Chicago Vinyl Record Pressing Factory, Smashed Plastic, Celebrate The Spooky Season With Mini Music Fest

Oct 18, 2022 admin_bitlc Features, Music News, Reviews 0

By Vern Hester

Thank heavens for Andy Weber and his relatively new record pressing company, Smashed Plastic.

It’s the second week of October and as expected all those Halloween ads for Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups and those yucky pumpkin spice beverages are flooding the airwaves. What was not expected was the freaky flood of craziness and doom which has suddenly invaded our consciousness in the last 14 days. Ryan Murphy’s ten-episode mini-series on serial killer Jeffery Dahmer is the hottest thing on tv, inspiring rabid outrage and wild praise. Then we have the world’s biggest poster boy for bi-polar disorders, Kanye West denouncing the Black Lives Matter Movement as a scam from the distant safety of Paris France. Last week saw a massacre at a day care facility in Tiawan and some nutter going on a murder spree on the strip in Las Vegas in broad daylight with a kitchen knife. Then country icon Loretta Lynn died at the age of 90 and Opec decided to unilaterally raise the price of oil which guarantees that this winter is going to be a pretty big downer.

Thankfully Weber and his partners threw a small party on October 1 at 4200 W. Diversey to celebrate local music, the joys of ganja, the allure of vinyl record albums, and the independent spirit all in one ten-hour swoop. The company, Smashed Plastic, which just celebrated its third anniversary and even has the blessing of one Jeff Tweedy debuted this leisurely, unfussy, in-expensive [tickets were $35], and artistically varied end-of-the-summer mini-festival while wisely offering something refreshing in the mildly cool air. Tables were lined up with local record labels offering a varied menu, cannabis dispensaries offered lounging areas and free samples, a southside eatery offered massive Mexican sandwiches, and there was even a “pot bus” which featured white patent leather lounging chairs and a ton of yummies for guests who got the munchies while imbibing. What made this festival so engaging was Smashed Plastic itself. The dedication to the local music and arts scene was extremely heartening, and with so many employees who play in and produce local bands it felt especially welcoming and friendly.

And then there was the music. Of the performances i caught, the first set of the day from avant-garde sound architects ONO established a hilarious and wild template. Fronted by queer 78 year old Travis Travis Travis, the constantly morphing collective creates sonic jagged soundscapes of weirdness behind his upfront pointed near meanderings on growing up in the Jim Crow south and being gay in the 1950s era military. It sounds like a downer but Travis has a way of giving each performance I’ve seen a distinctive festive quality while the wildly shifting musicians behind him create gurgling pastiches of odd collisions of notes and quirky sounds. This time out Travis topped his 1950’s service station uniform, complete with a tidy bow tie, with a jeweled ball gown worthy of Scarlet O’Hara.

If the seemingly outre vibe of ONO seemed like an odd way to start a festival, Bev Rage and the Drinks threw solemnity and seriousness to the wind as they sliced through whole chunks of the new Hexes and Exes [on What’s for Breakfast Records]. Chicago always needed it’s own seven-foot-tall home-grown punk drag queen and this popular outfit didn’t bother with frivolity, instead choosing to strut through a fizzy set fueled by twang and, yes, bubbles.

The long dormant Tar took the stage and blew all that goofy cheer away with one swipe of their sweeping leaden guitar attack. As a fan of deep, monolithic, hard layered slabs of guitars [yes, Pink Floyd is a favorite] delivered with the pure beauty of a crisp mix, this quartet cranked Smashed Plastic into oblivion. With vocalist John Mohr wailing away on vocals while he and co-guitartist Mark Zablocki wrenched crunchy notes through the mix, the band transcended mere art rock or even rock and roll with panache.

If Tar was transcendent, Rookie was a near religious experience. What Justin Bell [on keyboards], Barrett Guzalso [bass], Joe Bordenaro [drums and vocals], Chris Devlin [vocals and guitar], and Giovanni Marrari [lead guitar] have done is confidently meld exquisite song writing with a supple attack that embraces the sway of old school country music, with the heart of bare bones soul, while serving it up in a gritty pop sheen. Their set went down extremely well but it was at times hard to take it in at once. Center stage you had Devlin singing his little heart out, to the left you had Bell with a smoking cigarette hanging out of his mouth looking like a wizened baby, with Bordenaro bashing away like some wild thing. Guzaldo seemed to be noodling on his bass in his sleep but Marrari kept gliding in and out of the shadows getting lost in the darkness giving the set an element of spookiness.

Spookiness was pretty much the starting point of Pixel Grip’s troubled set. As one of the most highly regarded bands in the city, they’ve managed to inspire quite the following and I was looking forward to hearing them. Still the sound system had other ideas. Vocalist Rita Lukea gamely gave it a hearty shot which signaled drummer Tyler Ommen and Jonathon Freund on keys to follow her into the abyss. Seamlessly morphing club beats with a crunchy gothic vibe the three of them created a throbbing omnipotent wall of sound which was at once narcotic, hypnotic, and entirely enthralling. Peering out from her seemingly lacquered bangs through eyes articulated with layers of mascara, Lukea scowled and prowled the stage with a look of deeply etched disgust on her face. It was hard to take that look seriously since Ommen gamely bashed away without a care in the world and Freund looked like his keyboards were pushing back at him. Between the sound and sight of the band and the dark hued lighting Pixel Grip reached for nirvana but found a new fresh hell that was altogether intoxicating.

And then, it was over…

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