The 17-year itch

One of these little effers climbed up in my shorts and I didn't know it until I came back inside. Talk about losing a few years...

It's about 90 degrees and big thunderstorms are rolling in.

It'll be a respite from a day of heat, humidity and staring mortality right in the face.

How did I come to grok about my passing? Simple. Millions and millions of 17-year cicadas.

The next time these things come around, I'll be 62 years old (shudder), if I make it that long (knock on wood). They're everywhere here in suburban Chicago, flying lazy loops, filling the trees, chirping and chittering and buzzing like a fuzz guitar. Some classical concerts at Ravinia have been switched around with rock shows so that the little beasties don't drown out the music.

But these things are music in their own way, going in and out of phase like two chirpy jet engines thrumming and humming in cycles.

Speaking of music, I caught The New Standards tonight in a teeny little club in Wicker Park called Davenport's. The New Standards are a cover band -- but that's like calling the Grand Canyon a ditch. They play covers like you've never heard.

There were all of 17 of us in the audience, and the performance was relaxed, entertaining, and outstanding. With my nose to the grindstone once again, I didn't walk in until 30 minutes into the show, but was infinitely rewarded by making the effort to get there.

I'm not sure what I missed in the first 30 minutes other than the 'Mats "I Will Dare", but upon being seated and taking a pull on the first of my two-drink minimum, Britney Spears' "Toxic" came creeping out of this trio of piano, bass and vibraphone like pop voodoo.

Next up was Outkast's "Hey Ya", and it is not to be missed if you get the chance to say ya. The head of Steve Roehm's vibe mallet flew off in the middle of the number, prompting Chan to reveal that's one reason the jazz guys don't allow them into their camp.

Then we were treated to an incredible version of the Magnetic Fields' "The Book of Love" and a Lucinda Williams chestnut, followed by an improvised jam on Chan's own "Girlfriend". Chan also added to my mortal reverie with a version of "Is That All There Is?" that made Peggy Lee seem like a cloddish dunce. Not that her version is unfeeling, but Chan gives it that little tweak that he does -- and with Steve Roehm revealing his genius on the vibes, passing away in one's striped jammies doesn't seem all that bad.

"Under Pressure" was next, and John Munson's clear, soaring voice made me simultaneously wonder "Freddie Who?" and pine for the Toolmaster of Brainerd, the Trip Shakespeare treasure I haven't heard in years and years. I think I've spaced a few songs, but anyway...

Time for an encore, and this one delivered. We got Blur's "Song 2" -- you know, the one that's so easy to scream along to with the driving rhythm guitar and all the WOO Hoos? only this time, it was vibes, piano and Munson's inventive bass. And the fan-girl in the corner delivered with some well-timed WOO Hoo's of her own.

Shame that there were only 17 of us there, but that made it rather fun to hang out for a few minutes afterward, where nearly everyone had a drink with the band. And bonus! I picked up a CD for a paltry ten clams AND got to hear the latest gossip about Beej. One 27-year fan had driven up from Indiana with his posse, came up and said hi and recognized me from my myspace page. That gave me a little start, but I guess that's the whole point of social networking, innit?