The Chicago musical community lost three great men on Thursday. Michael Dahlquist, John Glick, and Doug Meis were killed at an intersection in Skokie while on their lunch break from their day jobs. The outpouring of emotion from their friends and peers in the last few days is testament to what terrific guys they were. One of them, Dahlquist, was like a brother to me, as he was to a lot of people, and I wanted to say something publicly about him.
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When I think of Michael Dahlquist, two images spring to mind. First, I imagine him drumming; he was a fantastic drummer. He played drums for Silkworm, a great band, and he played with titanic gusto. Arms swinging high overhead, knees hopping up to his chin, he played like he was trying to break the damn things. Next, I imagine him dancing, because he danced big, and he would do it anywhere. He danced like he played the drums, with a recklessness bounded not by modesty, but by concern for other people’s furniture. And his drums were huge. His special drum kit was a giant Slingerland from the swing era with a bass drum the size of a wagon wheel. He kept it in a pristine state of dilapidation, just as he found it, and this was his genius. His drums often resided at the studio where I work, and countless other drummers, intrigued by their immensity, would sit behind them and try to play them. Some famous, some greatly skilled, some merely curious, these pretenders all fell short. Like a demanding lover, this Stonehenge of drums would not yield to just anyone, but required the touch, the experience of her true mate to respond with affection. These drums sounded like shit when played by anyone other than Michael.
I am in a band, and my band played many shows with Silkworm. On a tour of western Canada (worst coffee ever) we witnessed the birth of a forest fire (most amazing natural disaster ever) from the parking lot of a hamburger stand that didn’t offer ice for its drinks (worst concession ever). Later, in Winnipeg, after both bands had played (most inappropriate crowd behavior ever), Michael disappeared with some filly (best crazy broad ever) and spent the night dancing at an impromptu speakeasy in a neighborhood apartment building. He returned while it was still dark to our flophouse accommodations (most tragic hotel ever), and shortly we all discovered that someone had set a dozen Dumpsters behind the hotel on fire, and that we might all be burned to death. That didn’t happen, so it was the best weird day on tour ever.
Steve Albini
