Dave saved the last introduction for his BFF, Taylor Hawkins. It was the perfect segue into Taylor’s song, “Cold day in the Sun.” I had not heard this particular version before, which opened with a surprisingly melodic belch from the drummer turned vocalist. Dave scrambled between all three acoustic mics to sing back-up vocals for Taylor, leading one to expect him to tumble into the audience at any moment. He was so busy horsing around that Taylor had to call out during the song, “Dave—my vocals!”
After Taylor wrapped up his tune and Dave had taken a few sips from his “therapeutic” Coors Light, he launched into a beautiful rendition of “But, Honestly,” which ended with Dave thrashing his head from his shaky perch atop one of Rami’s pianos. I believe that is one of the best songs off of this exceptionally-produced album, Echoes, Silence, Patience and Grace. It won a Grammy, you know.
As everyone made their way through equipment and wires to head back to the front stage, Dave finished up our little acoustic show with his personal favorite, “Everlong.” The ending strains of the song were picked up by Chris up front, and Dave bid us all adieu—at least for the acoustic stage.
Back on the main stage, the band flew head-first into a huge crowd pleaser, “Monkey Wrench.” The bridge in the middle of this song, all sung on one breath on the original record, is the greatest challenge for any audience. The first time around, Dave went mute where the bridge would be, putting us all on the spot. We couldn’t do it in one breath (and neither can he, on tour) but there were enough of us singing that you couldn’t really pick out the times we paused to gasp for breath. A little further into the song Dave surprised us by launching into it himself, and we were more than willing to make one more go at it—at full volume, of course:
One last thing before I quit
I never wanted any more than I could fit into my head
I still remember every single word you said
and all the shit that somehow came along with it
still there's one thing that comforts me
since I was always caged and now I'm free
Just when I thought he couldn’t top that, he pulled out my personal favorite, “All My Life.” I could tell there are only squeaks coming out as I screamed along, but it made no difference. I was smiling wider than Pat Smear as the band faded away and the crowd screamed for more.
An encore was expected, but its precursor was not. As we waited and cheered for their return, the screens up front suddenly revealed a hand-held camera panning over the evening’s set list. It dipped lower and lower, but pulled away just as it got to the last song we’d heard. It then panned back up to the header of the list, which had written on it “Detroit—Rock City, 2/24.” Cue crowd.
As the arena cheered, the camera turned 180 degrees to reveal Dave behind the eyepiece. Four screens filled with Dave’s enormous smile. There was no sound with the video, but he could be seen asking if we would like to hear one more song. He stroked his beard as he listened to our response. “How about two?” He asked. The crowd grew even louder. His brow furrowed as he told us he had to “think about it.” He took a slow drink from a plastic cup and grinned again.
Suddenly the camera panned over to Taylor, sitting, sweating and smoking with a towel draped over his head. Smiling, he suggested maybe 4 or 5 songs. With a jerk, Dave turned the camera back onto himself. He frowned. “No way.” He said. “We’re not doing five songs.” The crowd booed. “Maybe two.” The crowd booed louder. “Okay, three songs. We’ll do three more.” The crowd went crazy as Dave and crew immediately ran back onto the stage.
Instead of launching into the next song, however, Chris made himself comfortable on the drum riser as Dave finished his beer in front of the audience. It was storyteller time.
“Okay, so how many of you are actually from Detroit?” Dave asked. A handful of people raised their hands.
“So there’s your drug dealers.”
Dave took us back to 1987 when he played his first show in Detroit at a club named Paychecks. He was then touring as a teenager with the punk band Scream, and they had opened for the Laughing Hyenas. Scream had virtually no money to their name, and jumped at the offer to sleep at the band’s house after the show instead of in their van. That sentiment changed quickly once they saw the frightening condition of the Hyena’s pad, however, and Dave soon decided he was better off in the van.
Sometime after falling asleep, he awakened in his sleeping bag to find the van moving. Their lead singer, Pete, was driving. Just as Dave started to ask what the hell was going on, Pete asked him if he believed in miracles.
As it turns out, one of the guys left their cash bag—the bag with every penny they had to make it through the tour, about $900—on the top of the pump at the last gas station they used, in the seediest neighborhood in downtown Detroit. “Crackhead Central,” Dave referred to it. Pete drove all the way from Ann Arbor to Detroit until they reached that gas station. There, sitting on that pump, was their cash bag, undisturbed.
“And that’s what I love about this fucking town. Only in Detroit are the crackheads too fucking stupid to steal a bag of money left right in front of them!”
And only in Detroit would that be taken as a compliment. The audience loved it. Having warmed us back up, he and Jesse sang an acoustic version of “Big Me,” followed by a rousing version of their last new single, “Long Road to Ruin.” Dave paused just long enough to thank us all for spending a few hours with him before they broke into “Best of You.” He gave us a few last runway walks as they wrapped it up, and soon we were left with nothing but the ringing in our ears. And a smile I didn’t think I would ever peel off my face.
Finding my way back to the car after the show was made only slightly more interesting by the bored security guards blindfolding each of us and spinning us at least six times before letting us back out into the steel Habitrail. I didn’t really care what VW Beetle I found at that point. I figured I’d try my key in the first one I found and just go from there. Amazingly, I eventually found my own car, and was soon driving past the lot attendant slumped all the way back in his chair, mouth open and snoring. (I remembered that being a frequent on-the-job hazard as a parking attendant, and hoped he didn’t accidentally spend the whole night down there.)
I wasn’t overly concerned with what road I took out of Detroit. I knew I’d end up either in Nova Scotia or somewhere in mid-Michigan, both of which were preferable to Detroit proper. I did indeed get lost and enjoy a small detour towards Lansing, but I was so high from the concert that I couldn’t have cared less. It was by sheer accident that I stumbled across the long cross street leading to my fine establishment, and I soon collapsed in a heap on my bed. I was so tired by that time I forgot to strip off the quilt, which I had been warned via numerous chain e-mails was riddled with all sorts of diseases and afflictions, never being washed since its creation. It is a wonder I lived through the night.
