The derelict space held around 500 people, meaning that by today’s standards, it probably shouldn’t hold more than 50 safely. The Fireside was a dilapidated bowling alley that at the time was not functioning primarily as a bowling alley. To me, the Fireside Bowl was Chicago’s CBGB, our quintessential, ramshackle punk venue that hosted performances by some of the most influential artists of the genre. I began to see the North Shore and rural Ohio as two sides of the same homogenous, boring coin, full of people too self-involved and uninterested in building a broader community. While my family had eked our way from a staunchly middle-class lifestyle to this glossier upper-middle class, I could not identify with the type of überwealth these rich kids dragged along everywhere they went, like specters rattling their chains of affluence in my face. I realized it was futile to think I could make any headway in punk or hardcore on the North Shore. It was clear that if this was the new standard, it might be better if we just stopped doing whatever it was we thought we were doing. Outside of making abysmal music, we mostly listened to Hatebreed, a Connecticut hardcore band that had recently released what would become a classic album, Satisfaction Is the Death of Desire. We recorded a demo tape, something I have intentionally lost and hope to never recover. Available from Hachette Books, an imprint of Hachette Book Group Inc. I had the “pleasure” of starting my first band with some of these moonlighters, a hardcore group called Voices Still Heard - a generic name with zero meaning.Įxcerpted from None of This Rocks: A Memoir by Joe Trohman. ![]() ![]() Sure, some dabbled in punk, but they preferred to retreat to their parents’ quasi mansions to throw pseudoparties with other brats, less interested in the Vandals and more interested in knowing where the vodka was being kept. With the “new kid” sheen dulled and no friends to count, I fell back on the only support system I had: punk rock.īy sophomore year of high school, I had become accustomed to the North Shore brats. When they tried to talk to me, I would have an internal parts breakdown, unable to compute the complex theories of “flirt,” “talk,” or “Just say something, man!” So I stuttered my way toward week two of middle school, organically shifting from intriguing and potentially kissable to fully weird and ignorable. Real-life girls! Now, this was frightening because I feared the opposite sex greatly. Was he cool? Was he smart? Was he suave? Was he good at rollerblading? I was none of these, but I tried to live in this moment of pseudo-popularity for as long as it would last. No one wanted to fart on me while proclaiming, “Gas chamber!”įor one hot minute I was not an outcast but an interesting curiosity: the new kid. And for the first time in my life, I was surrounded by other Jews. We now lived a stone’s throw from a real, major city, a place with no shortage of culture. “When they decided to stop doing shows, it was time, and I think everyone knew it.It took me less than a week to realize that Winnetka, where my family moved when I was in sixth grade, was a significant upgrade from small-town Ohio. “You can sustain the business as older music fans start to become disinterested.”Īny tears for Fireside? “Fireside Bowl was fun while it lasted, but something like that is not made to be long term,” Peterson admits. ![]() Peterson believes the kids are not just alright but vital to business: “If you are trying to do something long term as a club, all ages is the best way to cultivate a strong, loyal music scene,” he says. Thanks to Peterson and MP-among others-the past year has seen something of an all-ages revolution in Chicago, with venues such as the South Loop’s Reggie’s Rock Club (2105 S State St, 310), Logan Square Auditorium (2539 N Kedzie Blvd, 77) and Union Park’s soon-to-open Bottom Lounge all booking AA shows. “It’s essential to have positive outlets for kids to express themselves that don’t involve church or sports,” he says. Brian Peterson, the music booker for MP Productions, which used to book Fireside, didn’t give up. Some saw the move as a cold-hearted business decision-underage kids don’t buy moneymaking alcohol-while Fireside insisted it merely wanted to become a bowling destination. ![]() When bowling alley/live-music venue Fireside Bowl decided to cut out concerts in 2004, it looked like the end of the all-ages show, that magical scene where carpooled teens could constructively let out their sexual and societal frustrations.
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