Tonka didn’t try to be ignored. It just sort of happened.
In the mid 90’s, in the Wicker Park neighborhood, in Chicago, Illinois, the streets smelled of damp concrete, unbridled ambition. and a hint of urine. North Avenue was a border, Ashland Avenue was the challenge and the neighborhood signage warned “No Prostitution”.
Tonka rehearsed in a low-ceiling, damp, basement with an aroma of electricity and incense (lol). The rusty pipes and cheap dry wall reveled in the atomosphere.
Tonka started with two childhood friends from the South Side. They were drummers together in rhythms both precise and catastrophic. After one moved to San Francisco, the band was left with a single new replacement stepping in with quiet confidence and eventually marrying the poet who was the lead singer.
Tonka was not named after toy trucks. Some remember it as being named after the tonka tree known for stubbornness, rarity, and fragrance. Others remember it differently. The typography of the name was sometimes rendered TONka for reasons unknown. Was the name a signal that the band would resist understanding, and a promise they would carve their own crooked path?
Tonka had a sound committed to jazz mentalism infused by punk velocity. The saxophone screamed and the guitar cut across, jagged and relentless. The drummer(s) pushed forward like a train about to derail. Above all the chaos was the poet with ethereal melodies and wisdom.
A bassist appeared briefly, competent but larcenous. The guitar player decided he could just detune the thick strings to make up the difference. There was even a clarinet player at one point, and possibly a cellist, just because it was Wicker Park, in Chicago, Illinois, in the mid ’90s.
Tonka played all the clubs that would have them. The Czar Bar had sticky floors and nodding heads, smoky and distant. The Gallery Cabaret was more suitable as the band’s artistry outshone polite disinterest.
Tonka never played Lounge Ax, although the guitarist and saxophonist collaborated with Carnivale de Carnitas for a single memorable set. The saxophonist swapped his horn for a heavy distorted autoharp and wailed jazz-punk machinery gone wild. The crowd, such as it was, were as pleased as could be expected listening to an obscure opening band.
Tonka appeared live on WHPK, the University of Chicago radio station. Late-night listeners may have caught the songs through cheap speakers, dorm rooms, and kitchen appliances. Perhaps for a brief moment somewhere, someone understood.
Tonka recorded their epic pop. in that basement a stones throw from North and Ashland with cheap mics, buzzing boards, and borrowed reel-to-reel gear. One afternoon, everything was gone. No locks broken but everything stolen. Luckily, they still had digital masters.
Something had shifted. Songs shrank, fights ended quickly, rents rose, clubs changed, and people just burned out. There was an official breakup but it was anticlimactic. The basement was already filled with someone else’s junk.
If you are lucky, you may still hear the whispers, “Remember Tonka?” and someone might nod, unsure why.