Chicago has always had a unique relationship with music, and the Dave Matthews Band is no exception.
However, their history with the city is marked by an incident that remains infamous among residents and music fans alike.
This week commemorates the 21st anniversary of a bizarre event that has become a core part of local lore: the day a tour bus belonging to the band dumped 800 pounds of human waste into the Chicago River, splattering unsuspecting tourists below.
The incident happened on August 8, 2004, when a Dave Matthews Band charter bus crossed the Kinzie Street Bridge and unceremoniously emptied its septic tank.
Instead of safely releasing its contents into the water, the waste sprayed down onto a sightseeing boat filled with more than 100 passengers and crew, operated by the Chicago Architecture Foundation.
Brett McNeil, a reporter for the Tribune, found himself in the wrong place at the wrong time, witnessing the spectacle from the bow of the boat with his girlfriend.
Initially believing the noise to be nothing more than a street sweeper, McNeil was hit by the brown deluge, causing a mixed reaction of shock and chaos among the passengers.
“The docent didn’t grasp what was happening in real time,” McNeil recalled.
A passenger in the back shouted, “That’s not water, buddy; that’s urine,” prompting disbelief and panic.
In what McNeil described as a scene out of a Monty Python skit, the disgruntled passengers reacted in horror, showcasing a rather dramatic response as some rushed to the deck’s shelter while others retched over the side.
“People were standing on the dock saying, ‘How are we going to drive home?’” he reminisced about the chaotic aftermath.
Identifying the offending bus wasn’t a challenge; just days later, two Econoline vans linked to the band were spotted parked outside the Peninsula Hotel where the musicians were staying.
The driver of the bus, Stefan Wohl, faced consequences for his actions, pleading guilty to reckless conduct and pollution charges.
He received a sentence of 18 months probation, a $10,000 fine to Friends of the Chicago River, and a mandate to complete 150 hours of community service.
Despite the incident’s shock value, it has remained a popular piece of Chicago’s rich history, often cited in local discussions.
Commemorative plaques and social media posts have kept the memory alive, especially with organizations like Riot Fest taking steps to memorialize the day with an official plaque.
However, not everyone views the incident fondly.
The Chicago Architecture Foundation, which ran the ill-fated tour on that day, refrains from making light of the event, emphasizing the traumatic impact it had on passengers and the crew.
In their statement, they highlighted their commitment to providing quality architecture tours for over 30 years, refusing to let a singular incident overshadow their efforts to present Chicago’s beauty.
Margaret Frisbie, executive director of Friends of the Chicago River, reflected on the event with mixed feelings, understanding its comedic aftertaste while emphasizing the seriousness of water pollution issues in Chicago.
Frisbie pointed out that remarkable change has emerged in public attitudes towards the river over the years.
“Twenty years ago, people were more accepting of the pollution, whereas today, that’s no longer the case,” she noted, highlighting a shift towards greater environmental consciousness.
The event introduced many Chicagoans to the grave realities of waste dumping and the need for better stewardship of waterways.
As Frisbie emphasized, education about environmental care has grown exponentially since that day, making the incident a cautionary tale about water treatment.
With time, attitudes have changed, but the story still elicits humor and nostalgia from many locals.
“People pride themselves on the dumbest, greatest s—,” said Jeremy Scheuch, Riot Fest’s creative director.
He believes the enduring fascination with the event stems from a uniquely Chicagoan blend of humor and pride in its notoriously rough-and-tumble culture.
As he aptly put it, “It’s like Malört: It’s horrible, but it’s ours.”
The incident remains a signature part of local lore, often described as our generation’s version of O’Leary’s cow—an absurd civic touchstone, devoid of severe consequences.
Some conspiracy theories even floated the idea of Dave Matthews himself being involved in the debacle, which McNeil dismissed, citing the mishap as merely a contractor’s error rather than a reflection of the band’s character.
“I couldn’t care less about Dave Matthews Band,” he affirmed, “but the brand has faced unfair scrutiny for a contractor’s f—-up.”
However, amid the jokes, the band took steps to make amends.
In a gesture of goodwill, the Dave Matthews Band donated $50,000 to Friends of the Chicago River, helping the organization develop initiatives aimed at waterway restoration and public policy work.
As Frisbie noted, their contribution catalyzed efforts to clean up and protect the Chicago River for future generations.
Looking ahead, Frisbie and others are optimistic about the ongoing strides in river conservation and hopes that the story of the 2004 incident continues to serve as a reminder of the necessity to protect our natural resources.
In a testament to this forward motion, the City of Chicago is planning the Chicago River Swim, marking the first time in 98 years that individuals will be able to swim in the river—a celebration of public strides toward cleaner water.
As we reflect on this chaotic moment in history, it’s clear that while the incident may be notorious, it has also played a role in the city’s evolving narrative on environmental responsibility and community engagement.
image source from：blockclubchicago
