Walked into the heart of Chicago. Garcia's Chicago felt like love in the dream coming true, one stitched together with 16x20 prints of Jerry Garcia, iconic snapshots that dripped nostalgia. There was the band with Jim Belushi, just after he entered by cartwheel, frozen in a flash. A carton of Pall Malls on a shelf, walls lined with top-shelf vinyls—as if Jerry had just walked out and you had just walked in. The house band kept a silent vigil, waiting for the cosmic return.
April 5, 2025, at Garcia's Chicago: LaMP. A jazz-funk-electro trio that emerged from side projects and improv rooms, made up of Scott Metzger on guitar (Joe Russo's Almost Dead), keyboard wizard Ray Paczkowski, and relentless drummer Russ Lawton (both from the Trey Anastasio Band). Three musicians with chemistry that brews something utterly hypnotic. The sheer genius of memory and fluid sounds rounds nicely into the opening month. Chicago on a Saturday wrapped into velvet voicing something ancient and familiar all at the same time.
The show was sold out, and their merch had gone missing en route from the East Coast. What did they do? DIY, baby. They grabbed some t-shirts from a defunct JoAnn Fabrics store down the street and turned their hotel room into an art studio. An hour after doors, the hand-painted, hotel-hairdryer-dried shirts were sold out. Thirty bucks a piece for a story you can wear. Love, commerce, and a little LaMP-lit hustle.
They banged the hell out of rental instruments on stage, but capable hands gave the gear a borrowed voice. They made it sing. From the very first downbeat, a pulse emerged—steady, intentional. The food came, and so did a tequila and diet from my new friend. I declined as it doesn’t pair with wine, but the spirit of Jerry lingered heavy. Taking it all in, I tried to preserve the reverence of the moment.
Ray's keys, wizardous and wondrous, carried the early set. LaMP may start percussive, but their sophomore album is balanced like a meal. Garcia's felt like your best friend's living room if your best friend had exceptional taste and a three-level seating layout. General Admission hung by doorways and corners; the middle tier swirled with movement and polite nods. Everyone seemed to know how to treat a server—like maybe they'd been one once. The grooves were a dance step to get out of the way, and the smiles shared let you know this boogie is for real.
They offered tones I'd been craving: a warm bass, clear treble, a suitcase organ chucking out a low-down funky ball of confusion. Go off, Ray, go off. Metzger watching, waiting. Their interplay was a delicate dance: subtle glances, sonic telepathy. The samba slipped in, and suddenly Metzger sang without words, serenading the room with soft, glowing LaMP of guitar. The redefined elephant offered us all a ride, soon come to the samba while Scott Metger just watched Ray. We can make it if we try, try. It's such a happy place to have a full belly full of sound.
The San Rafael salad left a lasting impression. So did the space the band gave us to feel. This was a chapel of improvisation, of sonic deconstruction and reconstruction. A psychedelic semicolon in time. We were the dots and dashes. The genius was splattered like Pollock across the beat. Set break came at the hour mark, and it felt like a shock. Time? Already?
LaMP's new album—One of Us—nearly sold out at the merch booth. Todd compared it to "selling cigarettes in a speakeasy." The grooves came smooth. Russ Lawton never stopped—the man's a metronome with soul. Even his slow grooves slinked sexy. Outside, a Cybertruck rolled past. I laughed like Nelson from The Simpsons, but tucked my smugness away. Too soft, too blissful. Back inside, the band cooked. Literally and sonically.
By the second set, smells from the kitchen commingled with synths. 200 people climbing and leaning and peeking to glimpse the new shrine that is Garcia's. A quote flickered in my brain:
“For those of you in the cheap seats, clap your hands. The rest of you can rattle your jewelry.” - John Lennon
Overhead, the announcement came to sparkle the standing crowd and those still seated. “We welcome you to dance and mingle.” Permission granted and encouraged. Improvisation swirled like smoke. That San Rafael salad may have still been stuck in my teeth, but the flavor was LaMP. I spotted a woman in the front, her shirt reading "Please Stop Talking," ponytail held high, dancing all night. A blessing. Her money was well spent and her soul shone without saying a word. She never sat down.
Meanwhile, the corner booth Kardashians did shots like they were in Vegas, not realizing there was music 20 feet away. Five tables butted up to the stage—maybe not comfy, but intimate. Danceable? Debatable. The middle tier, though—that was the creme puff sweet spot. Copland commanded with jazz echoes and a Satriani groove. A soft breeze flickered the lights and reignited the crowd. A third attempt finally sold the vinyl to a determined fan who expanded her collection, but not before she sizzled in her station, absorbing every note. The stock grew slim, so she had to act before the opportunity evaporated.
Stories echo from every corner, and the cacophony of gentle chaos leaves space to contemplate life passing us all by. How will we decorate our time? Moments stolen from time now hung on the walls with wide eyes and open ears. Keeping the flame burning for your return, steady and sweet.
"Nice Girl (Walks Loud)" announced the coming close. "One of Us," the title track, came with a wave of community. Drinks migrated to the empty Kardashian table. Freak flags were flying as a Phish 1.0 gal grooved on down to take her manifest in the open booth. The black box theatre of Garcia's swallowed us whole and breathed us back out brighter.
Ray Paczkowski had to say it as the time grew near, “This is gonna be our last song. Ahhhh, I know. But we're not just gonna play and leave. Come hang out afterward.”
And so we danced inside our heads and hearts. A moon like ice cream floated outside. The instruments may have been borrowed, but they were played like home. Every bit of merch gone. A guy next to me with a milkshake grinned, "This is just what we needed. A little upscale wookery."
