The Concert Project I: The Polkaholics

Based on the absolutely asinine notion that at the age of 30, every man is issued a polo shirt, a small child and a home in the 847 or 630 area code, I am freaking the hell out.

Why? I'm turning 30 this year. And although I know that means nothing other than the ancient Arabs adopted a base 10 numerical system, it's still a landmark year for lameness.

Not that I'll be lamer. I'll continue doing the same things I always did and having the same amount of fun. I'll just be creepier.

"God, did you see that creepy old guy?" says the 19 year old to her friend and fellow underground film festival patron. "He must have been like ... 30."

And I know this is BS, but I'm a very neurotic person. I fretted when I turned 20 too.

But the point is, I've decided to spend this spring and summer going to as many concerts as I can. My goal is ... wait for it ... 10 before 30.

I decided not to count the two shows I've already gone to this year (Gene Ween and World/Inferno Friendship Society), so this means I have four months to hit 10 shows. Bar bands count, but when I go to Pitchfork, that will only count as one.

It might be expensive and there's a chance I won't make my goal, but by the end of summer, I will be one of those "concert guys" who scoffs at non-concert goers and who makes a big production about putting in ear plugs "To protect my hearing. I mean, I go to soooo many shows."

My first concert of the Concert Project came last night. And it was one of the greatest bands this fair city has to offer. Legends since 1997, The Polkaholics.

How can I describe The Polkaholics? Oh wait. I did. For another publication that killed the damn story. Too jokey, they said. But if they won't print it, that means I can.

Demanding only beer, respect and possibly the Sudetenland, the Polkaholics (fronted by UIC biostatistics professor Don Hedeker) have thrashed up a high-speed brew of excellent musicianship and awful clothing since 1997. It's punk polka at its finest.

The self-styled "Pimps of Polka" are a Chicago mainstay, their New Year's Eve show at the German Cultural Center is a burgeoning tradition and they dress like the band at a wedding where the bride's new last name is nothing but Zs, Ws and the suffix "ski."

Next show in town: May 2, Quenchers Saloon.

 And I even got a picture from the band:

 Dear lord, I love these men.

That's right. Punk polka. Thrashing, rocking, singing, screaming, whirling fun polka. No accordions. As one of their songs puts it, "we play Polkas on guitars."

And they're good. Beyond all the gimmickry -- the shiny vests and nerdy attitudes -- these are really good musicians. Their version of "The Chicken Dance" ramped up, faster and faster until the swinging, flapping crowd degraded into a slamming mess my friend Jill called "a polka pit," but these three men never missed a beat, misstrung a note or turned a sour phrase.

They have so much fun doing what they do that it's easy to forget that what they do is reeeeeeally hard. When Dandy Don Hedeker is running around the bar with his wireless guitar, you think "Oh, he's having so much fun," not "That must be difficult."

And you haven't lived until you've seen a polka guitarist do the Pete Townshend windmill.

The show was free in honor of Polish Constitution Day, but I spent $12 on beer.  My friends and I went our ways after the first set, but we left commenting on the underrated wonder that is this band. It was a fun, low-key night with some screaming, some dancing, some sing-along and fond memories of a night that was very Chicago and very, very fun.

Their next show is May 16 at The Atlantic Bar and Grill.

As for me, I'm 29. I have four months and nine concerts to go.

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Paul Dailing
Paul Dailing (pictured standing in front of the World's Largest Boot), now has a different haircut. He's also lost a bit of weight since that picture was taken, but not as much as he likes to think. More