They sing, they dance, they grow what's for supper
Lori RotenberkThey sing, they dance, they grow what’s for supper.

Here on this small stage in a shanty of a bar called the Hideout in Chicago’s Wicker Park neighborhood, where Jack White once shook the night in flame-red pants, the Band of Farmers is about to strut its stuff. And we’re not talking produce.

Clad in everything from overalls to mustard yellow rain suits, a procession of characters mounts the stage, plucking guitars, strumming mandolins, and twirling pitchforks. There’s even a reading by a “beet poet.” They work the crowd into hoots of “yeehaw!” Some in the audience wave jars of apple butter in one hand, craft brews in the other. From the stage a voice bellows, “God, this is an episode out of Portlandia!”