Before you can get the perfect take, you have to be able to lock in, and Ratboys are quick to credit Walla as an observant producer who recognizes the parameters of each member’s comfort zone and helps them recreate it. Whenever Steiner entered the vocal booth, Walla noticed she would grab an object, usually a wheel of gaff tape, and fidget with it while singing. Rather than joke about it, he encouraged her to use it as a resource. “He was so perceptive and supportive,” recalls Steiner. “Eventually, when it was time to do a vocal take, Chris wouldn’t even say anything. He would just hand me the roll of tape, like, Off you go.”
Over email, Walla gushes about his time working with Ratboys. “Some [bands] are fractured and tormented and ultimately unsustainable, and the discord fuels the work until it doesn’t,” he explains. “Some are blissful and lucky and just happy to be there. Ratboys work because they work. Dave and Julia’s chemistry has a perpetual-motion-machine quality to it, and Julia also knows how to lead a band; she’s so clear and consistent, and she’s always got the goods. And holy cow she’s leading a great band.””
When we resurface outside, we’re thrust into Chicago winter: fluffy snow banks covering the grass, sidewalks slicked in ice, sharp wind redistributing the topmost layer of snowflakes back into the air. We shuffle past Ratboys’ shiny, newly purchased used camper van—its blinker needs fixing—and toward a well-worn SUV covered in snow. Sagan brushes off the windows and we all squeeze in. On the drive, they trade stories like tour guides, pointing out a neighborhood allegedly run by the Italian mob, a graffitied bridge in the woods where they smoke like high schoolers. In a city with two notoriously ill-fated baseball teams, Ratboys are split down the middle: two Sox fans, two Cubs fans.
We arrive at our destination: Gene & Jude’s. The old-school sign glowing atop the building beckons us inside, like some insignia of fast food proselytization. Built in 1950, the retro hotdog joint is the epitome of no-frills: Depression dogs and French fries, with toppings limited to mustard, relish, onions, and sport peppers. No ketchup; no seats. We eat standing up at the wraparound counter and revive our sports convo as a crew of construction workers ambles inside. Apart from her lifelong patronage of the Steelers, Steiner explains, she and her bandmates are Chicago-pilled through and through: Bears, Bulls, Blackhawks. As we talk at length about the Sox, it becomes clear they love the team not despite its foibles or financial pitfalls, but because it can’t help but carry on. You can love a losing team knowing there’s always next year, or you can be glad they’re here hustling in the present.
