My Definition of House Music

Photo of the Day: Emily Gail makes the new Runaways movie

I can't shut up about the fact that Kristen Stewart rocks a classic Emily Gail "Detroit" logo t-shirt in the new Runaways movie.

Emily Gail is a serious Detroit legend. She was the original pro-Detroiter back in the 1970s, even opening a store in downtown that sold all sorts of cool stuff. She would also organize "fun runs" around the city (my dad ran in many of them). I was recently thinking how much I wanted to either track down some of those classic designs (which is all but impossible--so far, anyway).

So when "Joan Jett" breaks this baby out in the Runaways movie, I almost choked on my popcorn. Where in the HELL the movie's stylist found that baby is beyond me. All I know is that it's AWESOME.

Detroit writer Neil Rubin explains Emily Gail perfectly in this excerpt from a July 2,2009 story from the Detroit News:

"For more than two decades now, Emily Gail has been saying nice things about Kailua Kona, Hawaii. But the woman who believed in downtown when nobody else did is still saying nice things about Detroit, too.

That was her slogan in the '70s and '80s: "Say Nice Things About Detroit." She put it on T-shirts and bumper stickers and the occasional banner trailing behind an airplane, and now it's embedded in the history of an era.

Gail is 62, not that she looks it, and her naivete and trademark braids are long gone.

A quick word about downtown Detroit back when Gail began to make herself known:

Ugh.

Hudson's was still around, but dreariness had descended. Then the Renaissance Center opened in 1977, sucking tenants out of the old office buildings and into the glass fortress on the river.

'People walked with their heads down,' she says. The streets were so empty that Gail and beau Herb (Pooh) Squires would bring out her old baseball gloves and play catch on the asphalt.

Her family owned Gail's Office Supply in the Penobscot Building. She opened a tiny gift shop in the skyscraper, then a larger one at Congress and Shelby called Emily's Across the Street. She sold jewelry and T-shirts, often using one day's receipts to buy the next day's merchandise, and branched out into hot dogs, ice cream and cookies.

Profit margins were minimal, but the fun factor was high. She sponsored bike days and a fun run that grew from 100 pairs of feet to more than 20,000. Emily became the first name in civic boosterism.

Then she lost her lease, married Pooh and moved to Hawaii. No more stickers, no more fun run, no more Detroit, except in her heart."

Jackie Fox of the Runaways remembers Detroit 1976

Early 1976: "Driving across country with the Runaways was always an experience. I always wore a skimpy little t-shirt, no matter how cold it was, and Joan always wore her leather jacket, no matter how hot it was. We never had enough money for food and, somehow, our travel agency always managed to find us a hotel in the most inappropriate part of town.

I will never forget staying at the Holiday Inn on Trumbull Avenue in Detroit, supposedly the only hotel in the country at the time in which the night clerk's window had bullet-proof glass. Creem magazine was located in Detroit, and whenever we would tell the writers we were staying at the Holiday Inn, they would always get a look of panic on their faces and say not the one on Trumball Avenue?

Detroit was one of our first stops on tour, and the night we got there we decided to go to a movie at a theater nearby. It was a Clint Eastwood movie (one of the Dirty Harry series), and that night was the first time in my life that I really realized I was white, since we were staying in a totally black neighborhood and we were the only white people in a fully packed theater. And there we were, five teenage girls, with no chaperone. Don't ask me where our manager was, I don't remember. But he wasn't there. Lucky for us, the people in Detroit were really nice (although they did seem a bit surprised to see five 16 year old white girls running around their neighborhood at night)."

— via Jackie Fox's "The Runaways Remembered" blog

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO THE GREATEST TO EVER DO IT*

Where I'm from, Pt. 2

Where I'm from, Pt. 1

It happened in Detroit: Jive Turkey 6

My trip home to Detroit was amazing.

Soooo many outrageous stories, all of them true.

Among my favorites: Jive Turkey 6

The “6” indicating the 6th year in a row this particular Detroit underground throwdown has been happening.

The line-up was already impressive, as evidenced by the flyer. The word was that Kenny Dixon Jr. and Theo Parrish were both going to be rocking unannounced sets. Hell yes. My old buddy Tim Baker was gonna be in the house, it was sure be a night of ‘90s-tastic fun.

I’d never been to the Bohemian House before. Deep in the heart of Detroit’s southwest side, the Ambassador Bridge loomed ominously behind me as I rolled a far too shiny rental car down a desolate side street towards the spot.

There were a couple of dudes in parkas hanging around a bunch of cars parked on a barren lot. One of them approached me and asked for $3. OK, word.

Except that now left me with only $7 in cash. The party cost $10. Hm. I rolled to the door and before I could explain my dilemma, dude at the dude took my $7 and waved me in. Cool.

OK, this was a classic dirty Detroit rave. The location looked like any number of abandoned houses in the city. Random planks and shit were lying around everywhere. The party was broken into two rooms. In the big main room, a DJ I didn’t know was dropping hard house beats. The room was fairly crowded. Behind the decks I spied Boo Williams, Glenn Underground, and a few more old-school heads.

I wandered into the second room, where my bud Tim Baker was spinning serious hardcore techno. He was beating it, as they like to say.

There were a few druggy party kids running around, but for a dirty Detroit rave, the crowd was surprisingly of age. Lots of ‘90s ravers grown up, with a healthy percentage of older black folks just chilling and smoking weed. The bar was doing a healthy business.

There was this insane young blond in front of the DJ tables. I swear she was wearing cut-off panties. With only a bra up top, she was working the floor like she was on a riser at Rain in Vegas. I mean this girl was grinding like she was getting paid big bucks. Even the too-cool-for-school dudes behind the tables were having a hard time not totally ogling her.

At one point this wasted brunette tried to mix it up with the blond, but it was short, painful defeat. She had one move, which was turning around and lifting her skirt up over ass, revealing a thong and a lotta ass. But that got old quick, and soon enough she was outta there.

Some dude starts rapping on the mike about the upcoming DJs, when I noticed a guy in what looked like a cop vest rush past me. By the time I looked up, a stream of police in what appeared to be stripped-down riot gear was streaming in through the main entrance. I glanced at the guy next to me, and we both made a beeline for the exit, only to be met by one seriously angry looking cop.

(The one picture I took before the cops killed the party)

“Everybody get down on the fucking floor right fucking now!”

The music had stopped and this booming cry was suddenly the only sound in the room. Overhead lights started coming on. More cops rushed into the room. People are kind of looking at each other like, “WTF?” My heart started beating really fast.

“I SAID GET ON THE FUCKING FLOOR NOW!”

All 200 or so of us slowly squatted down on the filthy floor. Looking to my right, I saw an open pack of cigarettes with a plastic baggie hanging out of it, filled with white powder. Nearby, there were two more similar baggies. A couple more to my right. Damn, Detroit—party much? I realize that I'm actually shaking. The one other time I got caught up in one of these raids, I'd nonchalantly walked out the front door. The cops didn't even give me a second look that night more than ten years ago. This night was not like that at all.

A kid kind of stood up in the middle of the room, only to be thrown violently back down by the yelling cop.

“DIDN’T YOU HEAR ME MOTHER FUCKER?!” He growled.

Oh, shit. This was really happening.

The cops pile everyone into the main room and start demanding ID.

“IF YOU ARE UNDER 21, YOU ARE GOING TO JAIL. EVERYONE UNDER 21, RAISE YOUR HAND NOW!”

A smattering of hands timidly rose. The cops looked around the room, confused. Most of the faces were older than they were.

“IF ANY OF YOU ARE LYING, I SWEAR TO GOD! UNDER 21, STAND UP NOW!”

A couple dozen kids staggered to their feet, while the rest of us sat squatting on the floor of this dilapidated house that’s supposedly a historical landmark of the city. How fitting.

The cops looked crestfallen. One just yelled “FUCK!” at the top of his lungs.

The few, unfortunate busted kids were shuffled into the smaller room for processing. The rest of us got lined up, made to show ID, and sent off into the night.

Just another Saturday night in Detroit…

(The Telway Hamburgers spot on Michigan Ave not far from the party)

Masonic Temple, downtown Detroit

Another one taken from inside a rental car around 5AM on a Sunday morning*

This is an amazing venue. I saw an incredible Prince concert there once when I was in high school. It was on his birthday, June 7. The year I can't remember, but it was definitely in the '80s. There was also a phenomenal White Stripes show I caught in 2003.

Sayeth Wikipedia:

"The Detroit Masonic Temple is a large-events venue located in downtown Detroit, Michigan, at 500 Temple Street. The 4,404-seat Masonic Temple Theater (managed by Olympia Entertainment) is a venue for concerts, Broadway shows, and other special events in the Detroit Theater District."

But my favorite story about the Masonic is when the Stones played a 'secret' show there in 1978 around the time "Some Girls" came out. I wouldn't see my first Stones show for another three years, damn it.

Spirit of Detroit

Taken from inside a rental car around 4AM on a Sunday morning*

The Dirty Show came to L.A.* (NSFW)

Once upon a time, there was a guy in Detroit called Jerry Vile. He was in a band called the Boners. He went on to start a newspaper called Fun. Fun was like the original Vice, only much better and not as nearly as annoying. Fun eventually evolved into Orbit, which I'd term as the original alternative alt-weekly. Instead of covering local politics, Orbit covered local porn stars, drug fiends and night-crawlers. Orbit was amazing. Orbit is also where I scored my first writing job after college.

It would take forever to explain the Orbit Years, so I'll just tell you that it was way more fun than should be allowed by law. No one partied harder than the boss (and many tried). Sex, drugs and punk fucking rock were the order of the day in that office.

But what made Orbit special was the insane amounts of talent that graced the masthead. Guys like Paul Zimmerman and Glenn Barr and Tristan Eaton and Doug Coombe and David Keeps and Brenna Sanchez and I could go on. You probably don't recognize any of those names, but they're all fantastic artists that have influenced me in ways I'll probably never be able to fully comprehend. And it's all good.

Post-Orbit, Jerry Vile (AKA Jerry Peterson) went on to found "The Dirty Show," a wild erotic art show that's now been in existence for more than a decade. This past weekend, Jerry brought The Dirty Show to L.A. for the first time.

It has held in a truly seedy hotel in downtown, with each room decked out with art. A (pretty wasted!) Suicide Girl named Chloe played hostess. And there were so many Detroiters in the house I couldn't tell if I was at home or in heaven.

Dopplereffekt brings electro irony to the Sunset Strip

The irony was fleeting, but not lost.
While a majority of the worldwide techno fraternity was heading toward Detroit for the annual three-day electronic music festival now known as Movement, one of the city’s most celebrated and plugged-in acts -- mysterious underground electro legends Dopplereffekt -- was 3,000 miles away. Dopplereffekt was taking the stage at the Roxy to perform to an 18 and older crowd of party people brought together by the marketing mavens of automakers Scion, a youth-targeted brand from Toyota, which is sponsoring the four-city Dopplereffekt U.S. tour.

The band is the conception of one Gerald Donald, who before starting Dopplereffekt was one half of the even more seminal outfit Drexciya. After splitting off to go solo, Dopplereffekt released two vinyl-only albums that are essentials to the Detroit electro canon, 1995’s “Fascist State” and the following year's “Infophysix.” Thick with stark, minimal tracks heavy with irony, songs like “Superior Race” and “Pornoactress” pulse with inner-city energy enraptured with technology and European sensibilities.

But any semblance of a “party” quickly dissipated after Dopplereffekt took the stage.

A duo -- Donald and his female foil, known only as To Nhan Le Thi -- with keyboards, both wearing disturbing black matte masks, stood facing each other in front of a large screen. The beats of the preceding DJ were replaced with ominous synthesizer tones, and after a brief false start that forced the band to leave the stage, the show eventually commenced with more of the same moody keyboard ambiance, and little else.

Images of the duo in lab coats, interspersed with random shots of satellites and political symbols, flashed on the screen behind the pair as they stared at each other and idly poked at their machines. As the first song faded into the next and then the next, there was no discernible beat. Delving into their most recent ambient output, such as the 2007 release “Cabal Yau Space,” a good 15 minutes passed with this bizarre scene onstage and a confused club wondering what the heck was going on.

“We want to dance!” wailed a voice from the crowd.
“Drop the bass!” chimed in another.
Pockets of people started booing.
Still, the eerie scene onstage remained static. Dopplereffekt continued to just stare at each other from across the darkened stage, the only movement coming from Donald’s left hand, which twitched spastically above his keyboard. Eventually, a hissing snare drum was thrown into the mix, evolving into slow, loping grooves reminiscent of late-period Kraftwerk.

By then the hecklers had lost their steam, and much of the audience had drifted off toward the bar. The music slowly inched up in BPMs and even elicited some dancing, but never really hit any sort of peak. After about an hour (and not playing any of their mid-‘90s classics), the pair unceremoniously left the stage. As the closing DJs frantically set up their gear to save whatever semblance of a party was left in the night, the subdued crowd slowly trickled out of the club.

While it wasn’t exactly the Sex Pistols at Winterland in ’78, the absurdist nature of Dopplereffekt’s performance was more a case of wrong place, wrong time. This was a show for obsessive techno and electro fiends, and would have been more readily appreciated in the right environment -- like the Movement festival in Detroit.

(0riginally published in the L.A. Times)

It's that techno time of the year again...

If you’re from Detroit and have even the most fleeting association with techno music, Memorial Day weekend means “the festival.”

Old-school heads (cough!) will know it as “DEMF,” AKA the Detroit Electronic Music Festival. New kids know it as “Movement.” Regardless, this annual under the radar three-day festival of techno down on the waterfront in Hart Plaza has gone through all sorts of drama over the course of existence. There was the whole Carl Craig era (he started the damn thing), and the fallout when he was ‘fired’ by some lady whose name I forget (ha!). Derrick May took it over for a minute, but now it’s the hardcore crew called Paxahau running the show—and quite well at that.

Serious techno freaks generally bitch about something (namely the line-up), but this year’s edition looks especially hot. Then again, the line-up looks pretty good to me every year (Flying Lotus, Carl Craig, Richie Hawtin, François K, etc.) . Not enough for me to pony up the cash to fly home, rent a car, get a room and party like it’s 1995 all over again. But hey, a boy can dream (or in this case, reminisce).

So I definitely got a laugh out of this spot-on rundown of who goes to the festival that’s in this week’s edition of the “Detroit Metro Times,” the city’s alt-weekly. I’m not even mad at their definition of the “Old-School Detroit Techno/Rave Set,” which is where I fit in. Although I do take umbrage at the idea of being “worn out from having just traveled from somewhere.” Hey, don’t hate me for getting the hell outta Dodge when the getting was good. Besides, I’ve found that I’ve out-partied people much younger than myself the last few times I made the voyage. Defensive much? OK, maybe just a little. But like Jagger so sagely said back in the day, “Time waits for no one.” It stalks and eventually catches up with even the best of us. Or is that the luckiest?

Regardless, I’m sure the myriad of party people descending on the Motor City this weekend will have one hell of a good time. Just be safe out there (they don’t call it ‘Murder City’ for nothing) and do yourself a favor and befriend a local to serve as a travel guide. And if you find yourself in the vicinity of suburban city Ferndale, have some of the best Chinese food in the world at China Ruby on Nine Mile Rd., or down the street at Bangkok Café. They’re both so, so good. God, I wish I was going to Detroit this weekend…

Detroit Flashback: Boblo Island

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Once upon a time, Detroit had it's very own amusement park. What made it doubly cool was that it was located on its very own island just off the shore of the city, actually in Canadian waters. Which meant that to get there, you had to ride the Boblo Boat, and old-fashioned steamer ferry that would shuttle packs of kids and their harried parents to the park.

Boblo was one of those places that you would go to at least once a summer as a kid. But as one got older, the lure of the then burgeoning "mega-coasters" at nearby parks like Cedar Point overshadowed Boblo's far more meager attractions.

Still, nothing could ever top the party that would always happen on the boat ride, especially coming back in the late afternoon/early evening. The DJ would spin the funky radio hits of the day (Michael Jackson was a perennial), and it was Dance Party USA, Motown style. Boblo ruled.

Flashback: Richie Hawtin, Detroit, early 1990s

So. Facebook is killing me right now. More specifically, a very old and dear friend, Adriel Thorton, is the one blowing my mind. He's started a new Facebook group that revolves around the Detroit party scene of the early '90s.

I was as front and center as humanly possible. I went to every party, checked out every DJ, and pretty much indulged in the scene to a degree that crossed over into unhealthy.

This photo of Rich at St. Andrews Hall (found on said Facebook page) just brought it all rushing back—the thrill involved in making your way to the right place, at the right time, and experiencing something you'll never, ever forget.

Richie Hawtin was often the catalyst of such events in and around Detroit back in the day. The guy just had a knack for a good time. From the music to the setting to, well, you know the rest—it was always something more than just a party. It all seems even more surreal now than it did then...