A Weekend of Chicago Festivals

Trace the brief history of the blues since its origins in bayou country in the deep south of post-emancipation 1870’s and you will mind that one of the main stopping points of the great migration for 1 of every 8 black American in the early 20^th century wound up in Chicago, Illinois. Like New Orleans, St Louis and New York City, Chicago developed a sub-genre of the blues, most from honing the electric guitar and harmonica. 

The past weekend Chicago held the 28^th annual Chicago Blues Festival, originally created in honor of Muddy Waters (Father of Chicago Blues) after his passing in 1983. Having been to the festival years ago, I was happy to once again last weekend to tap into the soul of what I teach in the occasional lesson on the origins of blues and jazz. 

On the weekend of June 8-10, 2012, Chicago seemed blitzed with a plethora of events – MidSommerfest in Andersonville, Old Town Art Festival, Rib Fest in Ravenswood, Printers Row Literature Fest and Blues Fest, all while hosting the Roosevelt graduation and a Sox game. Add to that a true Midwestern summer’s day with heat hovering around 90 and the humidity potent enough to create a waterfall of sweat on our backs. Ally and I chuckled at the fact that each couple we saw kiss, we knew it would be a salty one.

In the morning, we made plans to visit with my old friend Mike and his lady, Claudette, for brunch at Café Selmarie in his neighborhood of Lincoln Square. Café Selmarie, aside from having balanced, thoughtful brunches and lunches, graduates with honors on what has to be my favorite bakery case in Chicago. I guarantee if Ally and I weren’t about to take in the afternoon at the Literature and Blues Fests that we would have wrapped up a delicious slice of cake, cookie or pastry – my favorite is a slice of the Black Forest Torte. Ally enjoyed a plate of corned beef hash, the shredded bits of beef the true treat. I went for the Chilaquiles, which was tucked into a round earthenware dish. Though tasty as the shredded chicken mixed well with the blended chips, I felt the excess amount of queso fresco with all the salt that was already in the dish was too much – maybe use unsalted chips next time. The teaspoon size dollop of guacamole was far too small for the size of the dish. Don’t let this discredit Selmarie – I haven’t had a meal I’ve regretted there in three or four years I’ve visited that great neighborhood of artists, thirty-somethings and enough strollers to scare even a suburbanite soccer mom. 

My visit to the Literature Fest, tucked into the Chicago Loop neighborhood of Printer’s Row was my third. The first time I had sauntered through the closed off blocks of south Dearborn to visit each stall, best resembling a massive antique fair combined with modern booksellers and author events, I was lucky enough to find a gem – a guidebook from the 1893 World’s Fair that I still use for my classes. The prices on that Sunday, the last day of the festival, were reduced at many tents. Ally had to fish out a mere eight dollars for a paperback copy of Water for Elephants and The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, both in retail bookshelf condition. Unfortunately I didn’t find that next novel that would catch my attention – perhaps the heat and the hustle-bustle of the fair distracted me. Though, the few tents dedicated to vintage posters from movies, films and festivals since the early 20^th Century are a true treat to thumb through for one that rests at the perfect point of the wall in your home or apartment. 

Not punished enough by the sun, Ally and I walked about five blocks east of Printer’s Row, past our undergraduate alma-mater of Columbia College, to the Chicago Blues Fest – did I mention both festivals are free thanks to the City of Chicago? Our bodies were cooled by the artificial rain drops that flew from the long jet of water at the Buckingham Fountain onto the melting crowd below. 

The Chicago Blues Fest is a better environment to be in than the pilgrimage crowds of eaters who descend only a fair representation of Chicago’s culinary environment. Though a half million are said to visit annually to Blues Fest, I was happy to not develop a sudden claustrophobia. We trampled the thin rubber of our sandal soles from stage to stage. A particularly laughable moment for us came when we tried to dance a bluesy jig like so many others around the northern stage, only to nearly fly in opposite directions for not being able to grip one another thanks to sweat and sun tan lotion. 

We took a brief sabbatical from the music and son to grab two mini pulled pork sandwiches and rib tips from the Robinson’s Ribs truck – music from southern origins=southern style BBQ! Of the rib tips that weren’t burned to a crisp, they were only fairly meaty. The char was far too burnt instead of brimming with flavor from black pepper and other BBQ spices. The mild KC style tomato based sauce mixed well with the perfect shreds of pulled pork. – hell, even the buns tasted amazing after soaking up the sauce.

At the Bud Light tent we taught a well-known Blues band named Lil’ Ed and the Blues Imperials. Lil’ Ed, replete in his Shiner’s Cap and voice that’s a mix of Muddy Waters and Willie Dixon, has been playing with his Imperials for 25 plus years. We taught the late 40’s style blues slow rhythms of “Had to Die before I Started Living”, the euphemism and slang packed tune “I gotta check my woman’s oil…someone’s been placing their dipstick in there” and range of upbeat guitar driven tunes that one doesn’t have to think hard as to see why this beautiful American musical form inspired countless artists during the rise of Rock-n-Roll during the 1950’s and 1960’s. 

A true blues fan would visit a traditional club. In absence of that visit, Blues Fest is there for the masses. All of this is true irony of course, considering the mainstream culture and society of America in early to mid-twentieth century called blues and boogie-woogie blues (Rock n Roll) the Devil’s music. At least on some things like the blues we can evolve to understand, appreciate and love in culture that we can call our own, region to bluesy region.