Musical Melodies Of The El
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Musical Melodies Of The El

7
Musical Melodies Of The El

3 p.m. Redline-Fullerton stop going towards 95th Dan and Ryan

I make my way to the surprisingly tranquil train, only to see a bunch of robots staring mindlessly at their phones. Some seem hypnotized by their ear buds, which together produce loud noises some may call “music.” I wonder where each individual is going, what his or her stories are. Well, it has been a long day, it’s starting to get cold, and I have to finish this rough draft before Thursday, so I can begin my Halloweek. I decided to ride the Redline to the Jackson Stop, in order to discover the Chicago Music Performers that are part of the reason I was attracted to live in the cultural hub known as Chicago.

3:15 p.m.- Chicago/State

An influx of diverse creatures invades the train. I learn that a man is having pizza tonight at his house and wants his friend to bring the beer, a seemingly flirtatious girl named Maria made out with Dante, and a guy is struggling to not miss his flight. Two older men walk on chatting about a new song one heard and one sits next to me. He brushes against my butt. “Oh, I am sorry,” he says in the least genuine way possible with his alligator smile. His friend then shouts out from the opposite side of the train, “no he is not! He wanted to do that!” They laugh as butt-toucher proceeds to hit into me again and says, “Oh no! Sorry again, lady!” This train is not even bumpy are you serious? I mean, I appreciate his politeness at least.

3:20 p.m.- Monroe

The train becomes even more crowded, louder, and smellier if that is possible. I avoid the old men’s gazes toward my black, tight-covered legs.

3:22 p.m.- Jackson

“This is Jackson. Exit on your left” I never thought those words would sound so sweet and be my escape. I hear a muffled piercing sound and I’m unable to tell if it is the music of the train on the tracks opposite to me, or the sounds of an electric guitar. I continue walking, in an effort to try and clear up this confusion and find a white teen with dirty long blond hair, strumming a pearl-colored guitar, with two black men a bit older than him. One of the black men, short, with a flat top and bright white shoes, raps as the other, a tall man in a red jump suit, bounces his head, begins to beat box. The beat playing in the background sounds like a baby crying in the night, which is ironic because a little girl drops her doll, begins to cry, adding to the music. Since the mom is so entranced by the music, she ignores her daughter’s cries. I walk over, pick up the doll, and hand it to the baby, getting a little spit on me in the process. Before I know it, I realize I am bouncing my head and tapping my foot to the beat, but I am not the only one.

The gentleman next to me is clicking his shoes on the cool, dirty floor, contributing to the music. He then springs up from the bench and begins doing a full-on tap routine! This man is rocking out and playing the air drums. Some people are recording him, while others are rolling their eyes because he is blocking the walkway. But, he does not notice any of this. He just spins like an unstoppable tire rolling down a hill. This guy must be a regular because when he starts to lose momentum, a man walking by shakes hands with him and asks him how he is doing, while he keeps dancing and talking. There is no stopping this jumping bean. He even takes out a vine of grapes and continues to tap and eat, tap and eat. I am confused and a bit nauseous, but impressed.

I focus back in on the lyrics to the music and realize they are rapping about Chicago and the streets. Some of their lyrics include, “tell the little kids to stay in school and maybe they can become the president.” They sing a song where the chorus repeats, “I got Chicago at you,” and they do. There is this incredible, ordinary man tap dancing, while a little boy in a Spiderman hat and glasses jumps up and down, and a skinny teenager shakes it as he passes the crowd to the BlueLine. This is Chicago, a mixed group of funky characters being themselves and making and enjoying music.

A friend of the shorter black man high-fives him as he sits next to me with a box of sausage deep-dish pizza. Not only can I see Chicago right now, but also I can taste it. As I become lost in the Chicago-frenzy within myself, I suddenly spot the Chicago Police Department circling around the performers like sharks stalking a school of fish. The performers do not stop playing their jubilant music as the sharks circle around them two to three times. They finally go in for the kill, asking them for their performing licenses. One of the cops with a grumpy face chewing on a red straw proceeds to tell them that this is a train stop and they are “too loud and need to turn it down or go.” The taller black man mumbles that the cops are “disrespectful to their music” and the tapping man calms him down as he compliantly turns down the volume. I figure this would be a good time to ask the group a few generic questions I wrote down like “How do you know each other? When did you develop this group?” I tap the shorter guy on the shoulder and tell him I am a journalist writing about Chicago’s music scene and would like to ask him a few questions when he has a moment. He tells me he could talk to me right then and there.

I introduce myself and shake hands with him. He tells me his name is Patrick Barton, born and raised in Chicago, and has performed music for as long as he has remembered. I start with my first question, “How do you gentlemen know each other?” He explains to me that they just met an hour ago. Not only am I in complete shock, but also I am also completely turned around now with my useless questions that addressed the makings and meanings behind their group. I decide to go in a different direction and just have a conversation flow naturally between us, like the music surrounding us. Patrick explains how music is his life here in Chicago.

“I mean when you got nothing else to do, and you know, you don’t wanna do nothing wrong, so music is just everything to me,” Patrick says. Music is a way for the performers to escape the daily struggles of living in Chicago.

“We do music to make our time pass and to try and make our pains get better,” Patrick explains. When asked what specific pains he endures he replies with “evictions, rent, no food, and other stuff like that.”

Although just meeting these musicians a couple hours prior, they have already taught Patrick many skills. “He likes singing and rapping and I like singing and rapping, so he is just teaching me more about rapping as we perform,” says Patrick. Patrick did not only learn more about music with these men, but also about equality.

“They say black and white cannot get together in Chicago, but we really can, 'cause I mean all of us are together. We are not bothering each other we are making music together,” Patrick boldly proclaims.

Like this group of musicians Patrick describes his music as being diverse. “ It is anything you feel. We do not write our music down. We talk about any questions we have and this is what makes us calm. It is life,” Patrick states.

I ask him about his musical dreams, imaging them to be bold, like him, but I get a different response that went beyond the music.

“Everybody got future dreams, but you know only 5 out of 100 are going to get picked. But my dream is to show people that black people can do more than rap,” Patrick says.

When I reference the police sharks, Patrick continues to surprise me with his insights. “They come up to us a lot and bother us, but I mean they are just trying to do their job. You can’t control everyone,” he says.

I thank Patrick again and walk up the stairs to the streets, trying to follow my original plan of finding another musician, but I am impacted greatly by Patrick and the other performers. I feel I could not get any more material today. I wish Patrick and the soulful performers could play their music forever, without interruptions, without the worry of money, and without the worry of equality. I feel sick to my stomach. How could people who created such beautiful, raw music, live in a life full of disappointments and struggles?

I go back down to the train, but at the Monroe stop, because I do not want to deal with my fluctuating emotions of pure bliss and melancholy.

5:30 PM- Monroe going towards Howard

Still emotional, I sit down on the train next to a black man with an instrument case. I observe him while he is not looking. He is about 5’10” with a pea coat and big brown eyes. I think about my ride to the Jackson stop with all of the quiet, technology-absorbed zombies, and decide I would talk to this man, who clearly was some type of musician. “ What instrument is in there?” I ask a bit coyly. He tells me it was a guitar and that he played. I know the conversation could have and probably should have ended there, considering the code of “pretend like no one else but you exists on the train” train laws, but I am curious about this man and his instrument. I ask him how long he had been playing, and he explains to me ever since he was nine. He is from Mississippi and his mother was killed at age nine, so, with the guitar as his only item, he headed to Chicago for music. He jokes about how he came in the winter with just his guitar and no coat. He says he had no idea what he was getting himself into, much like me from California. We continue to talk about his story and how he started off playing on the streets and eventually got a job playing guitar. I ask him if he played for fun or work and he replies with “I have fun playing it and it is for work, but fun comes first.” I tell him he had the best of both worlds and ask what type of places he plays at. He says many venues all over the country, including the Bongo Room in California. I want to keep talking to this compelling musician, but I hear the words “This is Fullerton exit on your right.” I tell him I have to leave unfortunately, but he is an interesting guy and that I enjoyed our conversation. He shakes my hand and gives me a flyer of him that says “Chainsaw Dupont” and tells me to look him up. I tell him I most definitely will and hurry off the train.

6 p.m.: Corcoran Hall- My bed

I am exhausted, overwhelmed, and amazed by my little journey on the train. I can still hear the unique music and stories of the musicians ringing in my head and cannot not wait to hear the next musical geniuses tomorrow at some point on the RedLine.

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This article has not been reviewed by Odyssey HQ and solely reflects the ideas and opinions of the creator.
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