‘I like their sense of humor,” poster-artist extraordinaire Jay Ryan was saying of the indie-rock band Shellac, and he turned from his collection of posters to gaze at the amplifier- and guitar-strewn stage of Centrum Hall on Ashland Avenue. “For example, you’ve got a tap-dancing bear on stage right now.”
Sure enough, Ryan was right. In between sets at the two-night Independent Arts Festival last weekend, at which Shellac headlined, dancing bears and marching-band majorettes held more than 1,000 indie-rock loyalists in their sway. Meanwhile, artists such as Ryan and Steve Walters handed out business cards and sold their ornate silk-screen posters, celebrating bands such as Pavement and the Apples in Stereo. As with most of these artists’ works, Ryan’s poster for this particular performance didn’t fetishize any bands but pictured an analog recorder from the Belmont Avenue studio of Shellac guitarist Steve Albini.
An offbeat sense of humor is just one element that joins the loose-knit community that gathered at the festival. Radiohead was recently described by its manager as a cross between a rock band and an art project, as though that were something beautiful and strange. And, on a mainstream level, it is. But in the rock underground, creating something that is personally satisfying, no matter what its commercial potential, has always been the point. And this festival was a window into this subculture, which briefly enjoyed mainstream attention when Nirvana broke through in the early ’90s.
“There was an artificially inflated profile for the underground music scene because it was momentarily successful commercially,” said Albini, sipping from a towering Styrofoam cup of coffee as he and fellow band members Bob Weston and Todd Trainer mingled with the crowd.
“It’s back down to the true believers now, and though the sheer numbers aren’t there anymore, the interest in this kind of music is deeper and more profound. The situation is a lot less exploitative and a lot healthier for creating something with lasting value.”
Labels such as Touch & Go, Bloodshot, Perishable and Skingraft, which set up tables at the event, are almost as renowned for their gorgeous packaging as they are for the music itself. For folks who traffic in this subculture — arguing about the merits of Silkworm or a fanzine like Punk Planet — this was the equivalent of a Rodeo Drive shopping spree for Zsa Zsa Gabor. It was possible to walk away with a rare Slint EP and a Guided By Voices silk-screen for under $20, and drink in three-plus hours of music bewildering in its variety for a mere $12.
On Sunday, the Oxes opened with set of jagged instrumentals, undercutting the daunting, math-rock interplay with an air of self-deprecating bemusement.
Two fancifully named guitarists, Dr. Windsor Castle and New York City, drifted into the audience clawing at their instruments, as though curious about exactly what kind of people would pay good money to watch them. Robbie Fulks displayed bluegrass virtuosity in tandem with mandolinist Steve Rosen, while tweaking hillbilly music with songs far too sophisticated, metaphysical and occasionally rude for any country station to ever play.
Shellac closed with a set that didn’t rely so much on songs as the raging dynamics of guitar, bass and drums.
“If I live to be 100, I could never write songs as good as Robbie Fulks,” Albini said after one assault. “So I’m just going to beep and scratch here.”
The beeps and scratches weren’t for everybody.
This was uneasy, anxious music masterfully performed, its impressionistic interludes split open by landslide climaxes, blurring the definitions of words such as “uncompromising,” “galvanizing” and “perverse.”
Tim Rutili, one of the Chicago underground’s most respected figures for the past 15 years, has some experience with those terms, which have been used to describe his own music. He set up a table for his Perishable label at the event, and was pleased that he had.
“You have to bet on yourself right now,” he said, and he was surrounded by artists and musicians who knew exactly what he meant.
