3PM Redline- Fullerton stop going towards 95th Dan and Ryan: I make my way to the surprisingly tranquil train only to see a bunch of robots staring mindlessly at their phones. Some seem hypnotized by their ear buds, which together produce loud noises some may call “music.”  I wonder where each individual is going, what his or her stories are. Well, it has been a long day, it’s starting to get cold, and I have to finish this rough draft before Thursday, so I can begin my Halloweek. I decided to ride the RedLine to the Jackson Stop, in order to discover the Chicago Music Performers that are part of the reason I was attracted to live in the cultural hub known as Chicago.

3:15 PM- Chicago/State: An influx of diverse creatures invades the train. I learn that a man is having pizza tonight at his house and wants his friend to bring the beer, a seemingly flirtatious girl named Maria made out with Dante, and a guy is struggling to not miss his flight. Two older men walk on chatting about a new song one heard and one sits next to me. He brushes against my butt. “Oh, I am sorry,” he says in the least genuine way possible with his alligator smile. His friend then shouts out from the opposite side of the train, “no he is not! He wanted to do that!” They laugh as butt toucher proceeds to hit into me again and says, “Oh no! Sorry again lady!” This train is not even bumpy are you serious? I mean, I appreciate his politeness at least.
3:20 PM- Monroe: The train becomes even more crowded, louder, and smellier if that is possible. I avoid the old men’s gazes toward my black, tight covered legs.

3:22PM- Jackson: “This is Jackson. Exit on your left” I never thought those words would sound so sweet and be my escape. I hear a muffled piercing sound and I’m unable to tell if it is the music of the train on the tracks opposite to me or the sounds of an electric guitar. I continued walking in an effort to try and clear up this confusion and found a white teen with dirty long blond hair, strumming a pearl colored guitar, with two black men a bit older than him. One of the black men, short with a flat top and bright white shoes, raps as the other, a tall man in a red jump suit bounces his head, begins to beat box in unison. The beat playing in the background sounds like a baby crying in the night, which is ironic because a little girl drops her doll, begins to cry, adding to the music.  Since the mom is so entranced by the music, she ignores her daughter’s cries. I walk over, pick up the doll, and hand it to the baby, getting a little spit on me in the process. Before I know it, I realize I am bouncing my head and tapping my foot to the beat, but I am not the only one.

The gentleman next to me is clicking his shoes on the cool, dirty floor, contributing to the music. He then springs up from the bench and begins doing a full on tap routine! This man is rocking out and playing the air drums. Some people are recording him, while others are rolling their eyes because he is blocking the walkway. But, he does not notice any of this. He just spins like an unstoppable tire rolling down a hill. This guy must be a regular, because when he starts to loose momentum a man walking by shakes hands with him and asks him how he is doing, while he keeps dancing and talking. There is no stopping this jumping bean. He even takes out a vine of grapes and continues to tap and eat, tap and eat. I am confused and a bit nauseous but impressed.

I focus back in on the lyrics to the music and realize they are rapping about Chicago and the streets. Some of their lyrics include, “tell the little kids to stay in school and maybe they can become the president.” They sing a song where the chorus repeats, “I got Chicago at you,” and they do. There is this incredible, ordinary man tap dancing, while a little boy in a Spiderman hat and glasses jumps up and down, and a skinny teenager shakes it as he passes the crowd to the BlueLine. This is Chicago, a mixed group of funky characters being themselves and making and enjoying music.
A friend of the shorter black man high fives him as he sits next to me with a box of sausage deep-dish pizza. Not only can I see Chicago right now, but also I can taste it. As I became lost in Chicago frenzy within myself, I suddenly spotted the Chicago Police Department circling around the performers like sharks circling a school of fish. The performers do not stop playing their jubilant music as the sharks circle around them two to three times. They finally go in for the kill, asking them for their performing licenses. One of the cops with a grumpy face chewing on a red straw proceeds to tell them that this is a train stop and they are “too loud and need to turn it down or go.” The taller black man mumbles that the cops are “disrespectful to their music” and the tapping man calms him down as he compliantly turns down the volume. I figured this would be a good time to ask the group a few generic questions I wrote down like “How do you know each other? When did you develop this group?” I tapped the shorter guy on the shoulder and told him I am a journalist writing about Chicago’s music scene and would like to ask him a few questions when he got a moment. He told me he could talk to me right then and there.

I introduced myself and shook hands with him. He tells me his name is Patrick Barton, born and raised in Chicago, and has performed music for as long as he has remembered. I started with my first question, “How do you gentlemen know each other?” He explained to me that they just met an hour ago. Not only am I in complete shock, but I am also completely turned around now with my useless questions that addressed the makings and meanings behind their group. I decide to go in a different direction and just have a conversation flow naturally between us, like the music surrounding us, about Chicago and music. Patrick explained how music is his life here in Chicago.

“I mean when you got nothing else to do, and you know, you don’t wanna do nothing wrong, so music is just everything to me,” said Patrick.  Music is a way for the performers to escape the daily struggles of living in the City of Chicago.

“We do music to make our time pass and to try and make our pains get better,” explained Patrick. When asked what specific pains he endures he replied with “evictions, rent, no food, and other stuff like that.”
Although just meeting these musicians a couple hours prior, they have already taught Patrick many skills. “He likes singing and rapping and I like singing and rapping, so he is just teaching me more about rapping as we perform,” said Patrick. Patrick did not only learn more about music with these men, but also about equality.
“ They say black and white cannot get together in Chicago, but we really can, cus I mean all of us are together. We are not bothering each other we are making music together,” Patrick boldly proclaimed.
Like this group of musicians Patrick describes his music as being diverse. “ It is anything you feel. We do not write our music down. We talk about any questions we have and this is what makes us calm. It is life,” Patrick stated.

I asked him about his musical dreams, imaging them to be bold similarly to him, but I got a different response.
“Everybody got future dreams, but you know only 5 out of 100 are going to get picked. But my dream is to show people that black people can do more than rap,” Patrick said.

When I referenced to the police sharks, Patrick continued to surprise me with his insights. “They come up to us a lot and bother us, but I mean they are just trying to do their job. You can’t control everyone,” Patrick said.
I thanked Patrick again and walked up the stairs to the streets, trying to follow my original plan of finding another musician, but I was impacted greatly by Patrick and the other performers. I felt I could not get any more material today. I wish Patrick and the soulful performers could play their music forever, without interruptions, without the worry of money, and without the worry of equality. I felt sick to my stomach. How could people who created such beautiful, raw music, live in a life full of disappointments and struggles?
I went back down to the train, but at the Monroe stop, because I did not want to deal with my fluctuating emotions of pure bliss and melancholy.

5:30 PM- Monroe going towards Howard: Still emotional, I sat down on the train next to a black man with an instrument case. I observed him while he was not looking. He was about 5’10” with a pea coat and big brown eyes. I thought about my ride to the Jackson stop with all of the quiet, technology absorbed zombies, and decided I would talk to this man, who clearly was some type of musician. “ What instrument is in there?” I asked a bit coyly. He told me it was a guitar and that he played. I knew the conversation could have and probably should have ended there, considering the code of “pretend like no one else but you exists on the train” train laws, but I was curious about this man and his instrument. I asked him how long he had been playing, and he explained to me ever since he was 9. He was from Mississippi and his mother was killed at age 9, so guitar as his only item, he headed down to Chicago for music. He joked about how he came in the winter with just his guitar and no coat. He said he had no idea what he was getting himself into, much like me from California. We continued to talk about his story and how he started off playing on the streets and eventually got a job playing guitar.  I asked him if he played for fun or work and he replied with “ I have fun playing it and it is for work, but fun comes first.” I told him he had the best of both worlds and asked what type of places he plays at. He said many venues all over the country including the Bongo Room in California. I wanted to keep talking to this compelling musician, but I heard the words “This is Fullerton exit on your right”. I told him I had to leave unfortunately, but he was an interesting guy and I enjoyed our conversation. He shook my hand and gave me a flyer of him that said “Chainsaw Dupont” and to look him up.  I told him I most definitely will and hurried off the train.

6PM: Corcoran Hall- My bed: I was exhausted, overwhelmed, and amazed by my little journey on the train. I could still here the unique music and stories of the musicians’ ringing in my head and could not wait to hear the next musical geniuses tomorrow at some point on the RedLine.