Rating the chanteuses of Potbelly Sandwich Works

The movers and shakers at Potbelly Sandwich Works apparently don’t think the city’s numerous live-music venues quite meet demand. Anyone who frequents the locally based chain has felt the awkward presence of one of Chicago’s surplus guitar-slingers, usually perched on a narrow loft above the tables, crooning covers of Three Doors Down—or worse. But not all Potbelly performers are created equal. The A.V. Club recently scouted numerous locations for talent, but usually had to eat its delicious toasted sandwich under oppressive musical conditions. Who blew it, and who truly earned the modest pay and free milkshakes? Here’s a rundown of conditions at some local Potbelly franchises:

190 N. State St.
The scene: An unassuming young man in jeans and a blue polo hunched over in a loft above a roaring lunch crowd. Without a microphone, he’s pretty hard to hear over all the chatter.
Songs: Third Eye Blind’s “Jumper.” Since he’s about 10 feet above the floor, the singer brings a stunning realism to the cheesy anti-suicide song. Plus: Weezer’s “Island In The Sun,” complete with a timid “hep-hep” between verses.
Stage presence: Between songs, he taps nervously on his guitar while deciding what to play. As he plays, he seems immersed in the songs, gently wagging his head or raising his eyes to the ceiling.
Musicianship: Guitar-wise, a competent beginner. He doesn’t sing very loudly, but manages to carry tunes without being melodramatic.
Reaction: He isn’t irritating, but he doesn’t add much to the atmosphere. Frankly, nobody seems to notice him, and he doesn’t really try to get anyone’s attention. It’s like watching a guy practicing alone in his room.
Prospects/prediction: Wooing coffeehouse chicks with intimate Top 40 serenades.

1625 N. Damen Ave.
The scene: A young woman with a marquee-unfriendly name (Jessica Borowski) wearing camouflage pants and a tank top. She actually seems to have a good feel for Potbelly’s acoustics.
Songs: Madonna’s “Open Your Heart,” David Gray’s “Babylon,” and Sarah McLachlan’s “Building A Mystery,” among others.
Stage presence: Confident and a little detached, which is appropriate in this case. An emotional barrage is the last thing customers want when they’re trying to enjoy toasty sandwiches. “I definitely try to blend in as much as possible,” Borowski tells The A.V. Club.
Musicianship: She combines a slight vocal twang with gentle strums and arpeggios. And she doesn’t plink away on the lower strings, so the sound is mostly pleasant and unobtrusive.
Reaction: The workers behind the sandwich counter clap for her— voluntarily—which never happens at these places. If people must play at Potbelly, they might as well do it like this. She sounds almost like a live version of a good pop station—familiar, but with some taste.
Prospects/prediction: At the very least, she’ll rise to the top of the local sandwich-shop circuit.

55 E. Jackson Blvd.
The scene: A skinny, pale boy noodles at a cream-colored Telecaster plugged into the world’s quietest amp—it’s harder to hear than most acoustic guitars. Maybe he’s nervous, or maybe he just needs a delicious cream soda, because his baritone is stuck in his throat. Later, a second nice young man joins him, taking over on lead guitar while No. 1 strums an acoustic, also inaudibly.
Songs: A bunch of songs rendered unidentifiable because they’re too quiet, plus a minute-long cover of Mariah Carey’s “Fantasy.” Irony aside, you need Mariah Carey’s figure to play her songs.
Stage presence: No. 2 looks relaxed, even bored, and No. 1 bobs awkwardly on a weird antique couch.
Musicianship: A competent, slightly bland blend of funk, jazz, and blues—if you can hear it. No. 2 squeezes off a decent solo or two, but when he tries to wail on a high note, the weak ampage spoils the effect.
Reaction: Perhaps The A.V. Club was still irritated by John Mayer’s version of “Sweet Home Chicago” on Late Night With Conan O’Brien, but if this is a sign, white-people blues is in serious decline. The duo has some skill, but they sound like Jamiroquai getting drunk and having an asthma attack at an open-mic.
Prospects/prediction: A cynical, burned-out blues-band manager will convince the two to tour state fairs as “Jackson And Wabash” (in memory of the intersection they’re playing at now), yet even those audiences will suspect they aren’t “real Chicago bluesmen.”

1459 W. Taylor St.
The scene: A skinny, black-haired girl in a Doors T-shirt croons sadly on a stage in the rear corner. She’s hooked into the restaurant’s speaker system, making customers vaguely uncomfortable in the dining room and the bathroom.
Songs: Many shapeless love dirges with plodding strum patterns; Red Hot Chili Peppers’ “Dosed”; and, in a burst of painful appropriateness, a gratingly un-catchy cover of The Cure’s “Love Song.”
Stage presence: She has to crane her neck down to reach the microphone, and she looks uncomfortable, glaring at the audience when she isn’t staring at the ground.
Musicianship: Meh. She enunciates her vocals, and she’s mastered the basics of tragic she-balladry: moaning peppered by brief vibrato and falsetto gasps in place of hooks.
Reactions: The only thing to lift The A.V. Club from this pit of despair is a delicious Potbelly oatmeal-chocolate-chip cookie. The lady needs one too, preferably laced with a powerful dose of Paxil.
Prospects/prediction: Frequent appearances on a cable-access show called Shoegazin’ Sam’s Bittersweet Heartbreak Dungeon Hour