I should have known better.
Fellow eternal adolescent Tony and I were at St. Andrews Hall in Detroit this past Saturday for the Eagles of Death Metal concert. We had endured the caterwauling of opening act, Jessika Von Rabbit and were busy people watching from the front rail of the balcony enjoying light libations.
I have been enjoying rock concerts since 1973 (J Geils Band at Cobo Arena, a pretty good start). Only a rookie would wait until the house lights come down for the headliner before making a dash to the bathroom. Getting sidetracked by the booze, people watching and anticipation of a great show is no excuse. I tried to ignore my nagging bladder by pouring beer on top of it.
It didn’t work. I shuffled back and forth as a self important roadie went from mike to mike uttering the famous rock lyric, “Check, check, check one, check two.” When he exited stage left only to come back a few minutes later with an armful of drinks, I knew I had only minutes to spare.
I tapped Tony on the shoulder, told him I was heading downstairs to the bathroom, and made my way through the standing masses behind us. That there was nobody else in the head at the time confirmed my suspicion that if I didn’t hurry, I would be caught downstairs when the band hit the stage, maybe the best part of any concert.
Alas, there is no hurrying a middle aged stream. After what seemed an eternity in the slop that is the St. Andrews men’s room, I made my way out of the bathroom and toward the steps only to be stopped by a black clad security guard. He spread his arms and informed me that I could not head back up at this time. I clearly remembered washing my hands and could not figure out what I had done wrong.
“Why not?”
“Because the band has to walk down these steps to get to the stage.”
“The band is going to walk by right here.” I motioned to the short hall populated only by the two of us.
“That’s right. You can wait next to me.”
Seconds later, an even larger black clad security guy came down the steps followed by the rhythm section for EODM. Behind them, Jesse Hughes the mustachioed wild man that fronts the band bounced down. He stopped as soon as he saw me.
“Fuck man. I have that same shirt.” He was excitedly pointing at my black Creem magazine tee with the Boy Howdy logo.
I am not sure if the shirt moved him, or if being in the presence of a man with a better mustache than his got to him, but he hustled over and put me in a tight bear hug, one that I naturally and enthusiastically returned.
When he released me, I cleverly said, “You guys fucking rock.” It was all I had.
The heavily bearded guitar player, Dave Catching, caught my eye and I added, “This show is going to be fucking great.” Remember, I had been pissing a minute before and had no time to prepare anything more than Beavis and Butthead banter. He seemed to like it and returned my comment with a “Fucking great” of his own.
Then they were gone.
I tore up the steps and through the crowd to get to Anthony, still solidly sipping his gin and tonic and holding our spot against the rail. I told him my story just as the band hit the stage. He called me a dick with a giant smile on his face, his way of acknowledging that something pretty cool had happened.
We turned our attention to the stage as EODM took their places. My new best friend Jesse Hughes took the mike at center stage.
“The doctors told me if I played this show tonight, I would probably die. I have been sick the past few days with a 104 degree fever. But I am all fucked up on Detroit drugs and ready to go.”
While the crowd cheered this bravery, Tony swiveled and stared at me. He, and anyone else that knows me, understands that I am a germ-a-phobe. One that avoids and loathes the sick. I had been hugged tightly by a man suffering from God knows what illness he caught while on the rock and roll road.
The only course of action I could think of was to kill the germs with alcohol. So I did.
Did anything else good happen that night?
Yes. For a few hours on Saturday night, I was a punk kid again. After spending the week getting up early, working, worrying and watching what I eat, I spent five hours drinking, laughing, engaging strangers in conversation and hugging deathly ill rock stars with the one person most qualified to accompany me on my trip back to immaturity. Being related to your bad influence is pretty great, right Anthony?
We saw a great concert from our front row balcony perch. Eagles of Death Metal do not play death metal, by the way. They play hard rock, punk, comedy, sing along. It is difficult to neatly categorize, but easy to get into. You won’t hear acoustic guitars, long solos or sad tunes. You will hear catchy riffs played in loud bursts by a visually interesting foursome.
When the sold out crowd took over singing part of a tune for the flu ridden singer, he interrupted the song and let everyone know how moved he was. “Nobody has ever done that for us before. I feel like crying. You see I never had a dog or a little brother growing up.”
After roughly ninety minutes, a great concert ended, but not our night.
There are two bars within walking distance to St. Andrews that Little Brother and I had been to before and had a less than stellar time, Jacoby’s and Sweetwater Tavern. We pride ourselves on being able to have fun in any shithole and decided to revisit both, to tidy up some unfinished business.
We started at Jacoby’s. A few years ago, we were treated like intruders at some private club when we stopped in for beers. We were not treated like that on this occasion, but it was crowded and loud and douchey. We had one beer and decided to split. Sometimes even the best boozers can’t beat a bad bar.
Our previous trip to Sweetwater went like this. Walk in the front door. Look at room of black faces staring at us. Walk to the rear of the tavern to go out the back door. Find that there is no back door. Walk back past the still staring black faces. Exit the front door. If this strikes you as racist, fuck off. Do you remember what happened to the guys from Animal House at the Dexter Lake Club? Sometimes you just don’t belong.
This trip was more friendly. Yes, that means more diverse. Again, if this is a problem for you, fuck off.
We staked out a spot at the bar just inside the door and struck up a conversation with the couple next to us. In short order, we found out that they were young (22) and they found out that we were old ( we did not cop to any specific age, but the bald heads and eye bags may have tipped them off). It was as if the girl had discovered a rotary phone. She was flabbergasted that we had just attended the EODM show (we should have been asleep by now), intrigued by our facial hair (I should have showed her my hairy chest, that would have really shocked her), and highly amused that I have been married to the same woman for almost thirty-five years (quaint).
Naturally, we outlasted these young pups at the bar. They were replaced next to us by a wise cracking fellow who wanted to talk about the football game playing out on the television in front of us. He and Tony were trading barbs, most of it good natured. When it came down to the final play of the game, a field goal attempt to determine the winner, Tony said it would sail wide right and our new friend said it would be a winner. During the time out before the kick, a wager was made with a drink on the line. When Tony proved right, and the kick not only missed but sailed wide right, our new buddy slunk away leaving his debt unpaid. If your integrity can be bought for a measly five bucks, you are lacking.
Alas, there were no more bars to avenge and no time left for avenging.
I write this shit blog eight days since the concert. I did not catch the Jesse Hughes flu, but have wondered since then if it is in any way odd that I got a kick out of my encounter with the EODM front man. It probably is odd. But it may be even odder that I don’t give a damn.
Cheers! Jim
