Chicago is a world-class center for performing arts. With its bustling Broadway district, vibrant music venues, and legendary comedy clubs, it’s a dazzling cultural mecca certain to wow anyone who’s never been to New York City. Droves of young artists flock to Chicago each year with nothing but a few bucks, a suitcase, and a dream of later moving somewhere else. But in a town so enormous, it can feel overwhelming for these emerging artists to know where to begin. That’s why open mics provide such an invaluable service.
In small towns and suburbs, aspiring performers may have no choice but to hone their craft in the lonely cavern of their bedroom. But in a city filled with open mic venues, those same performers can hone their craft in the lonely cavern of a dive bar.
The process is simple. Artists show up at the designated sign-up time, grab a slot on the list, and then spend a mere one-to-six hours sitting in a dimly-lit, booze-stained dungeon, free to contemplate every life decision that led to that moment. Luckily, there are many enriching activities to pass the time, ranging from drinking beer to drinking hard liquor. Sometimes there’s wine too.
When I first moved to Chicago, I tried to treat hitting open mics like it was my job–a mentality made significantly easier by the fact that I had no job. Too shy to brave the bars alone, I always went to the venues with my roommate, Kevin, who in turn provided a critical service by being the only audience member not there to perform.
The two of us imagined that on any given night we may meet an industry gatekeeper, scanning the scene for fresh talent. Years later, this notion seems stupid to me, but when I look back objectively, and consider what we knew at the time, it also seems stupid.
I eventually came to understand that the purpose of open mics isn’t to be “discovered”. It’s for artists to develop their acts in a low pressure environment, network with fellow performers, and gradually develop alcohol dependency. Most people are only able to master the third category, but a subset of more devoted attendees also become addicted to other drugs.
In the early days, I exclusively went to stand up open mics. My act was musical comedy, which uniquely positioned me to be hated by everybody. Comics seemed to have a great disdain for anybody using an instrument, which I initially took personally, until I realized they have a great disdain for existence in general.
I then began frequenting music open mics, and found them to be a far more welcoming environment. The musicians had an open-minded, “anything goes” attitude that fostered friendship, positivity, and the worst entertainment of all time. I began networking, making friends, and even met my current wife! After so much time toiling for no money for an audience of jaded comics, it felt great to be toiling for no money for an audience of friends.
As time went on, my evenings of hitting the mics gradually faded. I eventually began spending most nights working as a musician in improv theaters, where my open mic experiences perfectly trained me to perform for audiences of nobody.
Still, I maintain a wistfulness for those long evenings spent waiting to get precious stage time. In a world that often demands the illusion of perfection, there’s something invaluable about a space where people are free to fail again and again. There’s an liberation that comes from the lowest possible stakes, and sometimes great art is born out of that experimental license. And to that, I’ll raise a tallboy of PBR.
Anybody got a dollar? I need to tip.
