Chicago! Chi-town! The Windy City! The Second City!
I love this town. It helps that it’s about as nice as days get in this part of the world, and the aromas wafting from food trucks near our dressing room dare me to stray from my strict-ish diet and decimate my colon with tubular meats and blindingly strong beer. I’m caffeinated to a counter-productive degree, have sweated through two metal shirts, and I’ve exchanged deep-dive Cubs trivia with the police officer manning the artist entrance. It’s a good day, my friends.
I’ve never had a bad time in Chicago. Last January, I fondly recall a power-walking finance type stopping to regard a snowman, proclaiming it a douchebag. In 2012, former keyboard player and current legend Mark Sampson literally jumped out of a moving vehicle to talk to the “future Mrs. Sampson.” Despite his Evel Knievel-worthy stunt, the woman was unimpressed. Her loss. Even O’Hare, one the universally regarded worst airports in America, doesn’t bother me. LAX actively tries to electrocute you, after all.
Tonight, we’ll play soul music for a few thousand inebriated, high-spirited NPR donors, and I couldn’t be happier.