OK, ya got me, I didn't know I was dealing with a pro. I didn't mean it personally though, I was born on the 2700 block of S. Ellis, went to college in Hyde Park, and lived in Evanston for the most of my time as a minor in Chicago. So, while, true, I was no true Chicagoan, I thought the term would gain a bit more recognition with an unknown audience.
So, now that I am speaking to a potentially fellow ex-pat, where between us there is no "Chi-town", the one true faith is Vienna Beef, Mr. Beef, and Lou Malnati's or maybe Gino's East, it is good to know I cannot pull a fast one on you.
The club? Upon some digging, I think it was Blues Traveler's gig at the Metro on June 28, 2000. That was the only summer I had sub-letted from my friend and the only summer we hung out in college, and that the dude with whom I went to see that mess, and that is the only Chicago show Blues Traveler played that summer. It's also 0.2 miles from Wrigley Field, so while I don't know for sure that I was ever at the esteemed Metro, but I see no other alternatives as to the venue. It's surprising in hindsight that the mix was that bad there, but, I know beans about most things.
The worst sound? That was when my little band in grad school played a battle of the bands at what is now the 710 Beach Club in Pacific Beach, CA in the winter of 2005. The week before we did a run through in front a festive crowd of Monday passerbys, and we tweaked our songs over 3-5 limit at the open mic, getting the strings eq'd on our amps and the drum through the house sound system. We recorded all the levels on every fader and knob.
The battle of the bands came around the next week, and the sound guy is on bad smoke cut with PCP, which is his call, but it didn't help him do his job. He was having mild auditory hallucinations and totally destroyed the mic placement for the drums, the drum's monitor eq, the stage monitor, and while the guitarists politely waved him off for any help as he knew them, he doesn't listen to me. Halfway through the set, he plugged some electrical tape/altoids tin contraption/hackneyed module into my DI, bypassing my monitor and my 4x10 and began squeezing the low end of my sound like an orange via the PA. It sounded like a Speak and Spell fed a talkbox and then played through a cheap tin whistle. I was steamed and still playing. This was worsened by the rhythm guitarist/vocalist screaming and half-"measuring" his parts, by the drummer and myself looking to run up an in-set bar tab, by having talked myself out of bringing an aluminum foil-wrapped cucumber for added "stage presence" and I was beginning to regret it, AND OF COURSE, the 24 year-old lead guitarist from my lab was letting loose with his best Vai/Malmsteen/Roth/Schenker/Lynch/Rhoads/Van Halen/Paga-oh-no-no-no/bits of Bach's Bourre that became Blech's Puree in the mix. And all the songs were supposed to be cutesy-pie tunes despite both a three-way musical schism and a progressive front for instrumentals and mild improvisation, and NO JAZZ ODYSSEYS.
To conclude we had awful sound built on the brown acid from Yagsur's farm affecting the mix, angsty burrito-loving lyrics, a vocal/rhythm guitar tantrum that would make Morrissey blush/a lead guitar menagerie on ten fingers and six strings with +20dB advantage in the mix/and a confused rhythm section that wanted to have fun and then drink desperately when seeing how much more professional the other bands were and how badly we were doing. That was the worst.
OR, a contender was some local band opening for AC/DC in the spring of 2000 when Slash got sick with heart trouble and dropped out as the supporting act at the last second, but at least they had stage presence.
#WhiteSoxLyfe
-Zut
