John Linnell and the Statesmen concert

My Night's Excursion to Downtown Hell (and why I loved it)
Upon arriving to Schuba's, there was already a line. We couldn't have gotten there a minute too soon, for loads of more people started cramming into the tight little barroom, while the Schuba staff blocked the unebbing crowd from getting into the music room where the roadies and the opening band were scurrying furiously to get their stuff set up, appearantly at last-minute. It was a hodge-podge mess, even with a couple paranoid, grinning 19 year olds behind my father and I trying to get in on fake ID's. I was shortly entertained by a very affable and hardcore TMBG fan to the front of me, who I must point out, looked a lot like a young John Lovitz, and was chatting about God-knows-what, mildly inebriated, eating a freakishly large plate of french fries and tartar sauce. I think heard something about Ohio Nazis rioting against the Johns at some concert he was at. Soon, they let the crowd go. With my named checked on the list, they let us in easy, and I jogged right up to the stage, my dad and I standing in a spot terribly close to the stage stairs, one row back from hanging over the stage. Before the opening act came on, my hardcore friend managed to get in another story about how he rescued a couple that fainted at another TMBG concert.
The opening act was great, I'm sure it was. Except I could hardly give a damn knowing that Linnell was soon to come. I mean, I tried, really. He sang a couple songs off his kid songs album, a mildly humorous one about the alphabet and waiting for the school bus on the weekends.
Sooner than later, the band was finished, and in the 20 minute wait between opening act and Linnell, the fans managed to get more blasted and the women were giggling like they'd been tickled by dusty Miller. Some forty year old roadie was up there doing all the equipment checks on his own. He goes to the guitars, sets up the blue, school-desk looking keyboard, winces at the sadly dismantled drums. And as he picks up the accordion to do a soundcheck, everyone starts hooting and hollering. Pass me another one of those Heinekins, Pun-jab.
Well, upon my surprise, a very dark and David Spade-ish looking individual runs right past me and flies upstage. The screaming ensues, the music begins, yadda yadda. There was an especially memorable performace of the ever popular "South Carolina" with an excellent and booming guitar making up for the lacking brass section that can be heard on the new CD's song. Soon after, I broke out the good ol' sketchpad and began doodling. The sketches were pretty bad at first and also in the end, but the middle I made a few noteable ones, to be seen, here. The most amusing part was the creeping feeling I got while drawing them. My dad, who wasn't drawing, of course, had his eyes on Linnell the whole time, and appearantly, according to him, John glanced at me frequently, smiling, obviously having figured out just what the hell this weirdo was doing down there a couple feet away from him. And of course, everyone had to scream like banshees when he took a sip of his coffee in the middle of a song during a guitar solo, his faithful, thick, white diner-style mug sitting on the blue desk right in front of his keyboard for the entire duration of the show.
A little somethin' for the ladies: in the middle of "Iowa" Linnell walked over to the side of the stage and took off one of his shirts. He pretended to ignore the momentary increase in shrieks from the female portion of the crowd.
His keyboard technique during the same song blew my mind. As apposed to the whimpy simulated piano sound that can be heard on the CD's "Iowa", Linnell played it in a rumbling rock organ sound, pounding those chords back and forth with both hands like an excited toddler discovering for the first time the sorts of irritating noises he can make with pots and pans. The wily skill he put into that energized performance blew my mind. It was like watching the son of Paul Schaffer. Only with lots, lots, and lots of hair.
Come halfway in the show, Linnell took the usual break for a little story time. This instance, the topic was about the people at the airport on his flight over here to Chicago. A group of baggage and ticket checkers looked at the travelers' load and said to Linnell and his comrades, "you're a music group, aren't you?" The reply being affirmative, they asked who they were. Since he was just touring under the name of John Linnell, he thought up a snappy name, "The Statesmen". When he told them, they said, "Oh, sure, we've heard of you." This, to Linnell's observation, was total BS, of course. He said that if he called themselves the "pff... the Green Eggs", the ooglers would have said the same thing, "Yeah, sure, we know about you."
So our performers, now officially called the Statesmen, were coming to a quick end, and Linnell slowly exited the stage. He took two autographs, one for a person with a real Illinois liscence plate that read "ANA NG". I was directly behind him, less than an inch away, perhaps, picking up his Dogmatic vibes. He never did turn and notice me, but I was quite ready for him in case he did. (I do, however, feel it's necessary to point out that those magazine writers weren't kidding at all when they said it- John is no "Giant". He actually seemed awfully meek and probably wasn't too much bigger than my grandma.)
Then, after the druken part of the audience screamed him back onstage, he finished off with a thunderous, keyboard-laden "West Virginia", and then did his usual-style exit, quick and without seeing all that was around him.
Talented, silly, mesmerizing on accordion and keyboards, quite the giant in persona, and mysteriously elusive, Linnell is certainly one of the greats.
-CROW, ("Schmitty-Schmitstenstein") 12-6-99 (As I write this, this eve, Linnell is playing the same show tonight right now. He still has about a half hour left of songs before he leaves. Seemed like such a miniscule amount of time for me when I was there. Life's certainly a crazy thing.)


trip-ass drawings below the recontation if you want to cut the crap and get right to them My Night's Excursion to Downtown Hell (and why I loved it) Upon arriving to Schuba's, there was already a line. We couldn't have gotten there a minute too soon, for loads of more people started cramming into the tight little barroom, while the Schuba staff blocked the unebbing crowd from getting into the music room where the roadies and the opening band were scurrying furiously to get their stuff set up, appearantly at last-minute. It was a hodge-podge mess, even with a couple paranoid, grinning 19 year olds behind my father and I trying to get in on fake ID's. I was shortly entertained by a very affable and hardcore TMBG fan to the front of me, who I must point out, looked a lot like a young John Lovitz, and was chatting about God-knows-what, mildly inebriated, eating a freakishly large plate of french fries and tartar sauce. I think heard something about Ohio Nazis rioting against the Johns at some concert he was at. Soon, they let the crowd go. With my named checked on the list, they let us in easy, and I jogged right up to the stage, my dad and I standing in a spot terribly close to the stage stairs, one row back from hanging over the stage. Before the opening act came on, my hardcore friend managed to get in another story about how he rescued a couple that fainted at another TMBG concert. The opening act was great, I'm sure it was. Except I could hardly give a damn knowing that Linnell was soon to come. I mean, I tried, really. He sang a couple songs off his kid songs album, a mildly humorous one about the alphabet and waiting for the school bus on the weekends. Sooner than later, the band was finished, and in the 20 minute wait between opening act and Linnell, the fans managed to get more blasted and the women were giggling like they'd been tickled by dusty Miller. Some forty year old roadie was up there doing all the equipment checks on his own. He goes to the guitars, sets up the blue, school-desk looking keyboard, winces at the sadly dismantled drums. And as he picks up the accordion to do a soundcheck, everyone starts hooting and hollering. Pass me another one of those Heinekins, Pun-jab. Well, upon my surprise, a very dark and David Spade-ish looking individual runs right past me and flies upstage. The screaming ensues, the music begins, yadda yadda. There was an especially memorable performace of the ever popular "South Carolina" with an excellent and booming guitar making up for the lacking brass section that can be heard on the new CD's song. Soon after, I broke out the good ol' sketchpad and began doodling. The sketches were pretty bad at first and also in the end, but the middle I made a few noteable ones, to be seen, here. The most amusing part was the creeping feeling I got while drawing them. My dad, who wasn't drawing, of course, had his eyes on Linnell the whole time, and appearantly, according to him, John glanced at me frequently, smiling, obviously having figured out just what the hell this weirdo was doing down there a couple feet away from him. And of course, everyone had to scream like banshees when he took a sip of his coffee in the middle of a song during a guitar solo, his faithful, thick, white diner-style mug sitting on the blue desk right in front of his keyboard for the entire duration of the show. A little somethin' for the ladies: in the middle of "Iowa" Linnell walked over to the side of the stage and took off one of his shirts. He pretended to ignore the momentary increase in shrieks from the female portion of the crowd. His keyboard technique during the same song blew my mind. As apposed to the whimpy simulated piano sound that can be heard on the CD's "Iowa", Linnell played it in a rumbling rock organ sound, pounding those chords back and forth with both hands like an excited toddler discovering for the first time the sorts of irritating noises he can make with pots and pans. The wily skill he put into that energized performance blew my mind. It was like watching the son of Paul Schaffer. Only with lots, lots, and lots of hair. Come halfway in the show, Linnell took the usual break for a little story time. This instance, the topic was about the people at the airport on his flight over here to Chicago. A group of baggage and ticket checkers looked at the travelers' load and said to Linnell and his comrades, "you're a music group, aren't you?" The reply being affirmative, they asked who they were. Since he was just touring under the name of John Linnell, he thought up a snappy name, "The Statesmen". When he told them, they said, "Oh, sure, we've heard of you." This, to Linnell's observation, was total BS, of course. He said that if he called themselves the "pff... the Green Eggs", the ooglers would have said the same thing, "Yeah, sure, we know about you." So our performers, now officially called the Statesmen, were coming to a quick end, and Linnell slowly exited the stage. He took two autographs, one for a person with a real Illinois liscence plate that read "ANA NG". I was directly behind him, less than an inch away, perhaps, picking up his Dogmatic vibes. He never did turn and notice me, but I was quite ready for him in case he did. (I do, however, feel it's necessary to point out that those magazine writers weren't kidding at all when they said it- John is no "Giant". He actually seemed awfully meek and probably wasn't too much bigger than my grandma.) Then, after the druken part of the audience screamed him back onstage, he finished off with a thunderous, keyboard-laden "West Virginia", and then did his usual-style exit, quick and without seeing all that was around him. Talented, silly, mesmerizing on accordion and keyboards, quite the giant in persona, and mysteriously elusive, Linnell is certainly one of the greats. -CROW, ("Schmitty-Schmitstenstein") 12-6-99 (As I write this, this eve, Linnell is playing the same show tonight right now. He still has about a half hour left of songs before he leaves. Seemed like such a miniscule amount of time for me when I was there. Life's certainly a crazy thing.)

Chicken scratches made in the heat of the moment while being mashed into the stage picture 2 picture 3 picture 4 picture 5 picture 6 picture 7 picture 8 Two picutres I made the day after the concert at school when I had some time to much on how Linnell looked that night picture 2 A smarty little doodle that the storytelling fan (who's name is by the way, Matt) did on my drawing waiting for Linnell. I shall treasure it forever. one more sketch


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