By word of mouth and social media - “Have you heard of the Psycho Silo?” - the fan base keeps growing. That'd especially be a challenge in that the saloon, with no indoor facilities, could be open just late-spring to mid-autumn. Meantime, many of his works proved functional, such as benches made of tailgates and chairs fashioned from tractor seats.Īnd as work pushed on - rehabbing the elevators, wiring the grounds, building the decks, installing an 18-seat bar - Thompson and his cohorts realized their investment had grown to the point they’d need a return. Thompson crafted various exhibitions, such as a row of car front ends glimmering as a paean to Detroit of yore. Oil can, saw blade, fenders, antlers, chains, side-view mirror, headlamps, wheels, crank phone. “At first, we thought, ‘If it doesn’t work out, at least we’ll have a cool place to hang out,’” Thompson said. So, they purchased 20 acres surrounding the elevator and hoped for the best. “Everyone was like, ‘I think you’re crazy,’” Thompson recalls with a laugh.īut a couple of friends - apparently as crazy as Thompson - said they’d lend their time and finances to making his vision a reality. He talked to family and friends about his childhood fantasy of building a clubhouse there, then wondering aloud if such an effort would work as a roadhouse. He put those aside as an adult, yet never abandoned his creativity as he forged a career as a graphic and tattoo artist in Princeton.īut around a decade ago, Thompson started gazing at the elevator again. Growing up six miles away in Princeton, he’d occasionally see the elevator and dream his dreams. The community, which currently consists of nothing but Thompson’s ingenuity, never was much - just a handful of houses and businesses around the turn of the 20th century.īut there was a rail line (now Union Pacific, which sends freight through that spot a few times a week) along with an elevator - which Thompson calls a silo. “I had the vision and went from there.”Įxhaust pipes, steer skull, tractor seat, gasoline can, train signal, shock absorbers, front grills, hubcaps, air horn.įifty-five miles due north of Peoria, Langley sits vaguely northwest of the bare intersection of U.S. “I always thought the building was neat,” said Thompson, 45, whose pipe-dream notions started taking shape about seven years ago. A native of nearby Princeton, he’d occasionally glimpse an abandoned elevator and imagined an elaborate tree house. That’s why, though thousands of motorcycles and riders will pack the place at night for a big-name rock show, the grounds during daytime will brim with baby strollers, minivans and walking canes as visitors of all sorts let their legs and eyes wander about central Illinois’ most unusual tourist attraction.Īnd though the Psycho Silo is marking just its fifth summer, the concept got its start decades ago when a boy named Troy Thompson marveled at a ghost-town train stop. But the ubiquitous remnants of weathered automobiles and motorcycles - some displayed as decoration, others twisted into furniture - quietly boast the feel of a pop-culture museum or pop-art gallery. The multi-level, wood-plank decks, set amid a grove of trees and dotted with motorway mementos, beckon like a clubhouse for gearheads. The four-year-old roadhouse, a must-stop destination for road warriors and curiosity-seekers, boasts a curious mix of bucolic peace and highway grit. LANGLEY - Far-flung and fanciful, the Psycho Silo Saloon looms like a Hollywood-inspired theme park, an offbeat collision between “Mad Max” and “Swiss Family Robinson”.
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