Early Mornings and Late Nights with The Lemons
by Michael Madden
It was 5.30 when he arrived. The day’s dying light was giving way to the more customary Chicago chill as the regulars followed the sun’s lead, and slowly exited the Parts and Labor bar. Against the backdrop of the fading haze entered Chris Kramer. His denim clad arms clung tightly to the guitar cases as he waded through the front doors, trying to maintain his balance as the glass panes swung back towards him. Introducing himself to the staff by his ‘The Lemons’ pseudonym (Chris Twist), Kramer continued to haul his wiry frame and heavy load past the departing customers.
‘Is this the stage, Max?’ called Kramer to his fellow Lemon, with his bouncing eyes searching across the room for an alternative to the small area laid clear by the bar staff. Max Epstein, (or John Lemon as he is known in the Lemon world) nods his head spasmodically, with his short curls and pale skin the only distinguishable features beyond the glasses and baseball cap that shelter his face.
Kramer is currently one of a band of five, and one of a million other musicians who seek to carve their own little space into the crowded house of the indie music scene. Whether it was with his two-piece group Slushy or now with The Lemons, Kramer displays the kind of compulsion to play and create that bewilders the onlooker and represents the long lineage of artists who still struggle against themselves in the name of self-expression.
Whether playing an empty roadhouse in Florida, or a dive bar run by bikers in New Orleans, Kramer has always managed to forget about the hardships that the reality of the Rock n’ Roll dream throws at him, and persevere with the childlike enthusiasm that he emits from every guitar jangling performance.
On this particular night it was ‘The Burger Revolution’ that Kramer was bringing his mile wide grin and shaggy, hair-waving charm to. This is an event promoting the live performances of indie artists in venues all over the world from Tel Aviv to London, New York to Rome. Kramer’s band, The Lemons were opening the Logan Square incarnation and, despite the worldwide reach, The Burger Revolution was unfolding like little more than just another night for Kramer.
“Hey, I’ll be back in a minute. I need to park the van first,” he called to his band-mates, dropping the guitar cases with a clatter. After a scratch of his head the realization that he forgot the snare drum then appeared to him.
“I’m going to the apartment too, if anybody needs to come with me.”
Back he went, slaloming through the ice crusted streets in a beaten-up, 90’s era Toyota Previa, littered with cassettes and cigarette ash. Accompanied by his fellow Lemon Epstein, they went back to the band’s Logan Square apartment.
Inside the basement/kitchen/recording studio, they tried to avoid the distraction of a stoned friend buttering his way through a loaf of bread, and set about finding the snare drum. The room, crammed with analogue synths, vintage guitars, and Kramer’s record collection was, like the minivan, enamored with the stench of eye-reddening smoke that could make an anchor fly.
“We’re kinda like the Partridge family… except with weed,” said Kramer, as he roughly brushed his lank blonde hair away from his bouncing eyes.
Indeed The Lemons, since their formation four years ago, have built up a reputation as the “sunshine band of Chicago.” Their music is light, happy, and rarely outlasts the two-minute mark per song. Online fans have also, to the chagrin of Kramer who prefers “Rock N Roll,” described The Lemons sound as “bubble-gum pop so sweet that it could give you a toothache.” The band’s retro 60’s jangle, mixed with their stoner punk appearance and a lexicon of lemon based puns (‘Lemon Shake up’ anyone?) gives off an air of calculated randomness.
However, the genesis behind their very particular, and largely unique aesthetic is a lot less considered than one would think.
“It all just seemed funny,” said Kramer, again swiping a rogue hair from his line of vision. ‘It seemed funny to do seven minute sets, it seemed funny to record stupid sounds, it seemed funny to have dumb stage names.’
A native of Omaha, Nebraska, Kramer first got involved in music through his father, who would teach him on his 12-string guitar. From there he picked up piano, bass, drums, music production and, to an extent, the saxophone which he describes his abilities on as, “half my fault, half the sax’s fault.”
Following his then-wife’s change of job location, Kramer then arrived in Chicago in 2009, seeking to quickly involve himself in the local music scene.
“In the Mid-West its kinda the place to be,” he said almost apologetically, like he was still sorry for abandoning his hometown.
His first gig was at Hotti Biscotti (“RIP’ he added remorsefully) where he accompanied his solo guitar and vocal performance with just a drum machine. In a moment that he categorizes as one of many “lucky breaks,” in the crowd at his first performance was the aforementioned Epstein. A brief meeting after the gig then served as the basis to a strong musical and personal friendship between the two. Epstein, who Kramer affectionately describes as “the man behind the curtain,” was also involved with Kramer’s other band, Slushy.
Similar to the music of The Lemons, Slushy, who were formed in 2010, were a two-piece studio band that incorporated numerous other local musicians during live performances. However, trying to pin down just who these members were at each stage of the bands existence is like trapping a fly with a cheese grater. As Kramer points out when defining the Chicago music scene, “Everybody plays in everybody else’s bands. You get used to it after a while.”
Kramer’s original bandmate and co-founder of Slushy, Brent Zmrhal is currently still an official member of the band however his relocation to Seattle has more or less ended the immediate future of Slushy. The absence of Zmrhal, and the addition of Kelly Nothing, Kimmy Slice, and Juicy James to the musical partnership that Kramer already forged with Epstein, has eventually led to the sunshine brand of Rock N’ Roll that The Lemons emanate from their Logan Square base.
For a band to be so focused on the bright side of life, the natural inclination for any onlooker would be to question how to always keep smiling.
Kramer acknowledges that the life of a musician is not an easy one.
“You can’t survive on music alone,” confessed Kramer, who is a journalism graduate from the University of Nebraska. “All of the members in the band work other jobs. I work nine to five downtown for a marketing company… But life isn’t that bad.” He continued, “It’s easy to stay happy on stage, it’s the best thing I get to do.”
On the way back to the venue, the two reminisced about the origins of The Lemons. Snare drum in hand, Kramer bashfully began, “Me and Max started about five years ago,” he said, his words stumbling past his cigarette. “We would write these little jingles for, like, Logan’s Theatre.” At this point Max and Kramer hum the chorus line a few times for nostalgia’s sake, before breaking up into laughter. “Did we ever try to sell those to the companies?” asked Epstein. “Oh god no, they never heard them.”
Upon arrival at Parts and Labor, the tension of the band seemed to rise along with the increase in audience numbers. “We usually win them over by the end,” said Kramer as he began to trawl through his memory bank.
“I think it was in Florida that we played to like, 4 people,” he recalled. “We ended up playing ‘Ice Cream shop’ a record 14 times, I think we even did a dub version near the end.” To the uninitiated, Ice cream shop is a 27 second burst of Lemons’ pop that fizzes past your ears like a shook up bottle of Sprite.
There would be no such problem tonight. The crowd, mostly angel headed hipsters, filled the entirety of the stage floor now, with a sea of fake Buddy Holly rimmed glasses and plaid shirts canvasing the bar. Among the crowd was the band’s housemate Maddie Williams.
“Chris is just so warm-hearted; there’s always a smile on his face,” said Williams, bouncing gently on the balls of her feet. “His music is such a reflection of his personality,” she continued, “A band that lives downstairs could be the worst thing in the world, but Chris and the guys are just wonderful housemates.”
Soon they were onstage, and almost as soon they were back off again. High energy and short song length meant that their set of 12 songs was no more than fifteen to twenty minutes long.
“Play the long version,” heckled one unimpressed member of the crowd, as the band rattled through their jangling jingles, without reprieve.
Standing on stage, guitar in hand, Kramer looked the physical epitome of what you expect an indie rock n roller to look like. Years of playing and touring across the country have molded him into a lean, shaggy haired brush shaft, held together with tight, pale denim. He played and sang loosely, as his head bobbed back and forth to the beat. Really on stage, whether as Chris Kramer or Chris Twist, he seems to undergo no transition. There is no dichotomy in character, no façade in his performance. When you see him smile across stage at his fellow Lemons you can believe it is genuine. He’s just happy to be playing.
“My Ultimate goal?” he repeated, trying not to laugh at the question. “An LP for the Lemons would be cool, but really, I’d also like to be able to pay our rent.”
The Lemons are playing the Rhinoceropolis in Denver on the 22nd of June as a part of their summer US tour.
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