I’d never been here before. The building was nondescript, sitting on a dark street, and standing outside in the snow, I had no idea what to expect. My only indication was a neon basketball-shaped sign that said “Joe’s.” I showed my ID to the guy standing outside the door and walked in.

Once I was inside, I brushed snowflakes from my jacket and stomped my boots on the mat. I felt the warmth of the indoors as well as the warmth of the hardwood décor that filled the bar’s interior. Neon lights gleamed off polished wood surfaces, beer-label-etched mirrors, and the shiny taps lining the bar. I stopped dusting myself off immediately, and as I stood there transfixed, it began to dawn on me that this room was no larger than fifteen tables, and there was hardly a soul in it.

“Ten dollars” jolted me to reality, when the hostess asked for my cover. I reluctantly paid, but then, the hostess said, “The band’s in the back,” pointing with her thumb over her left shoulder. Walking in the direction I was pointed, I found my way through a narrow hallway a few feet long. To my astonishment, when I crossed through, I emerged inside a huge warehouse-sized concert hall. In literally just a few steps, I’d gone from a roadhouse-style restaurant to a honky tonk-style barroom.

The journey to get here, though, was what took the longest.

I had been living in Chicago for eight months. My stay had led me inside local dives, Miami-inspired lounges, L.A.-designed nightclubs, and New York-style cocktail bars. But homesick for Music City, what I wanted most was a Nashville-tinged honky tonk like the ones on Legends Corner. My searches were coming up empty though, and my spirit was diminishing. But fate interceded in the form of a coworker; she said every Friday night was country night at Joe’s.

I heard this on a Tuesday, and in seventy-two hours, I was on my way.

When I told the cabbie “Joe’s on Weed Street,” he drove me to a part of town I’d never seen before and dropped me off on a corner. I wasn’t sure this was where I wanted to go, but I chalked it up to the difference between my accent and his.

I stood in the snow, looking down a dimly lit street, which was marked by a sign that did say “Weed St.,” for a place I couldn’t immediately see. Joe’s wasn’t conspicuous from where I was standing, but I could see a sangria bar, an off-track-betting establishment, and an 80’s disco. More pointedly though, directly across the street from me, there stood a big chain, stereotypical country bar, complete with mechanical bull and kitschy name. I thought again, maybe it was my accent?

Determined to find my destination, I counted the building numbers and saw that Joe’s was two doors down. And so I walked on, through the snow and past the mechanical bull, towards the honky tonk arms of Joe’s.

When I found Joe’s sign, a guy standing just outside the door asked for my ID. He needed a moment to decipher my Tennessee driver’s license, so as I waited, I glanced at my surroundings, especially back at the kitschy country bar. Was this a brilliant strategy or what? Just like any good honky tonk, Joe’s sat out of the way; plus, it sat strategically down from a novelty country bar that would magically weed out any imposters with its mechanical bull. Only those country music purists looking for the real deal would be the ones who found Joe’s. At least that was my hope because here I was, walking through the front door of a sports bar, looking for live country music.

The backroom at Joe’s engulfed me. (I’d say it is at least 1,500 square feet if it’s an inch.) As I entered the wide-open expanse before me, I felt as if I’d actually left the city. All I could see in the barroom before me was hardwood, neon signs, a huge stage, and people decked out in true cowboy (or cowgirl) fashion. Their stocking caps and scarves had been traded for cowboy hats and western-style belt buckles. Little ladies in tank tops and tight jeans moved about the dance floor, while the gentlemen, dressed mostly in Levi’s and boots, stuck to the outskirts. Never had I seen a sight like this anywhere in Chicago.

Up on the stage, the source of inspiration for the ladies, a band performed Tim McGraw. I proceeded to the bar, found a stool, and immediately began drinking in the atmosphere, which went down nicely with a cold beer. Sitting on my stool, enamored with this honky tonk in the middle of Chicago, I spotted flyers all over the walls for upcoming concerts: Miranda Lambert, Phil Vassar, and Emerson Drive.

A few drinks in, and I was getting a sense of what “country night” was all about. Joe’s seemed to recognize the power and draw that country music has on people everywhere, even in the heart of the Midwest’s most cosmopolitan city. More importantly, Joe’s had definitely carved out its niche as a real-live honky tonk, catering to folks like me.

As I prepared to settle up my tab and leave, I commented to the bartender how great the band was and how surprised I was at my find. With a mildly offended look, his reply was quick and spot on, “Great country music’s not just in Nashville anymore,” and I will forever be grateful to the likes of Joe’s for making that so. Brandon Dyce