During the ’90s, when I wasn’t working, studying, commuting to work, school or home or not obligated to attend yet another Russian Restaurant event, I danced! And I danced hard.
Early in the decade, one of my favorite places to go was the Dome Room, where XRT’s Marty Lennartz would spin tunes from all over the world: My Life With The Thrill Kill Cult, Utah Saints, Moby, Front 242, The Orb and even Chitown’s own Ministry. With my black leather Harley Davidson jacket, blue jeans and black leather boots, late Friday nights, fake ID in hand, I’d head downtown to destress and undo all the damage the pressures of the week demanded.
As the decade progressed, the Dome Room, along with its parent building main attraction The Lime Light became Excalibur and began to attract the suburban fraternity crowd, complete with Gap attire and a deep desire to drink.
All I wanted to do was dance. And lose myself in the music.
I began to attend other clubs, all with their own unique take on nocturnal hospitality, and one, I think it was Crobar, featured women dancing in cages. Seemed like in the mid-90’s each Chicago dance club tried to top itself and the stories as to what was going on at these clubs, as well as the pressure to get in, created its own midnight myth: you were either on the list or you weren’t.
Towards the end of the decade, as life began to stabilize, the urge to let it all go began to subside and, instead, just go somewhere and appreciate the groove. And, for whatever reason, I was on some sort of list, receiving hip invites to the latest club openings. Back then, these arrived in the mail, many in translucent envelopes, teasing the recipient with something glamorous and cool. The address labels on my invitations didn’t even include my last name. Simply Alex and whatever address they had on me.
One night, when Liquid Kitty / Celluloid, a combination nightclub, mini concert hall and boutique movie theater (where you could enjoy a hip or classic film, drink a martini and eat hors d’oeuvres) hosted a special event, I arrived with two dates: my boyfriend at the time and my cousin. We originally waited in the line outside, but then I recognized Leddie Garcia, the percussionist from Poi Dog Pondering, having a smoke. Excited to see a band mate from a favorite band, and in the most natural desire to say hello yelled out, “Hey, Leddie, how’s it going?” Leddie looked around, spotted me and yelled back, acknowledging me. The security guys immediately opened the red velvet ropes, letting the three of us in.
“Smooth,” my boyfriend said.
“I wasn’t really even thinking about it. I just wanted to say hi.”
Once in, we found our spot at the bar. This was Spring 1997 and metrosexual men began to appear at these hip joints, with their highlighted hair, smooth skin, manicured nails and DKNY sweaters. These men weren’t even really in great shape, they were just very thin.
My two men happened to be military guys. Nothing metro about them. At one point, we left my cousin alone the mostly empty bar as he ordered his beverage and lit his cigarette. He wasn’t trying to get attention. He enjoyed his privacy and we both respected that, giving him his space.
After my boyfriend and I scanned the club, checked out all the rooms and perhaps enjoyed a dance or two, we headed back towards my cousin, only to find the bar stools near him filled with all kinds of beautiful women. These women had no interest in the metro men. They (like women today) wanted a manly man. And my cousin fit that role well.
Whether going with a boyfriend, on a blind date, with some girlfriends or even alone, dancing at these clubs offered a reprieve from reality. Once in the club, I surrendered to the hard bass, the pounding rhythms and the contagious grooves.
In the clubs, I was free.
This material is an excerpt from my new novella: The ’90s. Diary of a Mess, now available in Kindle edition!
© Creative Cadence 2013.