“Damn Nips...” Dee says as my eyeballs bounce around my sockets like pinballs. Tryin’ not to be overwhelmed by the amount of chaos in the Tangent. Don’t stare too long at anything. Or it might send ya down the K-hole. But at least we already played our set. So that means I should be able to loosen up. Right? “There’s a lotta cash in this envelope.”
“I know.” I sniffle loudly as Owen cards somebody walkin’ in. With the help of the third door cat. And by cat. I mean the feline that hopped up on the display case at the entrance that was roamin’ around the Tangent while I was settin’ up. He scribbles the word “FREAK” across the bright orange. “That’s for change if ya need it.” Wipe my nose. Feelin’ the still tacky nail polish I did frantically while orchestrating load in. “Just don’t lose it. That’s my entire life savings.”
“What the fuck man?! Don’t trust me with this!”
“It’s straight Dee. Don’t worry. It’s just in case we don’t make enough at the door. I promised everyone a guarantee.” Go figure though. The band that asked for a guarantee thought the show was night after Thanksgiving. Not night before. Biggest bar night of the year. So gotta do somethin’ to give thanks to all the freaks that make this ugly world somewhat beautiful. Appropriate this holiday in the name of freedom to be ourselves.
“You’re doin’ this all outta pocket?!”
DIY or die baby. Dropped my tax return on the rental fee. Just gotta remember to pay Joe the other half at the end of the night. He’s sittin’ alone at the bar. Keepin’ quiet. Watchin’ Freaksgivin’ unravel. A celebration of the wonderfully weird this city can create. Isn’t that what all the yuppies that moved in here after the recession say about Detroit? It’s trendy cause anything goes out here. It’s like the wild west as envisioned by Alejandro Jodorowsky. You can make anything happen outta nothin’. The bullshit bootstrap theory hard at work here. Why is it the poor are always more giving and welcoming than the assholes that claim to be for equal opportunity?
The Long Stairs are wrappin’ up their set. Bringin’ Frankenstein’s monster to life on stage. And from the room over you can hear the Hand hailin’ the riff. Dart away to track down Chuck. Pharma doin’ a last minute fill in since one member of the Counter Elites got in a car wreck. Doom to bedroom garage. A lil’ bit of hardcore to keep people on their fuckin’ toes. Kid Infinity got the projectors flashin’ bright, comic panels onto the wall. Wish they’d kill the lights in here so you could make out the footage he’s been showin’ from shows at my house spliced into his frantic, horror comic art. Maybe it’s the lack of clarity from the lighting. And the blow. And the ketamine. But tonight it doesn’t feel as meta as when he does projections in my room. Of bands playin’ in my room. While the same band plays in front of my mattress propped against the wall. It feels more like growth tonight. Doin’ the same shit but in a place with an actual sound system. Feels like watchin’ an urban legend be created in real time. Plus it’s not as humid in here. More space for the bodies to move around without foggin’ up the windows.
Owen leaves Dee at the door to take the stage. Strings crunchin’ under his fingers as the blast ruptures eardrums. Chuck paces through the growin’ mass of people as he screams into the mic. No pumpkin to smash tonight. Knowin’ Tangent, they’d probably leave the seeds and guts to rot on their floor like I did when they played Brendan’s goin’ away party. Slept on my futon for a while cause I didn’t feel like vacuumin’. The things we do for tinnitus. I need a fuckin’ beer. This is gonna be a long night. Pit stop in the bathroom to do a bump of coke. Makin’ sure not to pull an Iggy and mix up the white powders. It’s real dangerous they don’t color code drugs. All of it is dangerous really. Gettin’ drunk. Stoned. And stoopid. Riskin’ the pigs bustin’ down the door over a noise complaint as the scattered rejects of the city try buildin’ their own community. But the neighbors never mind. They sit on their porch smokin’ joints as they watch us tear the grass up in my front lawn for a pit. Remindin’ us to enjoy this time. That this is what life should be about.
The Tangent gets it though. I mean. For fuck’s sake we opened the back door to load in gear and there was a sign sayin’ “if DTE knocks, DO NOT answer.” Figured that’s what would make it the perfect spot for this shindig. First time I was here. Pissin’ hands free while takin’ a snort. Whateverfest. My first glimpse of what DIY had to offer. A friend of mine’s older brother hung out with this crowd. Another friend droppin’ outta school to sell weed moved in with the Elijah’s House of Dirt crew. Was at a party at their place. Spent my bail from my possession charge on a gram and they told me to check out Whateverfest. So when the idea struck me to put Freaksgivin’ together, Tangent was the go to.
Pop outta the green room filled with as much cigarette smoke as the cig room durin’ a Belmont show. Ears met by Craig Garwood’s guitar. Standin’ by Chad’s art hangin’ on the black brick we’ve dubbed the Freak Stage for the night. Neon splattered images of the Stools printed on anything but photo paper. I can still remember skippin’ lunch to hang out in the darkroom in high school to make prints. Watchin’ him paint emulsion onto granite. Weeks of watchin’ trial and error. Never sayin’ a word to each other. It’s tough makin’ friends in high school. Even harder as an adult. No matter how sick you find someone’s art. The whole scene is just filled with socially inept and mentally anxious people. Shit. If we knew how to communicate right we probably wouldn’t be makin’ art. Probably would’ve tossed the pigskin. Ate lunch in the cafeteria instead of over fix fumes. Maybe went to college for a degree that is at least worth the value of the paper and ink it’s printed on. Got a job with benefits and a white picket fence. The american nightmare.
But your eyes dart around. Pupils dilate on surreal dreamscapes printed by Memory Child. Scenes of the midwest depicted in through the lenses of our pop art vision. Absorb Tyriq’s minimal charcoal sketches. Every hard stroke and faint line detailin’ the steps to a finish project looks more complete than anything the kids majoring in fine art can create. The frenzied charcoal mimics the sense of urgency to absorb this life. This is fine art. This is what the good ol’ U S of A claims to represent. Freedom to be ourselves. A meltin’ pot of all the outcasts broke, tired, and hungry. Buildin’ our own universe from scratch. I see it here at Freaksgivin’. I see it at Outer Limits when they offer us a home away from house shows. I saw it the first time Craig played an acoustic guitar. Sittin’ on the toilet in my bathroom. While strangers and people I never knew were my estranged family sat on the tile. In my bathtub. Huddled around the doorway as he looked up with the sweetest smile. The kind children have when they don’t know what’s about to happen next. But are excited for all the possibilities.
The music stops. The three boys on stage group around the mic. Crooning gently into it. The whole room sings back. “Please don’t go…” They pick up their instruments and attempt to scream a final refrain of alternative style triumphant. The mics already muted by the sound person. But the whole crowd can feel the final chorus coursin’ through their soul with familiarity.
208’s fill in for the band that fucked up the date buzzes into my ears as I stop at the stall. Creatin’ the vortex of noise as the two bands feedback into each other. Feedbackin’ into our skulls to overpower the noise hummin’ on loop naturally in our brains. The reverb, fuzz, and distortion creates a special peace of mind the neurotypical could never fathom. Pleadin’ to make the sounds stop the same way I do when I’m runnin’ errands or tryin’ to get a decent night’s sleep. Shelby managed to dip outta work early to make it to the gig. Money ain’t worth shit to the visionary. Might pay the heat. But the heat can’t warm your soul like this. Catchin’ a glimmer of Kyle flailin’ and floppin’ barefoot on the stage like a natural born Florida man while Shelby beats the drums. Grab a Stroh’s from the green room. The OG Detroit beer that walked so the hipsters could run with hops and craft brews. Check on the cats at the door. The real cat gone. Bartender lookin’ around pissed off everyone roamin’ the ballroom, now the punk stage. Beers in hand. Knowin’ none of ‘em bought it here. How ya gonna run a local venue and not even sell Stroh’s? This is what our piss is made of.
“Nips. You alright man? Ya look stressed eh?” Owen asks. Hand pattin’ me firmly on the back. Turns around to label two more people freaks with the orange wristbands. There’s still motherfuckers tryin’ to show up to this mess?
“I am stressed. Lots to juggle. Lotta things goin’ on.”
“Why ya stressed?”
“Just tryin’ to make sure everything goes alright tonight. This is a lot different than a house show.”
Tyriq turns me. Grabs me by the shoulders “Everything’s fine! Don’t worry about it! Everyone’s havin’ a great fuckin’ time! You put this whole thing together! Now relax and enjoy yourself bitch! Stop worryin’ so much about it.”
“Yeah man. We got door covered. Everything sounds sick. Everything looks sick. It’s a great fuckin’ show!”
“Yeah man. Jake’s up there gargglin’ marbles like this…” Tyriq bobs his head as he mumbles his best Jake impression. “I don’t know what the fuck he’s actually sayin’. But it sounds sick.” The guy gets me to laugh. Helps me to loosen up a bit as he keeps up the loving impression. I should relax. Fuck it. I could use the lovin’ embrace of gettin’ tossed around like a pinball in the pit.
“I just went in my first mosh pit!” Kyle from the Waterheads screams excitedly. She’s in the most violent hardcore band in the scene. Despite bein’ from Canada. Yet she’s been too afraid to enter a pit until Freaksgivin’. Finally feelin’ the love from every shoulder rammin’ into you. It’s hard for freaks to connect in a world that tells us emotions are meant to be kept inside. It’s hard to open ourselves up after livin’ as outcasts through our formative years. But in the pit we can hold each other to make sure we don’t fall down. Be there to make sure we don’t get hurt. Bodies bounce off each other after our brief moments of vulnerability to finally feel somethin’. Even if it’s just a push of someone else’s energy. Connecting through the mutual feelin’ of bein’ alone. Every shove. Every push. Every outburst of longing emotion rawly pogos through our muscles as our frustrations subside. And for a half hour set realize we’re not alone in our fears and dreams. Unable to contain the joy of finally connecting. And letting go of everything else holdin’ us down.
There’s a long runnin’ trend of not valuin’ the arts. Writin’ it off as nothin’ meaningful. Even fuckin’ Van Gogh was told he was nothin’. Manipulatin’ the masses to sacrifices beauty for productivity. I can see it through the glitter and eyeshadow meltin’ down my face from the blow. Ya don’t even have to squint at the art to see the beauty. As sweat and flesh connects with mine, the beauty melts through the pores of my skin. And even makes me feel a bit beautiful too. Some people just don’t know how to sit with their thoughts long enough to understand, it all means somethin’. It’s all void of inherent meaning. But here. We can decide what it all means. And it’s bigger and beautiful than anything you could imagine.
Derek, the new drummer for Toeheads, gives ‘em a more abrasive edge. Like usin’ a brillo pad to wash a car. Playin’ whack a mole across the kit. Brendan always said he wasn’t a drummer. Was just around when Jake needed someone to. The King of the Scene unable to make it out for the culmination of the chaotic community he helped create. The table at the door scattered with Remove tapes he put out. Sure. There’s the chance we all would’ve ended up together. I mean shit. I meant Brendan cause he just happened to be around when I threw my first house show. But those cassettes are relics that taped us all together. Wound us together as we slowly learned there are freaks scattered all through this city lookin’ for a way to connect.
Would like to talk to the guy a bit. But there’s too much goin’ on to sit and chat tonight. Hailey’s wire wrapped crystals twinklin’ in the dark room as Sisters of Your Sunshine Vapor gaze at their pedalboards. Dronin’ as the gems give these glimmers that somethin’ beautiful is happenin’ before our very eyes. Pages of Carter’s zines flip in the distance. Blowin’ waves of thoughts from every sheet of paper as people read. Band after band tryin’ to figure out where to load in and store gear. Face after familiar face blurrin’ through my eyes. This fuckin’ glitter keeps flashin’ me blind as the sweat drips down my face. We’re only half through the thirteen bands. A bit behind schedule. But that’s the urgency of this world. Nobody here probably even owns a watch. This need to create. Turnin’ thought into somethin’ tangible. For either the eyes or ears. You can’t rush perfection. Amanda’s pupil-less creatures starin’ me down from the wall. Makin’ me nervous. Someone in the green room should have some weed. That’ll calm me down a bit.
TJ laughs at me as I crouch on the floor. Emergin' from a cloud of smoke after my sticky fingers struggle to roll a Bugler. Not that I need it with this much second hand smoke. Makeup streakin’ like Alice Cooper from the sweat as the Calvin Klein kicks in. Kaleb does a bump of ketamine. Tellin’ me about the G.G. Allin set he did in his underwear once years ago. Flawless introduction. “We need more violence in the scene.” Jake sparks a cig as Dee finishes writin’ anti-indie propaganda on the wall. Doesn’t even flinch as Dee throws a fist towards him. Bustin’ through the already fallin’ apart wall of the Tangent.
“Ya know Nips. You should talk to Joe about the hole Dee punched in the wall. That’s not very respectful of the space.” This motherfuckin’ clout chaser invites himself back here to a show he has no involvement in. Mr. Detroit DIY brough to you by Dan Gilbert and daddy’s money. Acts like he contributes so much to the scene. The one and only time he came to my place for a show he stretched out across my front porch. Makin’ out with someone while he had girlfriend. Nobody wanted to see that shit. And he wants to tell me how to respect the space?! This is why people shattered mugs at your final show. Mugs that you said were here when you moved in. Fuckin’ dick. We do need more violence in the scene. Should’ve decked him instead of punchin’ a hole in the wall. Can’t blame a clout chaser though for not knowin’ what it looks like to support a scene. Kyle admits though, as he thanks for me lettin’ ‘em play. That asshole is the one that gave him my Instagram when they came up here from Florida and didn’t know anybody. The road to hell is paved with good intentions. We’re all probably gonna end up there. But at least we won’t be hitchin’ a ride tryin’ to chase someone else. We’ll be walkin’ and enjoyin’ the trip with each other. Kyle and Shelby didn’t come to my place for a show expectin’ to make it. They came as people. Expectin’ to mingle and hang out with other human beings. They didn’t expect to find a community so open to what they were doin’. Which is what made ‘em fit in so well when they got here.
Thank god this fuckin’ ketamine is startin’ to hit. And I gotta get out there to make sure Girl Fight is settin’ up. Heavy low end on the guitar over a snare and floor tom. Screamin’ anti-patriarchal anthems over the drivin’ chugs of rhythm. And people wanna say this is meaningless. This isn’t contributing to society. Well they’re right in a sense. This doesn’t contribute much. This is an attempt to annihilate the world as we know. Buildin’ it up from nothin’ the way all these geniuses have built their legacies from nothin’. The noise clips our eardrums as the bands decorate time with art. Friends of Dennis Wilson wrappin’ up their psych in the other room while VVISIONSS preps to play.
Tony from Friends of Dennis Wilson talks faster than a Stools song at me. Tellin’ me how great it is to see the next generation keepin’ up the with the shit the groups his age did back in the day. Thankin’ me for lettin’ ‘em play and witness the new scene carry on the traditions passed down from decade to decade. “I can’t believe you got Blood Stone to play this.” Jake says as they start playin’ their mellow twenty first century garage pop. A gen Z/millenial poet. The boomers might call it mumbo jumbo. Say it’s nonsense. But we know these things mean somethin’. It was once said to me that bein’ asked to sing is as nervewrackin’ as bein’ asked to jerk off in front of an audience. Every artist is strokin’ off their ego when they perform. To an extent. It feels selfish to show off your work and say ‘listen to what I gotta say. It’s important.’ But there’s nothin’ more stomach knottin’ vulnerable than showin’ off your deepest thoughts and feelings for others to witness. Disassociatin’ yourself from the part of your mind that tells you not to be open. It’s hard as fuck to be that open with people. Art is just the only language some of us can speak through.
“Nips man.” Jake punches me in the shoulder as the Stools prepare to fill the ballroom with trashy blues. “You gotta go up there and say somethin’ before the end of the show. You’re the MC.”
I hate doin’ this shit. The whole point of bookin’ was to see the shows I wanted to see. Then I could just lay low and watch ‘em. This was supposed to be stress free. “Hey everybody. I just wanted to say thank you. Freaksgivin’ was a blast. So let’s give a nice thank you to all the artists for givin’ us somethin’ nice to look at it. Let’s give thanks to all the bands for burstin’ our eardrums. But mostly. Let’s give thanks to all the wonderfully weird freaks out there that came and this night beautiful. Seriously. Without all the freaks that live for this shit, none of what any of us do would be possible.”
Pace around the empty theater side of the buildin’. Nose raw and runny. Pickin’ up cans and bottles from the floor. Artists start loadin’ out. Bands round up their gear. Will is probably deepthroatin’ a mic right now as two in the mornin’ starts to approach. Playin’ to a nearly empty room of the die hard freaks and fiends. Despite a release on Third Man, they aren’t chasin’ clout to find the next big thing. They say the Stools are so wholesome, they could beat the shit outta your grandma and you’d think she deserved it. Settled up with Joe already. Tipped the bartender extra since I hurt their sales. Between the bands that asked me to invite ‘em back next time and the bands that couldn’t play but want me to hit ‘em up if I do it again, half the lineup is already set. “Nips!” Jake and Craig run up to hug me. Craig plants his chapped lips to mine. Filled with platonic love. I give the two of ‘em their payout. “I gotta say man.” Jake slurs as he bobs in place. “I want you to know how much everyone in the scene appreciates you. Like this was fuckin’ sick. Everything you do from the shows you book to comin’ out. Like I can’t even put into words how thankful I am you’re a part of this scene. And how genuine you are with everything. Your support and work you put into this means so much to everyone. And I’ll fuck up anyone else who says otherwise. Gimme another fuckin’ hug. I love you buddy.”
His arms wrap around you. You do the same. Tellin’ him it means a lot to hear that. Even if ya don’t think much of what you’re doin’. Not just cause the alcohol and ketamine has your brain feelin’ like soup. You’re just a guy who wants to see some sick shit happen. Wants to hear some sick shit slowly turn you deaf. You’re just a guy that wants to feel the love course through your numb body as some other body embraces you in the pit. Crushin’ your toes and turnin’ your shoes brown. A guy who somehow managed to break even on this night. It’s easy to gamble though when you know money doesn’t mean shit. Most people have turned the other way when somethin’ potentially groundbreaking and life changing is happening. I’m just the guy that would rather see it happen before my very eyes than look back and imagine what I could’ve seen.
I remember Brendan tellin’ me once he started Remove outta selfishness. He wanted tapes from the people he knew. And as he got to know more people, he wanted more tapes. I didn’t wanna throw house shows. All I wanted to do was listen to some cool tunes for my twenty first birthday. Next thing I knew. Once a month there was a five band bill playin’ in my bedroom. It started outta selfishness. Doesn’t everything we do come from our own selfish attempts to make ourselves happy? It was just coincidental that I found a community. That I was able to witness geniuses create beauty from nothin’ in real time. And I couldn’t be more thankful for all the freaks, weirdos, rejects, and outcasts that let me be a witness to what they do.