Radio Recap

Oh hey internet, good tidings to you.

I have been doing a radio show on the School of The Art Institute of Chicago’s free internet radio station, Freeradiosaic.org.  This show is called The Anti-Zabmat Radio Terror Club.  What follows is a series of links to various show archives.  They aren’t classified by individual episode on the site itself, so my descriptions are vaguely necessary I guess to distinguish between episodes/shows.  As it stands right now, shows are only available to stream I think, but if the demand is there (which I can’t imagine it is) I will get the shows in mp3 form and put them up for download.  Later in the week, expect tracklists for these shows.

March 5, 2009 – The Show With My Mom On It

So, my mom came to town and was on my radio station.  This show is mostly soul music and functions in a mellower vein.  Brief interviews with my mom who totally got shy every time I tried to get her to talk on the air.  LISTEN.

March 12, 2009 – Anti-Fascist Summit (feat. Ben Bontempo)

Ben Bontempo, dear friend, bandmate, active member of the Anti-Zabmat underground, guests on this show, recorded after I had an altercation with some airforce douche-bag on the train.  There’s more talking on this show, but it’s pretty good, I tell a good story and Ben improvises some great anti-fascist poetry.  Forgive the volume of the intro-music in comparison to our voices.  A lot of great punk and political-soul on this show.  LISTEN, COMRADES.

March 19, 2009 – The Show That Opens With Metallica And I Make Promises I Don’t Keep

At the beginning of this show, I promise that it will be mostly metal and free-jazz which it turns out not to be, although the two promised genres are included here and there.  This is truly the essence of a good AZRT show;  I play whatever I want, regardless of theme, and it turns out pretty well.  This show is highly recommended.  DARE THEE LISTEN??

March 26, 2009 – Post-Birthday Covers Show, feat. Jessica Calvanico and a studio full of hungry mutants.

So, Jessica Calvanico (check out her awesome radio show) and I got monstrously stoned in the park before this show and I make a lot of idiotic allusions to that while I try to embarrass Jess by getting her to talk about “the semiotic implications of the Cover Song” while she is space-faced.  This show is mostly covers with a few other songs I had been itching to play thrown in to fuck up the theme a little.  Most efficiently themed show by far, opens with great Biddu Orchestra (non-cover) song.  The booth is eventually raided by a bunch of kids and things get pretty silly.  A good show.  LISTEN, IF YOU’RE NOT A COP.

Enjoy!

I Am Like If Eric B Was Basically Retarded

So, more piracy, less problems. I wouldn’t fucking call these “mash-ups,” because that is stupid I hate that mash-up shit except for early 2 Many DJ’s because oh god it is just so French and sexy and clever.

Anyway, some shit I made for my forthcoming imaginary dance 12″ entitled Sasquatch U.S.A. Doesn’t Get Invited To Parties:

“H.P. Blubcraft’s Re-Apesmanator (Stay Hungry)”

“For Whom The Blecchh Tolls”

“(My) Stump Bleeds Every Other Day”

I made these in GarageBand but I think they sound pretty dance floor fresh. The beat in “My Stump” sounds like it is just a GarageBand preprogrammed beat, but it is actually a sample I took of the Minor Threat song, “Stumped” (so is the bass-line). Minor Threat…when used for breaks…sounds like a pre-programmed GarageBand beat?

My mind is like totally blown man.

xo
sd

Celebrate Christ’s Love With Piracy

Hello friends and acquaintances, I wish to give you 23 gifts.

I have uploaded 23 of my favorite albums to MediaFire so I can share them with y’all as a Hairy Hannukhristmengs present of sorts.

Some of these albums are more common and others are probably almost impossible to find anywhere else. Here is a link to the albums:

mediafire.com/hungryfreaks

and HERE (following), in a tradition I haven’t returned to in many many years, is a description of each album so you can decide what you want and what you want to avoid. It’s not a year-end list, it’s a cosmic-love list. Each of these albums stirs something in me that I want to share with you, so I wrote a little something about each one to let you know just what you’re in for.

Happy Horrordays, everyone.

(ALSO, I would love to hear what your experiences are with these various albums, once you’ve listened. Consider it your seasonal present to me?)

Africa Must Be Free By 1983 by Hugh Mundell
In 1975, thirteen year old Hugh Mundell churned out 9 of the most pensive, foggy, and just fucking heavy reggae tracks of all time. Produced by Mister Melodica himself, Augustus Pablo, the teengenerate shows all sorts of insights both specific to and well beyond his years. Ironically, Mundell would be murdered in 1983 at the age of 21. This CD version contains all of Augustus Pablo’s additional dubs. HIGHly recommended.

Babylon by Dr. John
Mac Rebennack’s second album, released in 1969, doesn’t have the hammy voodoo fist of Gris Gris, but his foray into social/political commentary is all for our benefit, as he brings his singularly dark and funky worldview to a world that seems surprisingly similar almost 40 years later. “Babylon,” in particular is up there with songs like “Don’t Worry About The Government” or “Kill The Poor” and for heads and other nerds, “The Lonesome Guitar Strangler” is not only a fun poke at the shredders of the day, but a remarkable showcase of Mr. Doctor’s varied technical brilliance (he plays all the guitar on this song, as well as most of the album). An underrated slab from Dr. John’s repertoire, this isn’t the free-Toussaint of his previous album nor the dense funky gumbo of his later albums. This is some kind of unique funky proggy sociopolitical concept album that sounds pretty fresh no matter where you come at it from.

Blub Krad featuring various artists
This is a 1978 L.A. Free Music Society compilation featuring performances from various LAFMS bands doing everything from epic slopped-out free-rock (The Yvonnes’ “I Walked With A Zombie”) to bizarre psychedelic parodies (The Pablums’ awesome Rolling Stones tribute, “Under My Gums”) with some incredibly thoughtful and ahead of its time improvisation thrown in by El Trio Primo, a very young Z’ev and many more. The album opens with a fucking brilliant cover of the Modern Lovers “Someone I Care About” as performed by an especially youthful Half Japanese. Every band on this compilation paid 15 dollars to be on it, therefore allowing the album the funds to be released in a limited pressing. Doesn’t exist on CD anywhere, this was transferred from the original vinyl.

Comin’ Out Hard by 8-Ball & MJG
If you’re from the South, these guys are old hat to you, but a lot of us yanks didn’t get turned on to these cats until pretty late in their career, and while their guest spots on “Stay Fly” essentially made the song what it is, and “Don’t Want No Drama” is a load of raucous fun, their debut album, with its ominous Casio beats and lackadaisically boastful wordplay, blows anything they have done since out of the proverbial water. The title track contains one of the most sublime choruses known to man and the Lexus they’re riding in on the cover doesn’t even exist in convertible. They made that up. While the Death Row crew was talking about pimping metaphorically, these guys meant it literally. This album even outlines their business plan pretty explicitly. “The cops work for me because I keep good stuff, plus the government ain’t never paid those tricks enough.”

Dave Godin’s Deep Soul Treasures, Volume 1
Deep Soul is a special subgenre, the term coined by the British DJ Dave Godin, that represents the heavier often more gospelly side of soul. Songs like “Me & Mrs. Jones” by Billy Paul but by folks who never released albums, folks who struggled over the course of a few 45’s, on some of which, they only had one side to themselves. This is the dark side of the ballad, power ballads often about feeling powerless created by people whose voices betray powers unheard of and unexperienced by the likes of you and I. You can’t find most of these 45s for anything less than a pretty penny, so let Dave Godin take you on the most epic and soulful journey of your life. HIGHLY HIGHLY HIGHLY RECOMMENDED.

Dopethrone by Electric Wizard
Oh holy fuck. This is a special album. While Sleep may have made longer songs and Sunn 0))) may have deconstructed sounds only to have them born again as sheer minimalist horror drone mist, The Wizard always did it best, as far as I’m concerned. On this 2000 album, EW created a masterpiece of not just stoner/doom/sludge metal, but a masterpiece that would have Lamonte Young and Terry Riley creaming their jeans and throwing up the horns like elderly born again dervishes. This album traverses subjects as varied as violence, getting high, and space, while churning out such densely layered rhythmic ooze that often I’m not sure whether I’m imagining half of the sounds I’m hearing. There could be anything hidden in there. What’s not hidden in there, however, is the immediately apparent sonic care which these folks have given to every single song on this album. Every swoosh, every hum and grunt, every horror sample laid out in front of you, they all reeks of concern, care, and engagement. You owe this album the same thing, surely you shall be rewarded.

Eastern Sounds by Yusef Lateef
This is not free jazz. While Lateef would freak out (still in a pretty mellow way) on later albums on Impulse and other labels, this 1961 masterpiece addresses themes that wouldn’t become cool for almost another decade. The result is not necessarily a freak out, but you will probably be freaked out by just how dang BEAUTIFUL it is. This is pretty straightforward jazz as far as the canon is concerned. Lateef switches from flute to sax to Chinese clay globe flute and then back again while maintaining his distinct voice, cool, refined, but always clued in to something beyond, and he frequently surprises you with just how clued in he is. Not as cheesey as Gabor Szabo’s Jazz Raga and not as personal as Journey In Satchidananda(also on this list), Eastern Sounds showcases Lateef’s deep deep appreciation/love for “Eastern” modes, adapting Western pieces as well as covering more traditional Eastern compositions. My mom loves this record, I bought it for her for Hannukah one year.

Greetings From Asbury Park, N.J. by Bruce Springsteen
So you’ve heard Born To Run and Born In The U.S.A. and probably The River, but have you ever really taken any real time with GFAPNJ?? Sure, you know that Bruce wrote “Blinded By The Light” and that the Mannfredd Mann (sp?) version is a load of horseshit compared to the original, but have you heard the love song about teenagers tripping face in the woods (”Spirits In The Night”) or the ode to a dying teengenerette beauty he just can’t bail out anymore (”I Came For You”)? This album is raw, dark, loving, and more densely worded than almost anything he has done since. If you have any doubts, check out the lyrics to “The Angel” before downloading. This is some essential shit, Count Dogula.

Humility In The Light of The Creator by Kalaparusha Maurice McIntyre
As a founding father of the AACM, saxophonist Maurice McIntyre shouldn’t need any introduction, but despite his pedigree as OG free-jazz royalty, he tends to be brushed aside in favor of Chicago legends like the various Art Ensemble members or Phil Cohran. On Humility McIntyre has created a heavily spiritual and exceptionally thoughtful free-jazz album recommended to any fan of Coltrane’s later work, but with a more earnest and immediate tone that is less wooly than Albert Ayler but far less contained than Pharoah Sanders. A handful of these tracks contain vocals not even remotely as annoying as some of Leon Thomas’ blatherings, bringing to light what a solo human voice can actually do in a free-jazz ensemble. Hell of essential, yo.

In Search of Space by Hawkwind
WHY THE FUCK AREN’T MORE PEOPLE INTO HAWKWIND? ALL YOU ASSHOLES WHO JUST LOOOVE ACID MOTHERS TEMPLE AND SHIT LIKE THE BOREDOMS ON VISION CREATION NEWSUN, WHY HAVEN’T YOU SPENT ANY TIME WITH HAWKWIND??? Lemmy was in this band before Motorhead, did you know that?? He sings and plays bass and growls some really terrifying paranoiac poetry over something vaguely like the world’s heaviest Motorik. People call this stuff prog-rock, but it’s so much simpler, so much more focused on the psychedelia of transient sounds and riffs and pulses than any sort of wild time-signatures or epic solos. Not to say there aren’t epic solos. RIYL: Pink Floyd’s Ummagumma, Amon-Duul-I-on-fast-forward.

Journey In Satchidananda by Alice Coltrane
I was on LSD the day AlCol died, Joey let me know in a text while I was up in Oakland eating strangers’ lawns with Melissa & Benny. You almost gave me a bad trip, BRO. This album, released 3 years after her husband’s 1967 death, and later the same year that she would release Ptah The El Daoud, finds Ms. Coltrane playing with one of the most, if not THE most, incredible ensemble of her career. Alice takes on the usual harp and piano playing with masterfully heavy handed bluesiness, as Pharoah Sanders supports her every step with loving and intricate playing that rivals his best work on albums like Karma and Jewels of Thought, meanwhile, the always stellar Rashied Ali keeps time with the alternating basses of Cecil McBee and Charlie Haden, both creative giants. That group alone should have your mouth watering, but if it doesn’t, imagine the spirituality of her previous album freed of its structural boundaries, wandering the universe in search of the perfect melancholy groove, the perfect harmony between East & West…and then know that success is achieved on all fronts.

Kimono My House by Sparks
Sparks have a lot of albums. This is not one of the ones produced by Giorgio Moroder, SORRY. This is the heavy, funny, spooky, sexy, prog-pop masterpiece that sounds like 10cc grew some hair on their balls, got Big Star’s rhythm section and prayed in front of the shrine of Freddie Mercury for 40 days and 40 nights. The Mael brothers are at the top of their game here being equal parts flamboyance, wit, and sheer rock prowess. This reissue includes some killer bonus tracks including the single “Barbecutie,” which is just as great as the title implies.

L’Enfant Assassin Des Mouches by Jean-Claude Vannier
Way too fucking weird to ever really sound that dated, the title of this albums translates to “The Child Killer of Flies” and is a loose concept album about various murderous children, all with their own narratives and themes. Vannier was a celebrated French arranger, composing film scores as well as working with pop artists like Francois Hardy and, most famously, Serge Gainsbourg on his album Histoire De Melody Nelson. If you’ve heard Melody Nelson, you know that Vannier’s string arrangements are an essential part of what make that album so unique, especially if you don’t speak French like me. Here he combines the same funky groovy orchestral ambience of the day with modern composition, heavy prog, circus music, and sound collage to create a singularly bizarre, unnerving, and beautiful work. As wild as the day is long, impress a girl or freak out your boyfriend with this one. Highly recommended to orchestral pop fans and devotees of Gainsbourg and the more lush and dramatic work of his spiritual offspring, Air.

Love Cry Want by Love Cry Want (aka “Nicholas,” Joe Gallivan, & Larry Young)
Free-fusion, but not in the Bitch’s Brew or Ornette sense, free-fusion in a funky and nearly indescribable combination of noise, groove, and fun(k) that is truly unlike any jazz, free or otherwise, that you’ve ever heard. Larry Young, mostly known for pretty standard jazz organry (outside of his landmark Lawrence of Newark LP) appears hear bringing some ultimate fuzzy weight to Gallivan’s eccentric and groovy junk yard percussion, while the singularly named “Nicholas” “shreds” with some strange guitar synthesizer of his own invention. Recorded in 1972 but not released until the 90’s when Gallivan churned out a shoddy reissue CD on his website (I’ve contacted him about re-releasing it with full archival jams, but he’s not interested, sort of a hermit), supposedly, Nixon himself specifically requested these cats shut off that dang racket so he could get some work done during a performance on Capitol Hill. What more of a recommendation could you possibly need? INSANELY HIGHLY RECOMMENDED, ENDLESSLY UNIQUE.

Misery Index by Assück
Easily the greatest grindcore album ever recorded. Brutal, dark, complex, and raw as fuck. Unlike a lot of grind, this never sounds like robots, this always sounds like a band. Just some dudes from Florida that hate your fucking face. Surprisingly dynamic, as well; each song is distinct from the last in a way that contemporary bands like Pig Destroyer couldn’t recreate if they tried.

Neil Young by Neil Young
Not an album that produced any of his standards, Young’s self titled and hideously covered debut was his first recorded effort after the disbanding of Buffalo Springfield. Unlike anything he would record from that point on, the sounds on this album are thin and foreign, equal parts of the country-rock he would become known for as well as the sci-fi that people would reject on Trans. Beautiful lonely songwriting with bizarre dense production filled with strange guitar tones, gospel choirs, and spooky synthesizers. The final song, “The Last Trip To Tulsa,” is a sort of spiritual predecessor for songs like “After The Gold Rush” and “Ambulance Blues,” an exceptionally long (around 9 minutes!) vaguely dystopian solo guitar trip with far-out imagery and sharp words for the world around him. RIYL: Neil Young, Here Come The Warm Jets, things that sound like the tape has been manipulated or pissed on.

Penis Envy by Crass
Crass is probably the only band on here that wouldn’t be mad at me for giving away their album. Here, Eve Libertine takes the lead on my favorite Crass album of all time. Post-punk by accident, these fucking weirdos made the greatest and most fun album about gender in contemporary society since Walter Carlos became Wendy. Especially check “Smother Love” if you ever feel jealous about anyone or anything, and “System” if you’re feeling especially like the man is keeping you down. Libertine pretty much hits every nail on the head in every song while Steve Ignorant and the rest keep it real with an even weirder and more angular (but also poppier) approach to their already treble-kicked-knife’s-edge-punk. E$$ENTIAL YOU FUCKING FASCISTS.

Presence by Led Zeppelin
Insanely underrated late Zep, featuring the greatest album art of all time and aural proof that Led Zeppelin is the best prog/kraut/psyche/heavy/whatevvy band ever. Quit being such a fucking cynic and a snob and get this shit ASAP.

Suan by Armando Piazza
I can’t find that much information on Piazza aside from that he’s from Naples and that this album originally came out in 1972. Amazing and incredibly romantic/sensual fuzzed out Italian prog sung in English. Very intimate with bursts of noise and emotion that will shock any square right out of their chair. It says that Naus is contained when you download the file, but it’s not, sorry. That’s his 1973 album, which is also awesome. Don’t let this lackluster description deter you, this is a hot hot album. Great make-out album, too.

Suburban Lawns by Suburban Lawns
Thanks to Joey for turning me on to this album, I found out even more about it when I was researching my L.A. art-punk project last winter. This is the Lawns’ only real full length album, which is a shame, because it shows a band that could have been L.A.’s hyper-speed answer to the Talking Heads, Devo, and even the Young Marble Giants. Su Tissue fronts an incredibly tight punk/new-wave group that churns through the snide futurism of “Pioneers” and “Janitor” while revealing a reserved post-punk cool on songs like “Green Eyes” and “Protection.” The last track, “Jam The Controls,” sounds like it could even be a Josef K or Certain Ratio song but with the paranoid urgency that only an L.A. band could have.

Terry Riley & Don Cherry, live in Germany bootleg
I just discovered this album actually. This is a boot of these two giants of freak-out playing live in Germany in 1975. Imagine Rainbow In Curved Air meets No Pussyfooting with both Riley and Cherry slowing down their usual frenetic spirituality to a droned stoney pace that allows both men to interact in ways and on planes unrivaled by either separately. Smoke a doob and fall asleep to this one. HIGHLY RIYL: Cherry solo, Riley solo, Sketches of Spain at a quarter of the speed with googly moogly organ instead of castanets and whatever the fuck else is on that album.

We Insist! Freedom Now Suite by Max Roach
Not even meaning to, I have saved the best for last. You will hear this album and say “Max Roach? The really straighter than straight oldy moldy jazz drummer? I knew he was heavy as fuck and a man to be respected BUT HE MADE THIS!?!?” Gil Scott Heron could not exist without this album. Recorded in 1960(!!!! WHOA.), this is an album before its or anyone else’s time, I’ll actually let the Allmusic blurb speak for this one:

“At a time when the civil rights movement was starting to heat up, drummer Max Roach performed and recorded a seven-part suite dealing with black history (particularly slavery) and racism. “Driva’ Man” has a powerful statement by veteran tenor Coleman Hawkins and there is valuable solo space elsewhere for trumpeter Booker Little and trombonist Julian Priester, but it is the overall performance of Abbey Lincoln that is most notable. Formerly a nightclub singer, Lincoln really came into her own under Roach’s tutelage and she is a strong force throughout this intense set. On “Tryptich: Prayer/Protest/Peace,” Lincoln is heard in duets with the drummer and her wrenching screams of rage are quite memorable. This timeless protest record is a gem.”

I couldn’t agree more.

——————–

Well, if you made it this far, I’m impressed and sort of embarrassed, but hopefully you will be inspired to enjoy these albums as much as I have. I hope your Christmas/Hannukah/Kwanzaa/ritual sacrifice was swell and that your heart is filled with love and that your stomach is filled with lunch.

Once again, all of these albums can be downloaded at: http://www.mediafire.com/hungryfreaks

Merry whatever and the happiest of new years.

-Sam

P.S. Please feel free to further share this music if you think you know folks who want it.

Inaugural post, daddy.

I read in an interview with some sort of walking-cliche-reformed-bad-boy-chef that “smoking deadens the palette” and that was the reason for his quitting. I quit when I moved to Chicago, simply because it’s too damn expensive to smoke here. Luckily, my roommate rolls his own cigarettes and was generous enough so that I was able to have a cigarette both before and after my meal last night at Smoque. Perhaps, if my precious palette hadn’t been so delicately deadened, my meal would have blown me away with something they were calling “slow and low” St. Louis BBQ. Or, perhaps, I would have been equally, if not more so, disappointed with the sad suburban excuse for a snack that they seem to have plopped down recently in my darling Avondale. Now, I am aware that Smoque opened up roughly a year ago, and that perhaps I am a little late jumping on this proverbial BBQ bandwagon, but damnit, I was touched and I have something to say.

After (foolishly) driving past one of my favorite meals (at the cafe in the back of Chicago Foods), I turned left on Addison and right on Pulaski, parking in front of the much talked-about and quite stupidly spelled “Smoque.” Now, the first thing I notice when I enter is that it is all white people. Aside from the single African American cook I would later see outside, also enjoying a cigarette, I wouldn’t see anything but pasty white faces and mostly blonde (and grey) hair for my entire meal there. Now, don’t get me wrong, despite the fact that I share a name with the darkest member of the Rat Pack, I am a honky. I do know, however, that there should never be mostly people that look like me at a good BBQ joint.

I grew up in Los Angeles, privileged with the greasy maroon sauces that can be found all across Crenshaw Boulevard. Additionally, my entire family is from Kansas City, and for Chicago residents, I needn’t explain what that city has done for BBQ, probably rivaled only by certain places in North Carolina and Memphis. I have twice taken “BBQ Tours” of our fair nation, coming back, full, greasy, and opinionated. Smoque would barely even make it onto a BBQ Tour of our own city, as far as I’m concerned.

After ordering, I sat down next to a balding man and his balding son, who between the two of them probably upped the value of both North Face and J. Crew stock prices a significant number of points each year. They were decadently chowing down on what looked like some seriously delicious ribs. Apparently so filling that neither could finish their meal. As any BBQ nut knows, half of the experience is in the sides and I observed that their mac’n'cheese looked particularly good, as did their “Mini Peach Cobblers,” of which they had three between the two of them. Logically, I was proud of myself for ordering both of these sides and ashamed at having not ordered the ribs; Both of these men seemed very happy. I, however, would not share their happiness.

When number 73 was called, I forced my way through the throngs of both selfishly immobile tweens and innocently immobile elderly. I picked up my pulled pork sandwich, slaw, and aforementioned sides, already becoming disappointed upon peering down at the tray below me. At first bite, I noticed two things about my sandwich: Firstly, it was falling apart on me. Not in that way that a pulled pork sandwich is supposed to fall apart on you, creating a sort of escapist competition between you and your food (”Oh yes I can eat you, you little shit”) as the stringy redbrown filling oozes out the back of your sandwich as you take your first cautious bites. No, this sandwich was falling apart because of the second thing I noticed: it was too dry. On the menu, it was printed that the pulled pork was cooked (presumably “low and slow,” which I believe is also a cheesy late era Beastie Boys song) for a total 12 hours. This is less time than my local carniceria cooks its carnitas, but more than I use to soften my pork/veal bolognese I use to impress girls when I cook for them. I don’t have to tell you it wasn’t a happy-medium.

Dry pork is easy to get yourself into, but always a crime, kind of like getting stuck in the middle of an intersection during rush hour traffic. A lackluster amount of mediocre sauce seemed to have been carelessly (but knowingly desperately) squirted onto the too-pale meat I stared down at, and soon, would regretfully be swallowing. The bread was good, sure. It was soft and squishy and even tasted fresh. It could not, however, contain the dry clumping chunks of pork that fell out of it every time I tried to add more sauce or open the thing up to rearrange the poor excuse for moisture contained within. As with most mediocre -but not necessarily awful- food, I finished it quickly.

Moving onto the sides, I can tell you that the mac’n'cheese was exquisite. Individually baked into adorable tin cups and crusted over with breadcrumbs(? tasty dirt?) and a minimum of overbearing spices (I’m looking at you, most-of-Wicker-Park). The noodles were contained sloppily underneath, all coated equally and not chewily in a sharp creamy cheese combo that I actually couldn’t even begin to identify past my pleasure in eating it. As to the miniature peach cobbler, it tasted like a yuppie mixed drink with two much fruit and concocted by an overexcited bartender too proud of his new tiny brown bottle of almond extract. What’s wrong regular peach cobbler done right? Putting it in a tiny tin cup would have been enough for me, guys.

My cigarette rolling dining partner had the half chicken and a side of fries. His fries were great. Crispy, greasy and an endearing dark brown that makes you think of potatoes and not fries. The chicken was the fowly equivalent of my sandwich, too dry and with a bad vinegary sauce. A friendly young guy with spiky hair and a choker took our trays (unexpected) and as I walked out, I noticed that the line for ordering had become even longer than when we had arrived. I felt an immediate pang of pity. Didn’t these people know? Hadn’t they ever had BBQ before? Didn’t they have friends with good taste?

As I got outside, I lit my cigarette and my pity turned to anger. I was incredibly full for a reasonable price, sure, but I can do that at Taco Bell and probably be happier about it. I felt as though an hour had been robbed from me, like having the TVs malfunction on a boring flight. I looked down at my hairy potbelly, hidden behind the screenprinted visage of a growling bear and knew that I was supposed to be skeptical, but I also wanted to be optimistic, and so did my belly. Before I knew it, the bear had lifted its head and my stomach was pressed offensively against Smoque’s large window. I wasn’t drunk and I wasn’t high. I was indignant and I wanted both tweens and fogeys within to realize that they deserved better and that they lived in Chicago, for Christ’s sake. Even if they were too a-feared to scoot their Jettas and Audis further south than Division, they could have Honey 1, Fat Willy’s, and even Calvin’s without the sort of passive guilt that comes with eating at a place called Smoque.

For potbellied jerks everywhere, this has been Sam Davis. Maybe next time I’ll have the ribs. Stay hungry.