Taste of Chicago - Where's Santana?

Nanci and I decided to take the Chicago NW Train down to the Loop and Taste of Chicago. The idea of grabbing a seat on the lawn and listening to Santana play a live outdoor show seemed stellar.

It’s extremely hot outside, but there is a nice wind blowing off the lake and plenty of blue skies, basically we are talking about the perfect weather for an outdoor concert. We made the train in plenty of time, however we were not alone in our plans for today as the station is filled with people ready to make the pilgrimage downtown for the Taste of Chicago. The train pulled into the station and as she slowed down for the stop I could see that there wasn’t a single seat left on the train, and we are only the 3rd stop. Brilliant minds think alike. Once inside the train, Nanci and I quickly determined that the best plan of action was to plant out asses down on the hard steel diamond plate the lined the stairs in the middle of the train car that you enter through.

By the time the train pulled into Arlington Heights it was standing room only with people lining the doorways, stairwells, and walkways. Our asses were getting sore from sitting on the diamond plate; however it sure beat standing for the entire hour long ride downtown.

Once downtown we made our way to the Osco store located in the station. Nanci had a coupon for some drinks and I thought to pick up some folding chairs to provide some much needed ass support for the remaining day. I’m sure that hundreds of little red x’s were imprinted all over our butts from the diamond plate.

Downtown was alive with thousand of people making their way to and from the Taste of Chicago. Everywhere we looked I could see vintage Santana t-shirts and boney feet walking in cheap sandals. The smell of patchouli made a remarkable contest against the usual mix of Diesel and Sewer. Across the street from the event some pitiful blues musicians were trying to gain the attention of the crowd as excited concert goers stalled at the stoplight anxiously waiting for their turn to cross. I aptly named them “The suck-ass blues band.” Never before has such bad guitar playing been so proudly amplified to a more indifferent audience.

Truly, this scene was a massive mix of hippies, yuppies, and Latino’s, all coming together to take advantage of the free concert. They were all proud of themselves, this was their great idea, and it was FREE. Free free, magical free, the one price that everyone can afford. Every Latino from Indiana to Milwaukee had made this pilgrimage to see the great Santana at a price that allowed them to bring the whole family. Grandpa and grandma helped pull the rolling cooler, moms and daughters with inexpensive backpacks loaded to the hilt with water and tortilla shells pulled their children behind them toward the mighty quest. Over the hill was Nirvana, a Free musical paradise, the promised land.

Nanci and I walked down the cement stairs that opened up into the concert field. The trees the lined the edges provided some much welcomed shade. We stood there frozen in amazement. Before us was a field so full of sweaty people that not a blade of grass was visible. The air above the crowd was distorted with the thermals of heat and body odor. It looked like Armageddon, but smelled like Ass Crack. This was not the Promised Land; this was a Latino sweat convention.

The stage had been erected in a pit off to our right, only the top of the scaffolding could be scene. Some genius on the planning committee had decided to place a medium sized big screen TV suspended smack dab in the middle of the field, blocking any possible view of the stage. It didn’t look so much like a concert, but more like the worlds largest gathering to watch the worlds shittiest TV.

With a positive mental attitude and the outside hope of finding a place to setup our chairs we dared to walk into the nightmare. The mob behind us pushed us into the field and down the river of bodies that swarmed throughout the area. We couldn’t leave the sidewalk as the field was completely full of people and there was simply no room. We could not turn around as the thousands of people behind us continued to push forward. We couldn’t move forward because the place was so full there was no more room. All we could do was move with the flow, and pray that there was an exit on the other side of this nightmare.

For over one hour we were caught up in the river of humans that flowed along the tiny paved walkways in the field. The intense heat was causing everyone to sweat profusely which provided a disgusting lubrication and helped squeeze the people through the really tight spots. Every few feet we could see the wide panicked eyes of someone who had no idea where they were going or how to stop. They would raise their arms up in the air with some feeble gesture as the human current carried them away. We were like millions of tiny blood cells being squeezed through the world’s largest clogged artery, and eventually something was going to rupture.

The police, loaded down with their faded blue bullet proof vests complete with utility pockets for pen and paper, had taken scarce positions throughout the walkways. They had no control, it was all in vain. I could hear them talking as we squished by that nobody had planned for this many people and the situation was looking grim. Over their walkie-talkies I could hear the continuous reports of fights, lost children, and the cries for medical assistance. Mostly they just stood their, rocking onto the tips of their black shoes, watching over the top of the crowd for any sign of relief.

After an hour of flowing with the sweat people and never seeing even a single square inch of free space, I knew I had to make a move. Nanci had been clutching on to the straps of the folding chairs I was carrying on either shoulder. Her knuckles were white and vacant of blood. It was time, I made my move. With the finesse of a pin ball I bounced off of a couple who had stopped to light a cigarette. The impact sent Nanci and I dead on into the oncoming flow. We were now moving in the opposite direction and hopefully back towards the glorious stairs and shade from where this nightmare all started.

In the air was the sound of Mexican blues rock. Los Lonely Boys had taken the stage and with their best Ricky Valenz effort they supplied the crowd with the unusual ambiance of a bad wedding band covering Stevie Ray Vaughn songs. Tens of thousands of people who were crammed onto their lawn blankets and chairs had their eyes fixated on the low budget TV screen in the middle of the field. On the screen was a guy who resembled Lou Diamond Phillips with a mullet. This was the world’s largest La Bamba fan club gathering and we were stuck in the Rio Grande of Ass.

We got lucky and I saw a break. A path lay before us. Several lawn blankets were almost empty except for a severely sunburned fat girl in low rise jeans who had already passed out from heat stroke. I jumped out of the River Latino and began frog hopping from blanket to blanket towards the entrance and ultimately freedom. Nanci followed my lead. With one hand on the nylon chair straps and the other with a death grip on our only bottle of water, I dragged her behind me like the cans on a wedding limo.

We had made it; we were back in the shade. I noticed plenty of room in the far back corner under the trees. Sure, we couldn’t see the amazing La Bamba TV show, or anything else for that matter, but it was shaded and a place to sit while we caught our breath. I setup our chairs and we sat down for the first time in an hour and half. Nanci had the million-mile stare and didn’t even react when I asked for a sip of water. The chairs felt great. I was glad to be in the shade.

About 20 other people were gathered under the canopy of trees, all pleased to have survived ASS FEST. Nanci and I watched with utter amazement as a never ending sea of people continued to poor into the concert area, oblivious to the horror that laid before them. Physics would surely take effect and I knew that it was only a matter of time before the force of all these people filling a finite space, combined with the sweaty human lubrication, would cause some poor victim to launch up from the center of the crowd and into outer space.

Peace. Nanci and starred in front of us at the tree branches and leaves. In the distance I could barely hear the sound of Ricky “The Mullet” Valenz going into his pathetic guitar solo. I offered an idea to my lovely wife. Perhaps we should leave, catch the next train home, go out for some dinner and perhaps a nice air conditioned movie of her choice. Genius she thought and we made it so.

I sit here writing this entry a changed man. I have smelled more sweaty Latino ass than a German Sheppard pulling drug duty on boarder patrol, and I have lived to tell about it. The next time I think checking out a Free Santana concert is a good idea; I’ll just stick my nose deep inside my lawn guys ass crack and play some Santana over my iPod.