Rooster's Place

"One day this boy will take my place," the late Howlin' Wolf said of his understudy Tail Dragger, so named for his reputation for being late to gigs.  Howlin' Wolf has been dead for 33 years now, and Chicago's loss of manufacturing jobs in the '70s and '80s has nearly extinguished the spending power of south and west side communities that once supported the world's most famous blues scenes.  With the recent closures of Bossman's and the 5105 Club, Rooster's Palace is the sole survivor on the west side.

At Rooster's, there are no tourists demanding the set list from hell ("Mustang Sally," "Sweet Home Chicago," and all the other 'Freebirds' of the blues world); Tail Dragger, the regular Saturday night feature, is clearly in his element.  He's an imposing figure, standing 6 plus feet tall with a cowboy hat and overalls, but once he gets a hold of his wireless microphone he spends almost the entire set mingling amongst the crowd as he sings.  He serenades every single and married lady in this intimate club, coming right up into their face if they encourage it with eye contact; then he drops down to his knees and howls as if to beg for mercy.  It was tough to make out the words through his southern U.S./west side accent, but the repetition helped us make some sense of "mah heh is bawl" (My head is bald), and "speah yo mine o keep yo pee" (speak your mind or keep your peace).  It scarcely mattered, we could feel the blues up close and personal in a way you can't really imagine at the north side clubs.

If you were blind, you wouldn't have noticed it, but his backing band were all white.  Great, great band, but they suffer the perception (which I'm as guilty as anyone of) that whites are less "authentic" blues men- as a result they aren't often booked for more lucrative north side gigs.  Like many great musicians who are underappreciated stateside, they spend significant time touring Europe.

About the club itself- lots of tinsel, and "happy new year" signs (this in late June); a middle-aged black women took turns dancing with us whites; a couple of regulars were laughing so hard at us they had tears coming out of their eyes.  Robert "Rooster," the club owner and bartender, serves up a few beers and the popular Smirnoff ice in glasses of ice; unfamiliar to me was the "potens," a 2.5 oz. portion of whiskey served in a shot glass that looks like a flower vase.  On our way out, Mr. Rooster told us not to be strangers and made sure we were safe while waiting out front for our bus ride home.

Long story short, go here.  There's nothing quite like it left in Chicago.  As you might imagine, the surrounding neighborhood is not good- "iffy" would be a euphemism here.  But, the #20 Madison bus (which runs 24/7) will drop you off literally at the doorstep- inside, this place is as safe as anywhere.  The bus ride itself was like a sitcom and a soap opera rolled into one, but that's a whole 'nother story.