The Whirlaway is a cold-weather bar. Devoid of a patio (and windows, for the most part), the dusky Logan Square hang is cozy and snug, attracting both bar fixtures that would burn to ash if they ever stepped into direct sunlight as well as a clientele of transplant youngsters who use barkeep and co-owner Maria Jaimes as a surrogate for their own mothers—only Jaimes will serve them copious amounts of alcohol and not force them to do something with their lives. And what do you do when you’re drinking with friends in the equivalent of your parents’ basement? You blare nostalgic heaviness that you devoted every fiber of your being to before you realized how to approach the opposite sex. The Whirlaway’s jukebox is old-school and cheap: three plays for a buck and 18—I repeat, 18—for five bucks. Playlists consist of classics like The Chronic, Rage Against the Machine’s self-titled, KRS-ONE’s I Got Next, and Ride the Lightning. If I’m surrounded by the right people and have enough Budweiser in me, I’ll probably start with “Trapped Under Ice” and then go back to play the whole thing. I may also bust out some Lars Ulrich air drums and do a few James Hetfield “Yeeeaahhhs” for good measure. And unless I want to play even more Metallica, I’ll almost have enough credits left to spin Evil Empire in its entirety.