For a certain subset of Chicago’s nightworld—nestled softly in the décolletage of the curatorial performance/music Venn diagram—only the myopic brink of the stage or the throbbing medulla of the DJ booth could truly be considered home. To see such crepuscular personages in the heather light of day, one must venture beyond the eventide to Gaslight Coffee Roasters, where Selene holds recess court: nightlife mavens and members of self-described “queer-electro-fuck” bands—a short El-shaded walk from their rehearsal space—and various DJs and restaurateurs suck down the stimulants necessary to do business when noon could be considered matutinal. Come in, have a cup (noir, mais bien sur) and marvel at the quotidian chrematistic side of the Cimmerian before the moon rises and the Gaslight Diaspora disperses.
