I first saw her at Rosa’s, tried to pay her for her CD, failed, moved to Iowa. Then one day, her Facebook page, which I’d messaged before with no luck, flicked back on. A post sharing information about another blues singer’s death referenced Mary and her band; the band shared information about a show they were playing at Buddy Guy’s Legends; and so I decided to be there too. I took a Megabus that later caught on fire to watch Mary sing to a room two-thirds empty and drowning in a dark blue light. When I walked to the bathroom, I passed more than a hundred framed photos of blues artists, Chicagoan and otherwise, spanning a time line 90 years long. All these artists were men. Everyone in Mary’s band was a man. Everyone in Mary’s band wore a T-shirt with her name on it, and soon, though I didn’t know it, I’d be wearing one too. Mary was also wearing a T-shirt with her name on it, along with glittering, ruby-red pumps on her feet that would make it impossible for her to stand in the morning. But that night, she turned carefully and smiled as I approached her on her break.

“Miss Mary Lane,” I said, a letter and a twenty clutched in my right hand. “My name is Katie, and I’ve been looking for you. I owe you.” v

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Joe Segal, my cantankerous friend and inadvertent mentor, died last week on Monday, August 10. He was a champion of creative music for more than 70 years. His once peripatetic Jazz Showcase–firmly settled at Dearborn Station since 2008–drew jazz fans from around the world like moths to a flame, and in 2015 he became only the second nightclub owner to be named an NEA Jazz Master. He was 94; even in a wheelchair, having been in ill health for the past several years, he still showed up at the club once in a while. He was dealt a good hand when it came to long life.

I knew him for a little more than half of those 94 years, and a little better than anyone whose interactions with him stopped at the desk where he took admission. I have more good stories than I can squeeze in here, but rest assured, they’re available on request.

In 1972, the first summer I spent in Chicago after my junior year at Northwestern, I showed up at a joint called the Brown Shoe, on Wells Street in Old Town, where Joe was temporarily ensconced. I introduced myself as a college disc jockey from WNUR and told him that each week I played the artists appearing at his shows, and that for this reason he should let me in for free. (At the time I had no idea of Joe’s–well, let’s call it his “reputation for thrift.”) Either he really did arch an eyebrow, or else that’s just the image I’ve constructed in my memory, but for reasons I still don’t understand–his amusement at youthful chutzpah, perhaps?–he waved me in. And that summer, one or two or sometimes even three times each week, I got to see musicians I had only read about in reviews or on the backs of LPs. Those three months constituted a priceless course in contemporary jazz history, which would lead me to graduate studies at the College of Joe for the next half century.

Many of the postings that have followed Joe’s passing start out with a similar story: a longtime fan or recent convert recalls the many great shows they attended at the various locales of Segal’s Jazz Showcase–in the North Park Hotel, or below the old Happy Medium on Rush Street, or in the lobby lounge at the Blackstone Hotel (the one with the Wedgwood decor). Some folks even reach all the way back to some of the other 50-odd venues (by Joe’s estimate) where he presented jazz in his earlier years. For a while he even had two full-time clubs running at once, when he opened Joe’s Be-Bop Cafe & Jazz Emporium on Navy Pier, focusing on Chicago musicians but serving New Orleans-style food in a nod to jazz’s birthplace. This gave Joe the opportunity to treat his Jazz Showcase headliners to dinner between their afternoon and evening shows.

His impact on the Chicago entertainment scene is nearly incalculable. Even when such high-end jazz clubs as the London House and Mr. Kelly’s ruled the city’s nightclub scene–booking the likes of Basie and Ellington, Oscar Peterson and Sarah Vaughan–Joe made sure to bring in equally important artists less well-known to the general public: Dexter Gordon, Claudio Roditi, Eddie Harris, the Thad Jones-Mel Lewis Orchestra (direct from their famous Monday-night blasts at New York’s Village Vanguard). These were the sort of artists still striving each night, the true inheritors of the jazz flame: the musicians referred to over and over by the fans paying homage to Joe online. They returned to play the Showcase regularly, and during the lean years for jazz, the Showcase ensured the steady appearance of such major stars in what coastal booking agents wrote off as “flyover country.” Chicago didn’t lack for homegrown talent, but Joe kept us supplied with the music’s larger history.

Some Facebookers took the opportunity to release their pent-up complaints about the artists he booked, and especially the artists he refused to book, or about the times he was rude to them at the door, or about his lengthy preshow announcements, during which he would reel off the schedule for the next three to six months mixed with highly opinionated comments on music, politics, and the Cubs. Joe had grown up listening to “Symphony Sid” Torin–a 1940s radio host who used the editorial “we” when talking about himself on the air–and he also referred to himself in the plural, a quirk that I found cooler even as it grew increasingly outdated.

He could be gruffly dismissive, and dour even in a good mood: I soon realized that the music (and to a lesser extent baseball) served as his haven as well as his raison d’etre. He could be delightfully silly, trading on his genuinely sharp wit, a well-earned cynicism, and the hipster humor of the 1950s, laced with puns and wordplay and obscure references worth the effort to look up. He was as stubborn as the day is long about things that changed but not for the better. When he and I both traveled on a tour of Italian jazz festivals in the late 90s, I learned that he enjoyed New York Times crossword puzzles; I think he even did them in ink. But when the answers began to feature such previously taboo items as proper names and abbreviations, he threatened to ditch them entirely.

I eventually came to think of Joe as a sort of distant uncle, maybe two or three times removed, whom I greatly respected, genuinely liked, and fully accepted as complicated and controversial. He often treated the club like his living room, hiring artists he liked (personally) and idolized (musically), even if their name value had faded–and then railed at the fact that the crowds for his favorites were small. It didn’t make a lot of business sense, but more than once I caught myself admiring the quixotic nature of his pursuit.

As an unrepentant bebopper, having heard the siren call of Charlie Parker and Dizzy Gillespie while still in his 20s, he loudly and often proclaimed bop “the music of the future,” even into this century. He honed a jazz-world notoriety for heaping contempt on many subsequent jazz genres, and especially pop music from the Beatles on, but not without humor: he billed his Sunday matinees, which welcomed those under 18, as his “Save the Children” campaign, inviting parents to bring their kids to “hear the music of Milt Jackson rather than Michael Jackson.” When he eventually did bring in some postfusion guitarist or contemporary keyboardist who filled the room with younger listeners, he might castigate his new audience for not having come to see the previous week’s 72-year-old headliner (of whom they’d never heard). He complained about overamplification, and wondered why every band couldn’t play acoustically at his club–as did the Phil Woods Quintet, which had made it their trademark to perform without microphones. When I suggested that few other jazz groups did this regularly, and thus could hardly be expected to instantly find the onstage balance it required, Joe shut down the conversation with a flick of the wrist. He knew how it ought to sound, and that was that.

As one longtime Chicago trumpeter and Segal pal said to me this week, with a hearty guffaw: “Well, Joe was Joe! What else can you say?”

We had our fights. In the early years of the Chicago Jazz Festival–for which Joe initially served as stage manager–he argued that free music in the park was decimating his business (though he reserved his greatest displeasure for the “Waste of Chicago,” as he called the annual summer food fight in Grant Park). But to his credit, he then adapted to this immovable object by turning his club into a go-to destination for postfest jam sessions: he actively courted festival performers to participate, and for years he packed the Jazz Showcase that entire week. Once, after I’d written a somewhat negative Sun-Times review about that week’s headliner, Joe upbraided me, saying I should’ve simply written about something else (not my call, not on an overnight deadline) and then “reminded” me that if he went out of business, I’d have nothing to write about. But by then I had already started to think of him as family, in a way, which made it a lot easier to take in stride.

And as time wore on, it dawned on me that Joe’s perseverance had worn down plenty of others as well. Artists whom he had rejected or disrespected in the past came to appreciate what he had built and maintained over the years, and welcomed the chance to eventually play at the storied Jazz Showcase. In the 1990s, decades after Gary Burton had formed one of the first jazz-rock fusion bands–helping launch a genre that Joe openly and frequently derided–the vibraphonist made his first appearance at the club. Gary is one of my oldest friends in music, so I felt comfortable expressing my surprise that he would come to an agreement with Joe. But Gary explained: I have a lot of respect for guys like Joe (or words to that effect). These are the guys who have kept things going when times were tough. He’s one of the good guys.

Joe sometimes made that hard to remember, but he really was. In fact, the very qualities that made some people bristle were the ones that allowed him to build and maintain the Jazz Showcase nameplate as an unquestioned Chicago institution–not only among musicians and listeners, but also among the many other owners of jazz and blues and rock clubs who considered him a pioneer and a survivor.

So as he tended to his jazz shrine–with the increasingly valuable help of his son Wayne, who will now keep the Jazz Showcase going–did his single-minded devotion spill into a brusque reply to a customer looking for small talk? Did his hardheaded intransigence about whom to book translate into a rock-solid commitment that allowed him to bounce back, again and again, when the space he’d been renting closed him down? Of course; two sides of the same coin. In the words of Tom Waits (the sort of jazz-adjacent artist Joe would probably never have booked), “If I exorcise my devils / Well my angels may leave too.”

Joe was Joe. v

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WEST HOMESTEAD, Pa — The doors to the AMC Waterfront 22 were locked. They had been for five months, along with most indoor theaters in the U.S. because of COVID-19. But in 20 minutes that was about to change and four people in masks were already gathered outside the theater eight miles southeast of Pittsburgh in eager anticipation.

They were there to see the Vin Diesel movie “Bloodshot” for 15 cents a ticket. After so many months, 20 extra minutes didn’t seem like all that long to wait.

The lights started slowing coming back on in theaters nationwide Thursday with AMC Theaters, the country’s largest chain, leading the charge.

AMC opened some 113 locations across the U.S., including several in the Chicago area, advertising retro pricing and retro screenings to entice audiences back to the movies. Regal, the second largest exhibitor, is following suit Friday.

It’s been a long-time coming for the beleaguered businesses, which had several false starts due to coronavirus spikes.

When the doors at the West Homestead theater finally opened, masked employees stood in the lobby to greet patrons and help them navigate the new safety protocols inside, where masks are required (except when eating and drinking concessions) and the sick are asked to stay home. Pretty soon, the number of customers had doubled and in time there was a steady stream of people of all ages coming through the doors ready to experience the big screen again.

“My son and I counted the days until it reopened. We love coming to the movies. That’s why we’re here,” said Betty Gallagher. “And today’s 15 cents, so that was another incentive.”

The “1920s pricing” was a main draw for most of those early customers. One 58-year-old man, Jerome Heslin, said he hadn’t been to a theater in over 40 years, but the price got him back.

“It’s a nice thing to do,” Heslin said.

After opening day, the back-catalog films from “Black Panther” to “Grease” will cost $5 a ticket.

For others, it was something to do with their children. Leslie Lopez came out with her 5-year-old daughter to see the live-action “Beauty and the Beast,” as did Lindsey Adams with her 3-year-old, bedecked in Belle’s golden ball gown.

Neither were concerned about COVID-19.

“We have our masks on and our hand sanitizer and we’re taking our precautions,” Adams said. “We’re sure the theater has done everything they could.”

There was a bit of a learning curve for some patrons when it came to the new safety and social distancing protocols. Some wandered in with masks down by their chins (an employee quickly approached them to ask that they cover their faces). Others were surprised that concessions were cash only.

But others had already mastered the art of ordering concessions online, like Eileen Nucci and her husband, who simply told the employees their names and were handed their food and cups in a paper shopping bag.

“It was easy,” Nucci said. “We’re just happy to be here.”

Even without a new movie in the bunch, within 30 minutes, 17 of the 20 showtimes had sold out and all that remained were a few tickets for “The Goonies,” “Jumanji: The Next Level” and the Christian film “I Still Believe.” Tickets for “The Empire Strikes Back” and “Back to the Future” had already been gone for days.

A sellout, however, isn’t exactly what it used to be. AMC is only selling to 30% capacity, which in this location meant about 25 people per screen. Each film only gets two screenings a day to give employees ample time to clean. And showtimes are also being staggered to help prevent too many people from congregating in the lobby.

New movies are soon to follow, though, which the theaters are counting on for survival. Disney’s much-delayed “New Mutants” will debut on Aug. 27 and Christopher Nolan’s “Tenet” will follow soon after, with some screenings as early as Aug. 31.

At least one patron was a little reluctant to come back.

“I wasn’t sure if I wanted to, but then I saw they were playing ‘The Empire Strikes Back,’ one of my all-time favorites, and I’m like, ‘I’ll see how bad it is with the mask. It’s only a couple of hours,’ ” said Jason Parks.

It’d been a few years since he’d seen the “Star Wars” film on the big screen. He even wore his Luke and Vader lightsaber fight T-shirt for the occasion.

But he’s not entirely sure yet if he’ll be rushing to the theater again soon.

“It all depends on how I feel after today,” Parks said. “If this is a little too much, maybe not, but as of right now it’s not too bad.”

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It’s that time of year again Chicago baseball fans. The Crosstown Classic is back! This weekend, the Chicago Cubs and White Sox play the first three games of their six scheduled matchups this year, and it’s sure to be an exciting series since the rivalry games make up 10% of each team’s season. For the games scheduled this week, both teams face off at Wrigley Field. But once the end of September rolls around, the Cubs and the Sox play again at Guaranteed Rate Field. On top of all that, those September games are the last ones on each teams’ schedule. Talk about playoff importance.

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Greatest hits of the 2000s.

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A Brief Crosstown Classic History

Throughout the years of Major League Baseball history, the Cubs and Sox have faced off a total of 128 times. However, despite all those games, it’s still a close series. And surprisingly enough, the White Sox have the upper hand. In their historic rivalry the White Sox just barely edge out the Cubs with a record of 66-62. All but six of those games were played in the regular season. In fact, the two ball clubs only played against each other one time in the postseason. That happened way back in 1906, during the MLB World Series that year. The White Sox would go on to win that series in a surprising 4-2 upset. This turned out to be the Sox first World Series championship in team history. The Cubs shortly followed by winning their first just one year later. It would take another 100 years for both teams to make the playoffs in the same season.

Despite having the upper hand on the rivalry, the White Sox haven’t fared too well in recent years. The Cubs have held the Crosstown Cup since 2017, something that the White Sox will hope to regain this season. That all starts with this weekend.

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The Battle For The 2020 Crosstown Cup

This year’s Crosstown Classic has plenty of opportunities to be one of the best ones yet. On one hand, you have the Chicago Cubs. This team is built to win now and has been for quite some time. On top of that, if they can win five of their six games against the Sox this year, then they’ll gain the lead in the rivalry. On the other hand, there’s the Chicago White Sox. This southside squad has shown us that last season was no joke. Plus, after all of the moves they made in the offseason, they’re definitely looking to take it to the next level. If they can manage to walk away with four wins against the Cubs they’ll manage to steal the Crosstown Cup back for the first time since 2016. If the White Sox manage to do that, there definitely won’t be any question as to who Chicago’s best ballclub is.

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The Crosstown Classic matchup is set for six games between Chicago Cubs and White Sox this year. The first set of games will be played at Wrigley Field from August 21-23. The next three games occur at the end of the season at Guaranteed Rate Field from September 25-27.

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Just when it looked as though the Kentucky Derby was doomed to get caught on the inside rail in its race towards a potential run date, it made a late move coming around the final turn. Like much of the sporting calendar, the iconic race has a new run date at the same home. 

September 5th, and you and a few of your friends can get to the gates at one of Green Curtain Events’ Kentucky Derby Watch Parties around some of Chicago’s most vibrant neighborhoods. So while the guys can’t get dressed to the nines in pastel suits and the women can’t don giant floppy hats on site at Churchill Downs in 2020, there is still an option to get a bit toasty and place your bet on the best watch party around your neighborhood. 

We’ve talked before about the innovative watch parties and socially distanced social events that Green Curtain Events have put on across the city, however, their Derby events is the odds-on favorite to take the green flag come race day. 

In total, 10 of your favorite bars around the city will host exclusive events in coordination with Green Curtain. This incredible one-off event is your one-stop-shop for the perfect Derby atmosphere outside of Churchill Downs. You can expect the classiest mixing and watch party socializing the day has to offer in a safe and comfortable environment. 

This feels like a no-brainer for the first Saturday in September, especially when you consider the lengths the Green Curtain Events is taking to ensure this is a safe environment for you and your friends. That, plus, their unique ability to curate an exclusive feel on race day at not one, but 10, different venues truly makes for a memorable (or not memorable depending on your mint julep consumption) 2020 Kentucky Derby watch party.

The 10 venues around the city include the following: Bandit, Bounce, Broken Barrel Bar, Clutch, Houndstooth, HVAC, Old Ground’s Social, Public House, Whiskey Business, and The Whale. 

Information on what your ticket includes and links to purchase tickets to your specific bar can be found below. Note: Each bar comes with a different, custom event package and price point. 

“Your health & safety is our priority here at Green Curtain Events. We are monitoring the impacts of the COVID-19 (Coronavirus) pandemic very closely based on the rules and recommendations set forth by the CDC, WHO, and local municipalities in which we operate.”

“Green Curtain Events will remain in compliance and follow the City of Chicago guidelines and checklists for Meetings and Social Events (At all times). All Venues we are partnered with will follow the City of Chicago guidelines and checklists for Restaurants and Bars (At all times). We ask our Patrons to do their part and follow CDC and local government guidelines for Social Gatherings.”

Ticketed Reservations Include:

Table Package for 4:   $245
-Entry, Seating, and Reserved Service for 3 hrs
-Featured Kentucky Derby Watch Action
-One Bucket of White Claw Hard Seltzer
-One Bottle Premium Spirit with Mixtures
-Appetizer Platter for the Table 

Table Package for 6:   $345
-Entry, Seating, and Reserved Service for 3 hrs
-Featured Kentucky Derby Watch Action
-Two Buckets of White Claw Hard Seltzer
-One Bottle Premium Spirit with Mixtures
-Appetizer Platter for the Table

• 324 W Chicago Ave, Chicago, IL 60654
• Ticketed Reservations Include:
• Table Package for 4:  $275
• -Entry, Seating, and Reserved Service for 3 hrs
• -Featured Kentucky Derby Watch Action
• -One Bucket of White Claw Hard Seltzer-One Bottle Premium Spirit with Mixtures-Two Appetizers for the Table Table Package for 6:  $475

  -Entry, Seating, and Reserved Service for 3 hrs

  -Featured Kentucky Derby Watch Action

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  -Two Buckets of White Claw Hard Seltzer

  -One Bottle Premium Champagne with Mimosa Kit

  -One Bottle Premium Spirit with Mixtures

  -Three Appetizers for the Table

   

  Rooftop Table Package for 4:  $300

  -Entry, Seating, and Reserved Service for 3 hrs

  -Featured Kentucky Derby Watch Action

  -One Bucket of White Claw Hard Seltzer

  -One Bottle Premium Spirit with Mixtures

  -Two Appetizers for the Table

   

  Rooftop Table Package for 6:  $500

  -Entry, Seating, and Reserved Service for 3 hrs

  -Featured Kentucky Derby Watch Action

  -Two Buckets of White Claw Hard Seltzer

  -One Bottle Premium Champagne with Mimosa Kit

  -One Bottle Premium Spirit with Mixtures

  -Three Appetizers for the Table

Ticketed Reservations Include:

Bar Seating Reservation for 2:  $25

• -Entry, Seating, and Reserved Bar Service for 3 hrs
• -Featured Kentucky Derby Watch Action
• -One Welcome White Claw Hard Seltzer Per Person

Table Reservation for 4:  $50

• -Entry, Seating, and Reserved Service for 3 hrs
• -Featured Kentucky Derby Watch Action
• -One Welcome White Claw Hard Seltzer Per Person

Table Reservation for 6:  $65

• -Entry, Seating, and Reserved Service for 3 hrs
• -Featured Kentucky Derby Watch Action
• -One Welcome White Claw Hard Seltzer Per Person

Indoor Table Package for 4:  $225

• -Entry, Seating, and Reserved Service for 3 hrs
• -Featured Kentucky Derby Watch Action
• -One Welcome White Claw Hard Seltzer Per Person
• -Inclusive House Wells, Mint Juleps, and Domestic Drafts from 3 to 6pm
• -One Southern Inspired Appetizer Sampler Featuring Fried Chicken, Smoked Ribs, and More

Indoor Table Package for 6:  $325

• -Entry, Seating, and Reserved Service for 3 hrs
• -Featured Kentucky Derby Watch Action
• -One Welcome White Claw Hard Seltzer Per Person
• -Inclusive House Wells, Mint Juleps, and Domestic Drafts 3 to 6pm
• -One Southern Inspired Appetizer Sampler Featuring Fried Chicken, Smoked Ribs, and More

Patio Table Package for 4:  $250

• -Entry, Seating, and Reserved Service for 3 hrs
• -Featured Kentucky Derby Watch Action
• -One Welcome White Claw Hard Seltzer Per Person
• -Inclusive House Wells, Mint Juleps, and Domestic Drafts
• -One Southern Inspired Appetizer Sampler Featuring Fried Chicken, Smoked Ribs, and More

Patio Table Package for 6:  $370

• -Entry, Seating, and Reserved Service for 3 hrs
• -Featured Kentucky Derby Watch Action
• -One Welcome White Claw Hard Seltzer Per Person
• -Inclusive House Wells, Mint Juleps, and Domestic Drafts
• -One Southern Inspired Appetizer Sampler Featuring Fried Chicken, Smoked Ribs, and More

Ticketed Reservations Include:

Table Package for 3:  $250

• -Entry, Seating, and Reserved Service for 3 hrs
• -Featured Kentucky Derby Watch Action
• -One Bucket of White Claw Hard Seltzer
• -One Bottle Premium Champagne with Mimosa Kit
• -Two Appetizers for the Table

Table Package for 4:  $350

• -Entry, Seating, and Reserved Service for 3 hrs
• -Featured Kentucky Derby Watch Action
• -One Bucket of White Claw Hard Seltzer
• -One Bottle Premium Spirit with Mixtures
• -Two Appetizers for the Table 

Table Package for 6 (Hi-Tops):  $550

• -Entry, Seating, and Reserved Service for 3 hrs
• -Featured Kentucky Derby Watch Action
• -Two Buckets of White Claw Hard Seltzer
• -One Bottle Premium Champagne with Mimosa Kit
• -One Bottle Premium Spirit with Mixtures
• -Three Appetizers for the Table

Table Package for 6 (Booth):  $600

• -Entry, Seating, and Reserved Service for 3 hrs
• -Featured Kentucky Derby Watch Action
• -Two Buckets of White Claw Hard Seltzer
• -One Bottle Premium Champagne with Mimosa Kit
• -One Bottle Premium Spirit with Mixtures
• -Three Appetizers for the Table 

Table Package for 6 – Second Floor:  $450

• -Entry, Seating, and Reserved Service for 3 hrs
• -Featured Kentucky Derby Watch Action
• -Two Buckets of White Claw Hard Seltzer
• -One Bottle Premium Spirit with Mixtures
• -Three Appetizers for the Table

Ticketed Reservations Include:

Bar Seating Reservation for 2:  $25

• -Entry, Seating, and Reserved Bar Service for 3 hrs
• -Featured Kentucky Derby Watch Action
• -One Welcome White Claw Hard Seltzer Per Person

Table Reservation for 4:  $50

• -Entry, Seating, and Reserved Service for 3 hrs
• -Featured Kentucky Derby Watch Action
• -One Welcome White Claw Hard Seltzer Per Person

Table Reservation for 6:  $65

• -Entry, Seating, and Reserved Service for 3 hrs
• -Featured Kentucky Derby Watch Action
• -One Welcome White Claw Hard Seltzer Per Person 

Bar Seating Reservation for 2:  $25

• -Entry, Seating, and Reserved Bar Service for 3 hrs
• -Featured Kentucky Derby Watch Action
• -One Welcome White Claw Hard Seltzer Per Person

Table Reservation for 4:  $50

• -Entry, Seating, and Reserved Service for 3 hrs
• -Featured Kentucky Derby Watch Action
• -One Welcome White Claw Hard Seltzer Per Person

Table Reservation for 6:  $65

• -Entry, Seating, and Reserved Service for 3 hrs
• -Featured Kentucky Derby Watch Action
• -One Welcome White Claw Hard Seltzer Per Person

Table Package for 4:  $225

• -Entry, Seating, and Reserved Service for 3 hrs
• -Featured Kentucky Derby Watch Action
• -One Welcome White Claw Hard Seltzer Per Person
• -Inclusive House Wells and Domestic Drafts from 3 to 6pm
• -One Appetizer for the Table

Table Package for 6:  $325

• -Entry, Seating, and Reserved Service for 3 hrs
• -Featured Kentucky Derby Watch Action
• -One Welcome White Claw Hard Seltzer Per Person
• -Inclusive House Wells and Domestic Drafts from 3 to 6pm
• -One Appetizer for the Table

950 W Wrightwood Ave, Chicago, IL 60614

Ticketed Reservations Include:

Bar Seating Reservation for 2:  $25

• -Entry, Seating, and Reserved Bar Service for 3 hrs
• -Featured Kentucky Derby Watch Action
• -One Welcome White Claw Hard Seltzer Per Person

Table Reservation for 4:  $50

• -Entry, Seating, and Reserved Service for 3 hrs
• -Featured Kentucky Derby Watch Action
• -One Welcome White Claw Hard Seltzer Per Person

Table Reservation for 6:  $65

• -Entry, Seating, and Reserved Service for 3 hrs
• -Featured Kentucky Derby Watch Action
• -One Welcome White Claw Hard Seltzer Per Person

Table Package for 4:  $225

• -Entry, Seating, and Reserved Service for 3 hrs
• -Featured Kentucky Derby Watch Action
• -One Welcome White Claw Hard Seltzer Per Person
• -Inclusive House Wells and Domestic Drafts from 3 to 6pm
• -One Appetizer for the Table

Table Package for 6:  $325

• -Entry, Seating, and Reserved Service for 3 hrs
• -Featured Kentucky Derby Watch Action
• -One Welcome White Claw Hard Seltzer Per Person
• -Inclusive House Wells and Domestic Drafts from 3 to 6pm
• -One Appetizer for the Table

400 N State St, Chicago, IL 60654

Ticketed Reservations Include:

Table Reservation for 2:   $25
-Entry, Seating, and Reserved Service for 3 hrs
-Featured Kentucky Derby Watch Action
-One Welcome White Claw Hard Seltzer Per Person

Table Reservation for 4:   $50
-Entry, Seating, and Reserved Service for 3 hrs
-Featured Kentucky Derby Watch Action
-One Welcome White Claw Hard Seltzer Per Person

Table Reservation for 6:   $75
-Entry, Seating, and Reserved Service for 3 hrs
-Featured Kentucky Derby Watch Action
-One Welcome White Claw Hard Seltzer Per Person

Table Package for 4:   $225
-Entry, Seating, and Reserved Service for 3 hrs
-Featured Kentucky Derby Watch Action
-One Bucket of White Claw Hard Seltzer
-One Bottle Premium Spirit with Mixtures
-Appetizer Platter for the Table 

Table Package for 6:   $325
-Entry, Seating, and Reserved Service for 3 hrs
-Featured Kentucky Derby Watch Action
-Two Buckets of White Claw Hard Seltzer
-One Bottle Premium Spirit with Mixtures
-Appetizer Platter for the Table

1367 N Milwaukee Ave, Chicago, IL 60622

Ticketed Reservations Include:

Bar Seating Package for 2:  $80

• -Entry, Seating, and Reserved Bar Service for 3 hrs
• -Featured Kentucky Derby Watch Action
• -One Welcome White Claw Hard Seltzer Per Person
• -One Bottle Premium (Lamarca) Champagne with Mimosa Kit
• -Two Appetizers

First Floor Table Package for 4:  $200

• -Entry, Seating, and Reserved Service for 3 hrs
• -Featured Kentucky Derby Watch Action
• -One Bucket of White Claw Hard Seltzer
• -One Bottle Call Spirit with Mixtures
• -Two Appetizers for the Table

First Floor Table Package for 6:  $300

• -Entry, Seating, and Reserved Service for 3 hrs
• -Featured Kentucky Derby Watch Action
• -Two Buckets of White Claw Hard Seltzer
• -One Bottle Premium (Lamarca) Champagne with Mimosa Kit
• -One Bottle Call Spirit with Mixtures
• -Two Appetizers for the Table

Second Floor Table Package for 4:  $300

• -Entry, Seating, and Reserved Service for 3 hrs
• -Featured Kentucky Derby Watch Action
• -One Bucket of White Claw Hard Seltzer
• -One Bottle Call Spirit with Mixtures
• -Two Appetizers for the Table

Second Floor Cabana Package for 6:  $500

• -Entry, Seating, and Reserved Service for 3 hrs
• -Featured Kentucky Derby Watch Action
• -Two Buckets of White Claw Hard Seltzer
• -One Bottle Premium (Lamarca) with Mimosa Kit
• -One Bottle Call Spirit with Mixtures
• -Three Appetizers for the Table

Beach House Package for 6:  $550

• -Entry, Seating, and Reserved Service for 3 hrs
• -Featured Kentucky Derby Watch Action
• -Two Buckets of White Claw Hard Seltzer
• -One Bottle Premium (Lamarca) with Mimosa Kit
• -One Bottle Call Spirit with Mixtures
• -Three Appetizers for the Table

2427 N Milwaukee Ave, Chicago, IL 60647

Ticketed Reservations Include:

Table Reservation for 4:  $50 

• -Entry, Seating, and Reserved Service for 3 hrs
• -Featured Kentucky Derby Watch Action
• -One Welcome White Claw Hard Seltzer Per Person

Table Reservation for 6:  $60 

• -Entry, Seating, and Reserved Service for 3 hrs
• -Featured Kentucky Derby Watch Action
• -One Welcome White Claw Hard Seltzer Per Person

At UrbanMatter, U Matter. And we think this matters.

Tell us what you think matters in your neighborhood and what we should write about next in the comments below!

Featured Image Credit: Photo Credit: Clutch Bar Chicago 

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