What the Hideout means to me now

Last Wednesday, multidisciplinary artist Mykele Deville went public in a detailed Instagram post about his traumatic experiences at the Hideout, where he worked as programming director from summer 2021 till March 2022. The next day, the Hideout issued an apologetic response. I find the venue’s response inadequate, but I encourage you to read both posts. I’ve developed some insight on the matter myself, though I’ve had no good way to share it—from April till August, when Deville decided that he’d rather not tell his story through the media, I attempted to report on his work for (and firing from) the Hideout.

I’ve known Deville for years. He’s been part of several overlapping Chicago arts scenes, and he’s been appearing in the pages of the Reader since 2016, when Lee V. Gaines wrote a lovely profile. I’ve had the pleasure of seeing Deville perform in several local venues; he’s one of the most magnetic rappers in the city, and his effusive performances leave me energized no matter how late it is. He has that effect on people in general, I’ve found. He’s been generous in his support of other Chicago artists too, notably through the Dojo, a defunct Pilsen DIY space he cofounded in the mid-2010s. Deville used his Dojo experience and the sterling reputation the venue acquired to apply for the job of programming director at the Hideout.

Deville shared the news about his hiring with the Reader’s Gossip Wolf column in June 2021. He also told me about his firing this past spring. I soon set out to report on what had happened to him at the Hideout, and on the wider impact and implications of his firing. 

When he’d been hired, Deville told me he wanted to “make sure to give space to people that you’ve never heard of.” In his short time at the Hideout, he brought in musicians, comedians, and visual artists who’d never been onstage there—some of whom had never even walked through its doors before. Deville’s bad experiences at the Hideout (and especially the way his tenure ended) will have ripple effects on the artists he booked and the fans they attracted, many of whom may also have been new to the venue.

I’m reminded of Tonia Hill’s January 2022 report for the TRiiBE on the impact that the closing of the Ace Hotel would have on Black millennial nightlife. “Ace Hotel helped fill a gap in the limited number of nightlife options for Black Millennials,” Hill wrote. Deville did the same for the Hideout. I wanted to capture that with my story too, and I thought I could do it quickly. But my reporting took months, and as always I had trouble squeezing in the work around other deadlines. When Deville asked me to stop, I obliged. It’s his story, and I appreciate that he entrusted me with it in any capacity. 

Even after Deville knew I wouldn’t be publishing my story, he continued to show me a lot of grace. This didn’t tell me anything new about his character, but it confirmed what I’d long known to be true. I wish he’d received the same grace from his former employers, and I’m glad he went public in the way that’s most comfortable for him.

When a musician gets onstage at a venue, a constellation of workers has already been involved—sound engineers, ticket takers, drink slingers, program directors, website developers. These employees make show spaces work, and when all goes well, they make them feel like homes away from home. I’ve certainly described the Hideout as a “haven” before, but it’s the staff, not the space, creating that feeling. And the question always needs to be asked: A haven for whom? If the owners of a venue harm the people who work there, then that’s a structural problem—and it means that in some senses the venue is welcoming in spite of its owners, rather than because of them.

On Tuesday, October 25, Deville posted a follow-up on social media. He said that the Hideout and venues like it can find a way forward, but that there are no shortcuts: “They need to be willing to do the true work of self analysis while not relying on the labor of BIPOC individuals to walk them through what that looks like.” 

Since Deville went public, several local acts have expressed solidarity with him by canceling their shows at the Hideout, including Mia Joy, Tobacco City, and Morinda. Block Club has published a roundup of such cancellations. The venue’s remaining staff may also be impacted, since lost shows mean lost revenue.

Earlier this week, former Reader reporter Maya Dukmasova and Reader columnist Ben Joravsky moved their monthly series, First Tuesdays, out of the Hideout—their November 1 election edition will be at the Nighthawk in Albany Park. And until the Hideout does the work Deville talks about, I can’t see myself going back, even though I once thought of it as a home.

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