Time Out Chicago Nightlife editor (and Musical Curator for Dialogue Incorporated) Joshua P. Ferguson treks from West Town to Wrigleyville in search of beats, booze and a berry-filled breakfast.
Midnight The night starts at Bar DeVille (701 N Damen Ave, 312-929-2349), a neighborhood watering hole whose style meter is cranked to 11. It’s ablaze with hipsters and intellectuals sporting so much ink you’d think it garnered a discount on drinks. I sidle up to the bar and settle into my beer of choice—I’m perpetually living the High Life.
12:14am Resident mixologist Brad Bolt offers a shot of Rhum Clement VSOP, a rum made in Martinique. How can I turn that down?
12:45am I run into TOC Eat Out writer Julia Kramer, who tells me a crazy story about a SWAT team invading her neighborhood and tries to set me up with her sister.
1:21am After submitting to two incriminating sessions in DeVille’s vintage photo booth, I head back out into the night with three shots and three beers under my belt.
1:40am I arrive at Sonotheque (1444 W Chicago Ave, 312-226-7600), proud owner of the best sound system in West Town, to find that the Crossfader Kings, Matt Roan and E-Six, have the crowd properly riled. The girls are dolled up in spring dresses, bows in their hair, nails did. Miraculously, the guys have managed to keep the ironic T-shirts to a minimum.
2:25am Drinks clank, splash and shatter on pace with the music. It gets so rowdy I have to rescue Roan’s computer from the dance floor after it takes a tumble, leaving the room in silence. The Crossfader Kings hoist me up in the air as if I just threw the game-winning pass.
2:40am The party is descending into drunken madness. After hearing three Operation Ivy tracks in a row, it’s time to go.
3am I’m in Wicker Park and I’m looking for a DJ, which means I’m headed to Evil Olive(1551 W Division Ave, 773-235-9100). Judging by the mass of people undulating like a human Jell-O mold on the dance floor, I’m not the only one.
3:10am Olive’s out of High Life, so I order a couple of Coronas and join a few friends in what is now—upon reflection—a very hazy conversation about horror flicks.
5am My crew and I step out into a sun so bright I feel like a vampire in a weakened state. With no desire for the neighborhood Mexican offerings, we caravan uptown for end-of-the-night munchies at Pick Me Up Café (3408 N Clark St, 773-248-6613).
5:30am Surrounded by other tables of postparty revelers, I order coffee and dive headfirst into a plate of pancakes smothered in butter and some sort of berry topping.
5:55am I pass out during the ride home.