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Night Moves: Guitarist Elisse La Roches of Canadian Girlfriends parties like it's the Fourth of July

Hourly dispatches from the bar and club scene


Elisse La Roche is the guitarist for the Chicago-based all-female rock band Canadian Girlfriends. Her blog, Field Notes, can be found at


Saturday started out like any other: band practice, giggles, and pizza, followed by Negronis di Aquila on the back patio at Longman & Eagle with some friends. I couldn't stay long, though, because Fucked Up was playing an early all-ages show. To be honest, I love going to shows while the sun is still up. I guess I'm just an old man at heart. Dinner at 4:30 PM sounds wonderful to me.

I met my BFF/drum teacher Matt Holland, and we rode our bikes over to Lincoln Hall. I would like to point out that I rarely go to Lincoln Hall; I am never anywhere near Lincoln Park. I felt deep remorse, like I was cheating on the Empty Bottle.


Jeff the Brotherhood—a two-piece from Nashville who blew my mind last September—opened the show. I made sure to get there early enough to see their entire set. It did not disappoint. The dual drummers at the end killed it. Then Fucked Up hit the stage. I didn't think for a second I would end up in a mosh pit (I'm too old for that, right?), but by the third note I found myself wedged between a sweaty, shirtless dude and some 18-year-old, bouncing up and down and singing every word. I always say I'm not going in the mosh pit, yet find myself thrashing around like an epileptic child every time the opportunity arises.

After the show we booked it back to Logan Square. We hit up a party: hugs and beers abounded. Luckily, it was close enough to the 4th that there were a ton of fireworks. Why aren't more holidays celebrated by blowing things up? I bet those pilgrims would have totally blown up a turkey had they possessed the proper explosives at the first Thanksgiving.


Then porch hangs, stolen ice cream from someone's freezer, and a bike gang to escort me home, where Marge the cat and I snuggled up. I read approximately four pages of Infinite Jest before passing out hard on top of the blankets.

There is nothing, absolutely nothing, that compares to Chicago in the summertime.

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