[All concert stories contain both adult and childish language. You have been warned.]
All photos courtesy of www.foofighters.com
You won't find me I'm going MIA
Tonight I'm leaving going MIA
So you don't find me I'm going MIA
Tonight I'm leaving going MIA
Say good-bye to me I'm going MIA
I can find relief I'm going MIA
Getting lost in you again is better than being numb
Quote of the concert: "I know Detroit like the back of my fucking hand. And that's saying alot." Dave Grohl
The moment I got word that the Foo Fighters would be stopping in Detroit, Chicago and Minneapolis this February, I knew I had a difficult choice to make. A Wisconsin show would have made life much easier, but apparently the band was more interested in making us Cheeseheads prove our loyalty by hitting the road. But which show? With general admission at $60 per ticket and gas quickly approaching $32 per gallon, it wasn’t a decision to take lightly. The fate of the free world rested on this verdict.
Many sleepless nights followed as I waited for tickets to go on sale. By the time that fateful morning rolled around, my choice was made. I would go to every fucking show. I mean, what’s 1500 miles and a mortgage payment between friends?
Detroit, my first stop on the tour, was the longest journey at seven hours. Even my iPod only had six hours of Foo tunes before it went into redux. The only taxing part of the trip was the short span of Illinois one has to traverse between Wisconsin and Indiana. I have yet to figure out how the IL DOT manages to squeeze in 27 toll booths on a stretch of highway approximately three miles long. The tolls themselves are determined by an official suffering from untreated ADD and vary without warning between $0.13 and $17.92. Thank God I always keep at least $327 in loose change in my Beetle’s bucket seats. I still had almost $4.00 to spare once I finally hit the Hoosier state, which I spent on earplugs to shove up my nostrils so I could make it past Gary, IN without passing out from toxic fumes. Gotta love Gary.
Finding my hotel in Woodhaven, south of Detroit, was a piece of cake. I looked for the nicest, cleanest hotel on the main drag, and then circled behind it to check into the dilapidated one to which I had a free pass. As I walked in I was enveloped by thick clouds of cigarette smoke which all but obscured the “Smoke Free Rooms Available” sign. I assume those were located on the roof. When another guest opened the front door and caused a draft to part the smog, albeit temporarily, I saw the largest sign on the desk, which advised that all persons checking in were responsible for securing their own valuables—regardless of forced entry into any room. I could tell I would soon be calling this motel my second home.
Driving downtown to the Joe Louis Arena proved a little more challenging. Every exit I passed warned that the next exit would be the last one before the US-Canadian border, and as I saw no sign of the exit I wanted, I began to wonder if the arena was not located on the other side of Toronto altogether. I cursed myself for leaving my passport at home. I figured if I did end up at customs, I could avoid being sent through by threading together all the Arabic phrases I still remembered and reciting them at the top of my lungs. I reconsidered this plan when I realized that the Foo Fighters had no shows scheduled at Guantanamo this time around.
After running through several standard prayers (in English and Arabic, just for good measure) I finally approached what I assumed was the general vicinity of the arena. My first clue was a billboard on a deserted industrial back street that said “You’re getting warmer.” (I’m not making that up.) My final clue was several men standing in the middle of the street threatening to carjack you if you didn’t turn into their paid parking lot. I was herded into a $10 ramp, from which I had no view whatsoever of any musical venue, and threw in one more Hail Mary for good measure. I parked and proceeded to follow several young men in concert T-shirts, deciding that where I ended up would just be part of the overall adventure.
By alisongermaine on Flickr
Where we ended up was the abandoned set of Bladerunner, with steel and concrete tunnels and caves leading in every possible direction. The round “windows” set in the sides of the steel Habitrail were covered by iron grids and looked out over busy highways with imposing concrete walls. If nothing else, the ten minute journey proved I was not severely claustrophobic—though I would have felt far more comfortable had Harrison Ford actually been there with me. (I expected a maniacal Rutger Hauer at every turn, but luckily encountered only panhandlers.)
By YoGazpacho on Flickr
Unbelievably, the maze did culminate at the FF venue. And so I met the humble home of the Detroit Red Wings. Humble may be a bit of an overstatement. The floor of the stadium was stripped down to concrete, which was only a slight improvement over leaving it iced for the show. I made a quick check of the front rail and realized I was about 20 minutes too late for that, so found the last rail position stage right of the “secret” acoustic stage.
After waiting a year and a half to see them again, (last show was the Skin and Bones acoustic tour with Dylan on October 31, 2006, in Madison, WI) then risking my life to take in their show in “America’s Most Dangerous City,” my adrenalin was fairly high by the time the lights went down for the first band, Against Me. I spent most of their set wondering if I’d remembered to lock my car. When the lights went up again, I started chatting with the family next to me. I had been scribbling details for my blog when my neighbor said he felt guilty for not taking notes. Mark was there with his family, including his 12 year-old son. It was Kyle’s first rock show, and he was reportedly holding out for Monkeywrench. Good taste! I do hope he enjoyed it—he spent most of the time looking mortified at being seen with his parents, as most kids would. Hey, Kyle, parents may be geeks, but only the SUPER cool ones take you to see Dave Fucking Grohl!
Serj Tankian soon distracted me from my note-taking with his own maniacal show. His backdrop banner proclaimed “Elect the Dead” (though mentioning no one by name) and he commanded the stage like a circus ringmaster. His white suit and top hat only accentuated this affect. His voice, which has a life all its own, careened wildly about the arena as he danced, knelt and bowed by turn, sweeping his tattered hat at the mesmerized audience. Politics are the foodstuff of Serj’s music, and he did not disappoint as he railed most harmoniously against the “fucking hypocrisy” of those who say “Praise, the Lord, pass the ammunition.” What’s not to love about a superbly-voiced Armenian anarchist? Being under his spell almost made being lost in Detroit feel more comforting.
Unbelievably, the maze did culminate at the FF venue. And so I met the humble home of the Detroit Red Wings. Humble may be a bit of an overstatement. The floor of the stadium was stripped down to concrete, which was only a slight improvement over leaving it iced for the show. I made a quick check of the front rail and realized I was about 20 minutes too late for that, so found the last rail position stage right of the “secret” acoustic stage.
After waiting a year and a half to see them again, (last show was the Skin and Bones acoustic tour with Dylan on October 31, 2006, in Madison, WI) then risking my life to take in their show in “America’s Most Dangerous City,” my adrenalin was fairly high by the time the lights went down for the first band, Against Me. I spent most of their set wondering if I’d remembered to lock my car. When the lights went up again, I started chatting with the family next to me. I had been scribbling details for my blog when my neighbor said he felt guilty for not taking notes. Mark was there with his family, including his 12 year-old son. It was Kyle’s first rock show, and he was reportedly holding out for Monkeywrench. Good taste! I do hope he enjoyed it—he spent most of the time looking mortified at being seen with his parents, as most kids would. Hey, Kyle, parents may be geeks, but only the SUPER cool ones take you to see Dave Fucking Grohl!
Serj Tankian soon distracted me from my note-taking with his own maniacal show. His backdrop banner proclaimed “Elect the Dead” (though mentioning no one by name) and he commanded the stage like a circus ringmaster. His white suit and top hat only accentuated this affect. His voice, which has a life all its own, careened wildly about the arena as he danced, knelt and bowed by turn, sweeping his tattered hat at the mesmerized audience. Politics are the foodstuff of Serj’s music, and he did not disappoint as he railed most harmoniously against the “fucking hypocrisy” of those who say “Praise, the Lord, pass the ammunition.” What’s not to love about a superbly-voiced Armenian anarchist? Being under his spell almost made being lost in Detroit feel more comforting.
Serj, pre-show, courtesy of http://www.foofighters.com/
But it was Dave we yearned for. Another half-hour passed after Serj and his “Flying C--ts of Chaos,” as he so affectionately referred to them, fled the over-illuminated stage. The arena grew simultaneously bright and restless. Eighteen months and 500 miles I had come to hear Dave’s voice, experience his energy, and bask in his smile. As the lights went down the sound of the crowd grew deafening. My ear plugs kept each other warm in my coat pocket.
Dave running the stage, courtesy of http://www.foofighters.com/
I have tried for days to describe how the opening strains of a deeply admired band unleash one’s spirit. I have not tried for my own understanding—I have only to experience the moment to know how irreplaceable it is—but I have tried for those who do not understand it. Several people have asked me how one might find enjoyment at seeing the “same” show several times over.
Courtesy of http://www.foofighters.com/
It is probably a poor reflection of my former life that my first attempt to explain it was by alluding to intoxication. Why does one get drunk more than once, if one truly enjoyed it the first time? It’s the same old beer, right? Exactly.
The music and energy of the Foo Fighters is inebriating. Though many rows removed from the front stage, Dave Grohl’s tremendous smile could have lit the room without lights. That is why we come back. Layer over Dave’s personality the strains of Chris Shiflett’s guitar, Nate Mendel’s bass and the bone-vibrating pulse of Taylor Hawkins’s percussion and you will find yourself experiencing an exhilarating dialysis of the soul.
Find me a beer that will do that, and I’ll take up drinking.
The band opened its show with the mesmerizing new track “Let It Die,” followed in short order by a hard-rocking version of “The Pretender.” That was enough to render most of us hoarse, but Dave went on to perform “Times Like These,” during which he sauntered down the long runway leading from the front stage to the acoustic stage. Just when we though we had no voices left, he turned to us for the chorus of “Time Like These,” as the house lights went up and Dave shared his moment with us. We did not let him down.
The music and energy of the Foo Fighters is inebriating. Though many rows removed from the front stage, Dave Grohl’s tremendous smile could have lit the room without lights. That is why we come back. Layer over Dave’s personality the strains of Chris Shiflett’s guitar, Nate Mendel’s bass and the bone-vibrating pulse of Taylor Hawkins’s percussion and you will find yourself experiencing an exhilarating dialysis of the soul.
Find me a beer that will do that, and I’ll take up drinking.
The band opened its show with the mesmerizing new track “Let It Die,” followed in short order by a hard-rocking version of “The Pretender.” That was enough to render most of us hoarse, but Dave went on to perform “Times Like These,” during which he sauntered down the long runway leading from the front stage to the acoustic stage. Just when we though we had no voices left, he turned to us for the chorus of “Time Like These,” as the house lights went up and Dave shared his moment with us. We did not let him down.
Dave, courtesy of http://www.foofighters.com/
Eventually, Dave paused to greet Detroit—Rock City. He ran from one end of the front stage to the other with his Gibson, pointing out individuals to ask “How are you? And you? And what about you?!” He directed the neck of his guitar into the stands, left , right and center, directing a chorus of cheers whichever direction he pointed. And smiled non-stop throughout. Who doesn’t love a little attention?
“So, you guys got some free time tonight?” Cue applause. “You wanna hear some old shit?” General roar. “You wanna hear some new shit?” Roar deepens. “You wanna hear some acoustic shit? ‘Cuz we got some of that, too!” Crowd proves they respond well even without “Applause” signs.
“I just hope none of you gotta work tomorrow, ‘cuz we’re gonna be here all fucking night!” I am surrounded—and consumed—by primal screams. It is good.
They resumed their set with “Learn To Fly,” during which the four screens behind them showed aerial views through scattered clouds. Even with them playing right in front of me I couldn’t hear that song without picturing the video, I’ve watched it so many times. They then introduced their newest single, “Cheer Up Boys (Your Makeup Is Running).” Warhol-esque shots of drag queens replaced the clouds on the screens and, when we were lucky, we were treated to close-up shots of the band as they performed.
“So, you guys got some free time tonight?” Cue applause. “You wanna hear some old shit?” General roar. “You wanna hear some new shit?” Roar deepens. “You wanna hear some acoustic shit? ‘Cuz we got some of that, too!” Crowd proves they respond well even without “Applause” signs.
“I just hope none of you gotta work tomorrow, ‘cuz we’re gonna be here all fucking night!” I am surrounded—and consumed—by primal screams. It is good.
They resumed their set with “Learn To Fly,” during which the four screens behind them showed aerial views through scattered clouds. Even with them playing right in front of me I couldn’t hear that song without picturing the video, I’ve watched it so many times. They then introduced their newest single, “Cheer Up Boys (Your Makeup Is Running).” Warhol-esque shots of drag queens replaced the clouds on the screens and, when we were lucky, we were treated to close-up shots of the band as they performed.
Chris, courtesy of http://www.foofighters.com/
There soon followed an amazing arrangement of “This is a Call” which turned into a prolonged guitar battle between Chris and Dave. I have never seen Dave really go at his guitar with such fervor, and it was something to witness. It wasn’t until the following night that I got a good shot of him making love to that Gibson. (See Part 2: Chicago) The blues riffs Dave introduced halfway through were intoxicating. (Not to overwork an analogy….) After only briefly catching their (our?) breath, they moved into an extended version of “Stacked Actors” which included both a seizure-inducing drum solo by Taylor and more incredibly tight band work. The guys were one well-oiled unit…
Sorry, got lost there for a minute…
Courtesy of http://www.foofighters.com/
As “Stacked Actors” wrapped up, Dave began a killer tease as the acoustic stage dropped slowly where I stood (with a few others) in the center of the arena. He ambled slowly down the runway, playing strains of “Skin and Bones” as he grinned like a Cheshire Cat. As the technicians released the stage from the rafters and secured it, Dave stepped confidently into our midst. It was an appearance well worth waiting for. Dave in High Definition. In the darkness behind him the rest of the band made their way to join us for the acoustic set.
Dave stepped up to the center mic (facing away from the main stage) and began to sing—silently. The mic was mis-wired. He repeated the guitar phrase and tried twice more before giving up and calmly heading over to one of the two side mics, where he was successful. No temper tantrums with this guy. By the end of the song they had the mic working and he came back to greet the back of the venue.
This was the moment I had been waiting for. I had not come empty-handed. I had prepared a sign for Dave like any self-respecting attention-whore would have done. One side said “Cheesheads Love the FF.” The other side was a more obscure reference to a 2007 benefit performance Dave had done with Will Ferrell. The video had recently been posted on the FF website. Dave and Will had sung a hilariously dry cover of the Stevie Nicks and Don Henley duet, “Leather and Lace.” Since I didn’t expect to see Will at any of the shows, I wrote “Davey & Ty,” Dave and Taylor’s nicknames from the “Long Road to Ruin” video, under the song title. Taylor has always been Dave’s best comedic foil, and I thought they’d have real magic together. And since no one else was likely to request the song (primarily because any fool knew they’d never do it) and I was eager to see what reaction it might get from the band.
This was the moment I had been waiting for. I had not come empty-handed. I had prepared a sign for Dave like any self-respecting attention-whore would have done. One side said “Cheesheads Love the FF.” The other side was a more obscure reference to a 2007 benefit performance Dave had done with Will Ferrell. The video had recently been posted on the FF website. Dave and Will had sung a hilariously dry cover of the Stevie Nicks and Don Henley duet, “Leather and Lace.” Since I didn’t expect to see Will at any of the shows, I wrote “Davey & Ty,” Dave and Taylor’s nicknames from the “Long Road to Ruin” video, under the song title. Taylor has always been Dave’s best comedic foil, and I thought they’d have real magic together. And since no one else was likely to request the song (primarily because any fool knew they’d never do it) and I was eager to see what reaction it might get from the band.
Nate, courtesy of http://www.foofighters.com/
As Dave was spinning around soaking up applause from the back of the stadium, I held the sign up in front of Nate, who was positioned directly in front of me. He laughed.
Dave's hair, courtesy of http://www.foofighters.com/
Several suspenseful minutes passed before Dave stopped running around and found a reason to look in my direction. When he did, I was ready. Dave’s long hair completely covered his face, and I could just make out the squinting of his eyes as he tried to read through his locks. As he did, a sly smile overtook his face. Contact had been made. I was a happy woman. Just moments later he turned back in my direction and pointed. I immediately held my sign up again. He laughed and shook his head, having found something besides me worth commenting on. From then on I just let the “Cheesehead” side hang out, and that was the side that ended up on the FF photo album the next day.
Me, courtesy of http://www.foofighters.com/
Needless to say, no one around me knew what the hell I was referring to with the Leather & Lace request. Were there no true fans here? I educated as many as I could, but I had a show to enjoy.
“Marigold” followed “Skin and Bones” and was a huge crowd favorite. This was definitely an audience who loved the “old shit.” We may be getting old, but some things we’ll never forget. They next did a great version of “My Hero” before Dave decided it was time to introduce the full band. Bassist Nate Mendel smiled shyly, and guitarist Chris Shiflett nodded appreciatively. The Foos have expanded slightly since the Skin and Bones tour, and now have with them keyboardist Rami Jaffee (of the Wallflowers), cellist/violinist/vocalist Jesse Greene, and the best fucking triangle player performing today, Drew Hester.
“Marigold” followed “Skin and Bones” and was a huge crowd favorite. This was definitely an audience who loved the “old shit.” We may be getting old, but some things we’ll never forget. They next did a great version of “My Hero” before Dave decided it was time to introduce the full band. Bassist Nate Mendel smiled shyly, and guitarist Chris Shiflett nodded appreciatively. The Foos have expanded slightly since the Skin and Bones tour, and now have with them keyboardist Rami Jaffee (of the Wallflowers), cellist/violinist/vocalist Jesse Greene, and the best fucking triangle player performing today, Drew Hester.
Drew and Dave, courtesy of http://www.foofighters.com/
Dave loves to rib Drew about being so damn talented that he can make a living playing an instrument we all learned to play in second grade. He has a valid point. Dave went on to point out that not only were we all losers for giving up the triangle so early in our lives, but that if we had really wanted to succeed, we’d have dropped out of high school altogether and started riding motorcycles, as he had. Another good point. I had to wonder what went through the mind of 12 year-old Kyle just on the other side of me.
The Foos have also picked up former guitarist Pat Smear for shits and giggles—and I mean that literally, as Pat seems to be grinning and laughing through every performance I have ever seen. I don’t know what he’s on, but I am definitely jealous. As is typical, Pat was smoking as he was introduced.
The Foos have also picked up former guitarist Pat Smear for shits and giggles—and I mean that literally, as Pat seems to be grinning and laughing through every performance I have ever seen. I don’t know what he’s on, but I am definitely jealous. As is typical, Pat was smoking as he was introduced.
Pat enjoying a moment with Dave before the show, courtesy of http://www.foofighters.com/
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!”
Taylor, courtesy of http://www.foofighters.com/
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.
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.
3 comments:
Are you going to Grand Rapids in July?
Thought about it, but too worried that if Dave sees me at one more show he'll arrest me for stalking!
Who's asking? You can e-mail me at ndietrich66@yahoo.com.
That's not stalking, that's being a big fan! Stalking would be if you were literally following their tour bus around.
Post a Comment