Jason and I recently found ourselves back in Chicago, land of deep-dish pizza and White Sox-loving Popes. The city takes me straight back to the Ferris Bueller and Cubs-watching days of my youth. I also came here after college, marveling at Dale Chihuly’s fantastical blown glass at the Garfield Conservatory and laughing until it hurt at Second City with friends.
This trip, I was somewhat reluctantly pulled from the end-of-year hustle, a time when taking a flight feels like a cruise ship casino gamble: you might get stranded and lose a fortune. Jason, in all his Smashing Pumpkins fanboy wisdom, impulsively bought tickets to see Billy Corgan and the Lyric Opera of Chicago perform Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness (MCIS) to celebrate its 30th anniversary.
Thirty years ago…where were you? For me, high school feels mostly like a distant memory, yet a single song from that era can instantly transport me back. The rites of passage like drivers’ licenses, sleeves of CDs, and players that skipped like stones come rushing back. MCIS is one of those albums for me.
Jaime Black wrote in the Lyric Opera guide that MCIS is “a combination of nihilism, sentimentality, and epic hope,” and, by golly, he wasn’t wrong. We didn’t know exactly what to expect, aside from Billy Corgan’s flair for the dramatic and his relentless pursuit to compose on his own terms. Jason has probably seen 70+ of his shows; I’ve attended a healthy fraction of that. Billy has always struck me as otherworldly; part demonic, part angelic, embodying all the rage and innocence in the world. And yet now, as he ages and has become a husband, father, and tea house owner, he feels more human than ever.
Walking into the world’s second-largest opera house, I was struck by its ornate gold-inlay architecture. My art class quiz show brain kicked in: Art Deco? Art Nouveau? A quick search confirmed it’s both (whew!) There was palpable energy as we wandered through the venue on opening night, abuzz with anticipation for something never attempted before. Event staff wore costumes straight out of an Edward Gorey illustration—lush black fabrics, ruffles, hats, spectacles—a tangible extension of Corgan’s signature vision, brought to life with his wife and father-in-law’s couture line.
Jason and I queued for merch, snagging a couple of posters before heading to our seats. On the way, we ran into a fellow Smashing Pumpkins devotee we’d met at a concert in DC. These are the kinds of people we’ve become.
What unfolded next was nothing short of awe-inspiring. It was the sort of witnessing of beauty that crumples your heart, squeezes out tears, and refills it with sheer brilliance. Who knew MCIS was born to be an opera? Billy did. He appeared on stage for a few numbers, singing in his signature style but with a visible giddiness and joy at the realization of a long-held dream. The orchestration, chorus, and opera singers elevated the music that had been etched into his heart since, dare I say, forever?
The final two songs, Porcelina and Tonight, Tonight, left me in tears. The troupe returned for a second encore, joined by Billy’s family, including two of his three children. I noticed his daughter tearing up while hugging him and I was reminded again that creations take on lives of their own.
As I tried to come down from the experience while holding onto its magic, I opened up my phone and watched a short video that a friend had sent me of Pope Leo XIV talking about AI to a group of young people. He reminded them that AI could never replace the human experience, it could never wonder the way we do, never dream up something like Billy and other artists and dreamers have done, serving as earthly vessels that transport us little glimpses of heaven. When it comes to awe, I’m going to have to side with these creatures from the city by the lake, the place where they were born.
Ps. The next day, while at the Art Institute of Chicago, we stumbled upon another small miracle: a proposal in front of Marc Chagall’s America Windows. She said yes.
