Blue Chicago

You step off Clark Street straight into a wall of horns and loud guitar that rattles right through your boots. The door guy takes your cash with a quick nod and you're squeezing past a tight cluster of folks trying to catch the tail end of a blistering shuffle. It's hot, loud, and packed tighter than a CTA bus at five p.m.

Every inch of the walls is covered with framed photos of old school blues legends staring down at the crowd. The stage sits right there at the front so you're basically standing elbow-to-elbow with the bass player. It's a proper neighborhood saloon setup where nobody cares about fancy craft cocktails. You just grab a cold bottle of beer from the bartender who's slinging drinks without missing a beat of the solo.

Folks from all over the block pack in here on a random Tuesday, tourists rubbing shoulders with regulars who know every single guitar lick by heart. There's no coat check fuss or pretentious VIP section to worry about. The whole room keeps moving to that heavy rhythm until your ears are ringing on the sidewalk.