You Weren’t There: A History Of Chicago Punk 1977-1984

The City of Chicago, and to a greater degree, the state of Illinois, has been taking a lot of bad PR hits lately — and that’s not even acknowledging the increasingly surreal misadventures of the state’s former Governor, Rod Blagojevich. Looking at Chicago Mayor Richard Daley’s recent woes, one sees a laundry list of mismanaged affairs ranging from the Olympics to privatizing parking meters. Outside observers might think that Chicago has had a run of bad luck, but the truth is much more simple. Namely, this city has always had its troubles. It’s just that some generations have had more thrilling outlets for their frustrations than others.

Its clearly not the intention of You Weren’t There: A History of Chicago Punk 1977-1984, the new DVD about the birth of the Chicago punk scene, to serve as a sigh-inducing reminder that very little about the make-up of the city — racially, socioeconomically, politically — has changed since the years the film chronicles. However, in telling the story of a Midwestern city’s integration of punk rock through a series of imported records, makeshift music venues and misfit determination, the film elicits knowing chuckles from its viewers during the electrifying introductory sequences.

You Weren’t There’s opening 15 minutes effectively sets up a historical context that gave birth to the Windy City’s punk scene by introducing the high stakes of what being a punk meant in the late ‘70s and early ‘80s — namely, lots of harassment from police, drunken North Siders with random Devo fixations, hard rock fans (intriguingly enough, one interviewee points out that, despite the aesthetic similarities between hard rock, metal, and punk, fans of the first two absolutely despised those of the third) and ambitious politicians. From there, the film describes, using archival footage, present-day interviews and photo stills, how Chicago punk evolved from campy, theatrics-and-controversy-minded groups like Tutu and the Pirates and Silver Abuse, to more artistically ambitious, groups like Naked Raygun, Strike Under and The Effigies. Eventually, Chicago moves from more mid-tempo punk to faster, harder-edged bands like Articles of Faith, as well as more abstract ones before finally finishing with Big Black, the influential group led by Steve Albini.

If at this point, You Weren’t There sounds like a perfunctory cinematic checklist of musicians, venues and events of interest only to those who were, well, there, its easy to explain why. While There’s spirit of thorough documentation of the groups that made up Chicago punk and their artistic evolution is easy to admire from a completist’s point-of-view, too often, the film’s strident dedication to detailing as many bands and events as possible results in a film that feels disappointingly rote. Bands are introduced with great enthusiasm by many of the film’s insightful talking heads (which include former members of Naked Raygun, Big Black, and, easily the funniest of all the bands interviewed, Rights of The Accused) only to be tossed aside in favor of another band or anecdote. That means that groups with compelling, provocative artistic visions are only given momentary examination, resulting in frustration for both veterans wanting to see their favorite acts, and for newbies wanting to find out more.

But even if certain acts deserving of more in-depth examination are only shown for a moment’s notice, they’re still shown — usually, in thrilling amateur footage of essential punk bands in their prime. It’s that footage — along with illuminating, jaw-dropping clips from a punk-focused episode of The Phil Donahue Show and a patronizing vintage TV ad for a local radio station—that compels viewers to stick around There, as another tasty morsel of Naked Raygun and Big Black footage seems tantalizingly around the corner.

Ultimately, it’s because of these musical performances – and a few compelling narratives about inter-scene rivalries and feuds — that makes You Weren’t There work. What’s frustrating is that the film works much better as a historical document than it does as a music documentary; it’s the remembrances of the people in the scene itself that are much more engaging that the actual music that was created. But, most importantly, the film does work in the end. While directors Joe Losurdo and Christina Tillman lose the documentary’s focus far too often, viewers should find themselves wishing that they were There, just with perhaps not as much immediacy as they should, given what was at stake for the city of Chicago then, and, more importantly, now.

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