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Brian spends a lot of his time at the Trumbullplex, although I'd never been. I would call it a Punk Rock House, but it's a little too organized to be one--there are a limited number of residence spots available, and you have to go through an interview to get one (which doesn't mean you can't go in and hang out with people whenever they'll let you).
It's this old, rambling Victorian house right in the middle of downtown, connected to what appears to be a refurbished garage where you can see bands. They have chickens. Chickens, and a turkey, in the middle of the ghetto. They perch on the fence and cluck at you. The house is a sort of communal living space dedicated to non-hierarchal living arrangements and various other sorts of radical world-changing domestic hippie punk ideology. They also have cats. And the toilet doesn't work, although I think that may just be a consequence of having not changed the plumbing fixtures since the house was built.
We went there a couple of nights ago for a Mischief Brew concert, me finally agreeing to brave the dangers of moshing crusties for a nice session of folk-punk. Did I ever mention how awesome downtown Detroit is? It's probably one of the few cities in America where the nice shiny downtown and the burnt-out ghetto are so close together that they are actually amorphous, often moving several blocks in the space of an hour according to the whims of Mike Ilitch. Someday I want to arm myself with an AK47 and do some urban exploring.
Before the concert, everyone was hanging out in front of the space. Lots of crusties. Lots of people holding 40s of Pabst. Lots of stench. Brian seemed to know everyone, and everyone else seemed to know everyone...it seemed like a very homey, pleasant place. I walked around, slightly too shy to start up a conversation, and thought about how I wouldn't really need the Internet if I could go hang out with all of my friends every weekend at a big Victorian house in Detroit. (If, you know, all these people who live halfway across the country or the world could get there. Why don't you guys live in Detroit? Is it the crime rate? We can do something about that.)
While the bands were setting up, a young man with a Jewfro, acoustic guitar, and harmonica climbed onto the stage and serenaded us with some painfully earnest songs about how he felt angry at people who ate turkey on Thanksgiving instead of giving turkey sandwiches to hobos. He ended each song with a heartfelt "FUCK YOU [something]!!!" and was met with deathly silence. Brian later told me that it was the only time nobody had ever clapped for an act.
Slightly nervous and unwilling to be tangled in the crush of humanity that would soon cover the dance floor, I ended up climbing up to a little carpeted loft right above the dance floor (used for electronics, I assume), from whence I could see everything. There was a little sign above my head saying "Just because you're up here doesn't mean you're better than everyone down here!" and I took it to heart. It was the first time I'd ever actually felt like part of a crowd while still being pleasantly sequestered.
The next band was an accordion-and-drum duo who sang mournful songs about squids and the bourgeoisie. After a few short songs, they joined a girl with a violin and a young man with astounding proficiency on the xylophone who played an instrumental accompaniment to a series of posterboards depicting a bird who blew himself up with a nuclear bomb for love.
While Mischief Brew was setting up and testing the sound system, I went outside to mingle. I met two crustie brothers who called themselves the "Skat Rats" and claimed to be the scum of society; they were pierced, skinny, and surprisingly baby-faced, and smelled like stale sweat and whiskey and cigarette smoke.
Climbed back up into the loft for Mischief Brew. That part of the show was a bit of a blur; people were moshing. Fast. Like big pierced hummingbirds. People were stage-diving in a space that held maybe 20 people normally but somehow had 50 squished in. I also couldn't hear the lyrics, but was pleasantly shaken by the sound, which was weird considering that Mischief Brew is an acoustic band.
The ride home was eventful. Cops stopped Brian for Driving While Punk (I swear), kept ragging on him about having things to drink even after they gave him a full sobriety test, bitched at him about coming down to Detroit just to run red lights (this seems like a boring pasttime, and he didn't run the bloody light), and finally called the car a "piece of shit." Then they gave him a ticket with several clearly made-up infractions, including not having had a seatbelt on (we all had seatbelts on, I threatened Brian with lack of pie if he didn't). Small defiant middle finger to Detroit cops.
Calmed our nerves at Lafayette Coney Island, which is small and seedy-looking and hasn't changed its decor since the Great Depression. For some reason, I'd never been there before. It was fucking good, and somehow unlike any other coney I have ever tasted. God, I really want another one now. Q: Would it be worth it to drive all the way downtown just to get a hot dog? A: FUCKING YES
It's this old, rambling Victorian house right in the middle of downtown, connected to what appears to be a refurbished garage where you can see bands. They have chickens. Chickens, and a turkey, in the middle of the ghetto. They perch on the fence and cluck at you. The house is a sort of communal living space dedicated to non-hierarchal living arrangements and various other sorts of radical world-changing domestic hippie punk ideology. They also have cats. And the toilet doesn't work, although I think that may just be a consequence of having not changed the plumbing fixtures since the house was built.
We went there a couple of nights ago for a Mischief Brew concert, me finally agreeing to brave the dangers of moshing crusties for a nice session of folk-punk. Did I ever mention how awesome downtown Detroit is? It's probably one of the few cities in America where the nice shiny downtown and the burnt-out ghetto are so close together that they are actually amorphous, often moving several blocks in the space of an hour according to the whims of Mike Ilitch. Someday I want to arm myself with an AK47 and do some urban exploring.
Before the concert, everyone was hanging out in front of the space. Lots of crusties. Lots of people holding 40s of Pabst. Lots of stench. Brian seemed to know everyone, and everyone else seemed to know everyone...it seemed like a very homey, pleasant place. I walked around, slightly too shy to start up a conversation, and thought about how I wouldn't really need the Internet if I could go hang out with all of my friends every weekend at a big Victorian house in Detroit. (If, you know, all these people who live halfway across the country or the world could get there. Why don't you guys live in Detroit? Is it the crime rate? We can do something about that.)
While the bands were setting up, a young man with a Jewfro, acoustic guitar, and harmonica climbed onto the stage and serenaded us with some painfully earnest songs about how he felt angry at people who ate turkey on Thanksgiving instead of giving turkey sandwiches to hobos. He ended each song with a heartfelt "FUCK YOU [something]!!!" and was met with deathly silence. Brian later told me that it was the only time nobody had ever clapped for an act.
Slightly nervous and unwilling to be tangled in the crush of humanity that would soon cover the dance floor, I ended up climbing up to a little carpeted loft right above the dance floor (used for electronics, I assume), from whence I could see everything. There was a little sign above my head saying "Just because you're up here doesn't mean you're better than everyone down here!" and I took it to heart. It was the first time I'd ever actually felt like part of a crowd while still being pleasantly sequestered.
The next band was an accordion-and-drum duo who sang mournful songs about squids and the bourgeoisie. After a few short songs, they joined a girl with a violin and a young man with astounding proficiency on the xylophone who played an instrumental accompaniment to a series of posterboards depicting a bird who blew himself up with a nuclear bomb for love.
While Mischief Brew was setting up and testing the sound system, I went outside to mingle. I met two crustie brothers who called themselves the "Skat Rats" and claimed to be the scum of society; they were pierced, skinny, and surprisingly baby-faced, and smelled like stale sweat and whiskey and cigarette smoke.
Climbed back up into the loft for Mischief Brew. That part of the show was a bit of a blur; people were moshing. Fast. Like big pierced hummingbirds. People were stage-diving in a space that held maybe 20 people normally but somehow had 50 squished in. I also couldn't hear the lyrics, but was pleasantly shaken by the sound, which was weird considering that Mischief Brew is an acoustic band.
The ride home was eventful. Cops stopped Brian for Driving While Punk (I swear), kept ragging on him about having things to drink even after they gave him a full sobriety test, bitched at him about coming down to Detroit just to run red lights (this seems like a boring pasttime, and he didn't run the bloody light), and finally called the car a "piece of shit." Then they gave him a ticket with several clearly made-up infractions, including not having had a seatbelt on (we all had seatbelts on, I threatened Brian with lack of pie if he didn't). Small defiant middle finger to Detroit cops.
Calmed our nerves at Lafayette Coney Island, which is small and seedy-looking and hasn't changed its decor since the Great Depression. For some reason, I'd never been there before. It was fucking good, and somehow unlike any other coney I have ever tasted. God, I really want another one now. Q: Would it be worth it to drive all the way downtown just to get a hot dog? A: FUCKING YES
