By Will James

My virgin experience of shiny, modern, river-cleft Chicago will be forever marked by the exhaustive bustle and grime of America’s premier summer rock festival. I was there for Lollapalooza, which allotted me the chance to see Yo La Tengo – a wonderful experience, although it only whetted my appetite for a chance to witness them in their native environment (some dingy Hoboken club, silhouetted in the blue, smoky light instead of baking in the heavy, thought-choking air, fragile voices whist away by the thieving wind).

Silversun Pickups were ambassadors from the land of summer, transforming the stage, the ramshackle of ads over a littered parking lot, into a breezy beach party of clear blue pool toy drum sets, breathy voices and aural brightness to match the afternoon glare. I witnessed the overblown “riot” during Iggy Pop’s set. I stood in the mud before Modest Mouse. I danced in the post-drizzle mist while the bombast strobe lights signifying Muse crashed and soared in the distance.

I failed to evade Daft Punk.

Mostly, though, I just walked around. I spent at least one afternoon reading and snapping pictures in Millennium Park. And although my trip was marked by memories from Lollapalooza, it was defined by a single extended jaunt into an unknown Soho-esque region of the outer-city where I scoured used record stores for obscure releases by Chicago indie musicians. It’s probably because I’m pretentious.

In the end, I scored American Football’s self-titled release, Joan of Arc’s “In Rape Fantasy and Terror Sex We Trust,” and Owen’s gem, “At Home with Owen,” all of them gloriously used. Thanks to these artists and their music, I have the deep, intuitive knowledge of a half-remembered childhood in the outer suburbs of Chicago. I “came back” here during my first existential crisis to sit and talk armchair philosophy with twenty-something hipsters in brownstone apartments while the guys laid down a drum track in the next room. My mind harbors distant recollections of endless parties where I met and conversed with a handful of the most interesting people in the Midwest.

Well, mostly I just listened. Because of these artists and their “pretentious,” “self-indulgent” music, I have been experiencing Chicago thought, Chicago aesthetic and Chicago nostalgia for years without ever being there. They helped create a world for me more real and more moving than the “everyman” music that comes from my own home – the recommended soundtrack to my youth.

And it is because of the criticisms leveled against Joan of Arc, Make Believe, Owls and their ilk for years that I condemn any review that dismisses music as “elitist” or “pretentious.” These are the two most bogus accusations any critic has leveled against any artist in history, and anyone who employs them should probably go (back) to college. Intellectual cop-outs don’t belong in CD reviews or any other kind of discourse in this culture that glorifies thick-headedness, simpleton sensibility and the eternal “gut.”

Tim Kinsella, his family and his friends have transversed the entire spectrum of modern music, from emo to folk to punk to pop to avant-garde, proving that there is always room for real thought and genuine creativity in any form of art.

It was my trip to his hometown this month that reminded me of a letter he wrote to Alternative Press magazine a year ago; a letter from Chicago to Long Island, if you will. Enjoy.

Here it is, as seen on AbsolutePunk.net:
http://www.absolutepunk.net/showthread.php?t=175596

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