D-Tails and D-Construction of D-Tour Launch...

Friday night found me catching the last few songs of Carjack's set. Beginning to like him more and more. As a wise man once said, you can't have Detroit without a good carjack. There was a brief moment where his backing track was a spot-on replica of Suicide's drum machine sound. I first had that feeling when some DJ in Europe played Dead Combo's "You Don't Look So Good" (an overlooked classic if there ever was) and you think it'd happen a lot more. But it doesn't. Good for us. Check out CJ's cd-r/demo/whatever and dig on the total Kraftwerk instrumental of "Carbot's Departure"...beautifully sparse and pastoral in an unexpected yet totally welcome change of pace or "departure." Get it?

The Terrible Twos wreaked havoc after that. I can safely say that the Garden Bowl lounge has, pound for pound, hosted an overwhelming majority of my favorite shows in this town. Greenhornes on Superbowl Sunday '99 (2 sets), Soledad Brothers where Swank handed me the drumstix, Clone Defects a billion times, John Gillis solo '01, a rare Patrick Keeler-Tim Vulgar-Jack White jam session from some long-forgotten date in 2001 as well as my first-ever vocal performance, while on drums, doing "Stormy" by the Jesters of Newport.

So the Twos were on and the freaks came out. Within the first thirty seconds of the first song the overzealous security goon had kicked out Colin of the Frustrations for punk shit...you know, pogoing, slamming, whatever it is the kids are calling it these days. More than a few people were awkwardly hoisted over-head in an almost stationary crowd surf precariously trying to avoid the ever-present ceiling fan. This is the way and place that I like to see shows.

And apparently the owners have taken note. I've been told the Garden Bowl will start having more consistent free shows in their lounge. It's more likely to be shows that would usually be upstairs at the Stick and draw 50 people. So instead of constantly reliving that miserable prospect, bands will get paid a flat fee, people will get in for free, the club will rely on bigger bar receipts and in the end EVERYONE enjoys the evening so much more.

The Go did their thing upstairs at the Stick. I kinda prefer when Bobby's just singing. His guitar playing is nothing bad, but the guitar itself is so unpowerful and forgettable. I can't help but worry that the rest of the world will never truly understand or appreciate the genius of these guys. I truly hope they discover their place, because the world needs more bands with their skill and determination. Seeing them in bigger spaces leads me to wonder whether their better-suited as a 5-piece. However, when the crash into "Meet Me at the Movies" no one seems to care and for a brief moment it's as if everything is perfect.

While my personal coney preference is clearly Duly's in Southwest Detroit, my after-show go-to is always American Coney Island. Forget that Mack Rice supposedly wrote "Mustang Sally" at Lafayette. Forget that Lafayette is supposedly where Fred and Patti Smith met. There's no feeling in that place. Too often an old restaurant or club or hotel is trumpeted for the fact that it hasn't changed, that it's been the same since the Thirties or whatever. Half the time that's a good thing. But on Lafayette, I call bullshit. It is uncomfortable, small and sub-par. And the place doesn't even stay open 24 hours! It's no contest. I prefer the sophistication that comes with American's Flatiron-esque vista of two avenues meeting at a V. I can get past the gaudy sports-bar decoration of the place and long for the time when a place naming itself "American" was a sign of pride. Disagree? Bring it on in the comments.

Saturday started at the CAID and the pushed-back scheduling left me having to endure the last half of the Nice Device. How do you type the sound a yawn makes? They sound like bland, sanitized 89x modern rock. Which is good for them, because that has to be what they're going for, as there's no way such mediocrity can be confused for anything else. Didn't the singer used to be in some Indigo Girls folk act?

Following that lameness was the long-awaited return of SSM. I was really slow to warm to this band when they started up two years ago. My initial sentiment was that I'd rather see each one of the band members in their previous/other band....John in the Hentchmen, Marty with the Cyril Lords and Shettler in the classic Sights three-piece line-up. I passed up a chance to put out a 7" by them because I just wasn't "feeling it." That was my loss.

With time, their self-titled album has grown on me like ivy at Wrigley Field. The first three songs (which were the proposed 7" tunes) are flawless and the memorable moments do not stop there. The craft behind songs like "Dinosaur" and "2012" as well as "Sick" is phenomenal and the whole thing is easily one of the best full-lengths to emerge from Detroit in the past 10 years.

Their performance was solid. All the old songs held their weight. Was glad to see Shettler without the drum machine, but then thought that the newer songs sounded a bit thin in the rhythm department. I'm also a fan of them without the light show. Focus on the tunes and the crowd will focus on you. Dare I say I'm excited to hear what their upcoming full-length has to offer.

Walked in halfway through the Mahonies' Garden Bowl set. I'd first been hipped to these guys last year when word on the street was that they'd be doing an impromptu guerrilla gig through an unguarded power supply at Tastefest. Some douche told me the wrong time and I missed it. So this would be my first time seeing the Mahonies and it was perfection. I'd missed the band-sponsored coney eating contest (won by Hunter Muldoon with a respectable four coney dogs downed) but was otherwise wowed with their otherworldly absurdly dumb genius. Like the Ramones, the Stooges, the Sneaky Pinks before them...you either get it instantly or are perpetually confused. And a song written about Clone Defects bassist Chuck Fogg? Unreal! I must've had 4 different people come up to tell me the Mahonies were their new favorite band. And I'm in agreement with them. I got to get them on Cass...it should be possible to fit 8 songs on one side of a 45.

Freer upstairs was horrid. Someone mentioned to me that they'd seen lots of bands lately with a piano-playing lead singer. Interested and thinking they'd meant local bands, I inquired "Really?" to which they replied, "Yeah. Coldplay, Keane..." And that's the unfavorable company I would lump Freer in with. And in a lot of ways, I love this.

I love the fact that I've been hearing about this band for God-knows how long and keep making that mental note that I still need to check them out. Even if what I've read about them has failed to intrigue me or spark my interest, I still gotta know what's up, in my own opinion, on my own terms, for my own sake. So to finally see this band and be able to say in my own voice that they are shitty...nothing beats that. Still on the to-see-if-they're-shitty list: Johnny Headband, Bang Bang, Ghost City and a ton of other shit that is most-likely shitty.

The unexpected (unexplained?) return of Ko and the Knockouts drew a sizable crowd at the Stick. The Decks crew were up front in full-effect and singing and dancing like the lovable fools they are. Eddie Baranek is surprisingly captivating onstage when he's not drunk off his ass. Ko was a little spotty at first, but eventually found her footing.

Good heckles heard were: as Ko said "This many people didn't like us when we were really a band..." to which some smartass replied "We still don't!" and when Baranek introduced a song as being "written in my US History after 1945 class" a razor-witted one remarked "Get your degree!" And that is my new favorite band taunt. Get a degree. Don't hesitate to use it. Steve Nawara joined for the last few songs and they ended with "Black and Blue" their best-known song as featured on the Sympathetic Sounds of Detroit compilation that no one ever got paid for.

Downstairs immediately afterwards were the Frustrations. While the crowd reaction was tepid (most likely in response to the same overzealous security guard from the previous night in attendance) it did not keep this collection of weirdos from destroying. When they cruised into "Exploding Mind" I moved more than I would all weekend. Dancy? Calypso? Is Dunkerly finally listening to some Fire*Eater drumming? Either way, shit was tits.

Random unsolicited Matt Smith comment:
"It's like (GI) meets Band of Gypsies"

And allow me a brief aside on the topic of unsolicited Matt Smith comments. Matt is always coming up with these zany pairings of bands to try and describe something. I think the first one I ever was privy to was him comparing the Buzzards to Motorhead and the Velvet Underground, and I'm sure they were doing something like having a tea party in Valhalla or some bullshit. The thing is, whenever Matt makes these distinctions, while he may be somewhat close to describing the sound, he just sounds so asinine that I can't help and discredit EVERYTHING he says afterwards. He's so immersed in obscure records and recordings to notice the obvious and likely comparisons for bands. And, for some reason, this really irritates me.

Anyway, to end their set, Colin from the Frustrations climbs on a chair and smacks his guitar down on a cocktail table. He breaks a few bottles, nothing crazy, but nevertheless a good ending exclamation point for the show that would ultimately end in utter mayhem.

The previously-mentioned overzealous security guard took this as an affront and overreacted. He was closely followed by an heretofore unmentioned security guard (it's worth mentioning both of these guys are pretty damned new to the job). One of them goes after Colin and the other grabs his guitar. Big no-no. Don't ever touch anyone else's guitar even when they let you. Let alone some burly dude who's probably never held one before and is likely to break the instrument that Colin built himself.

Chris Campbell of the Terrible Twos (essentially big brother to the Frustrations guys) calmly tries to grab the guitar back and this other security guard flies off the handle. He grabs Chris, starts unnecessarily pushing him out the door where Chris is clearly willing to do so of his own volition. I got in the guy's face for a second and said "You need to chill out" and was fucking scared to shit. He had the crazy-eyed stare and I backed off. While still being pushed out the door Chris spit in his face and shit went nuts.

The security guard immediately threw a punch at Campbell, grazing his head. The force of the blow jarred Chris' head backwards and that, coupled with the subsequent follow-through of the punch, shattered the glass on the front door to the Magic Stick.

Chris continued to leave (as it was clear he was already set to do) and the security guard was flying off the handle at this point, chasing Chris down the street and very audibly threatening to kill him. The other security guard at this point was attempting to restrain the unruly one. It was kinda funny, if only for a second.

A mass of people crowded outside but nothing much happened from there. Chris was fine, a small knot on his forehead was practically unnoticeable. The bouncer was rightly fired on the spot and the higher-ups at the club planned an upcoming meeting on how to deal with punk rock situations.

Aftershow back at the CAID and I finally got to check out this Charlie Slick that all the kids are talking about. While the performance was a tad engaging (flashing lights, bubble machine, confetti), the music was god-awful. I've got no stomach for the mid-80's UK fey electro-pop, let alone a tired re-hash of it twenty years late. I understand people want to dance and believe in something, but the singer's voice is static and unremarkable while his dance moves are high school drama club embarrassing. Too often something is touted just for being different or original without taking a step back for some perspective. And that seems to be the case with Charlie Slick.

As for Detour itself...I don't know what to make of it. It's basically a Detroit-centric website full of pop culture detritus. Movies, music, television...I guess they took their cue from the It Came From Culture City blog. It's cool to have a website that puts on shows and will be somewhat active in promoting cultural happenings in this town, but in the end, I still prefer Steve-O.

Asking the Tough Questions About Rock and Roll Music...

I am by no means an end-all, be-all repository of rock and roll knowledge. And armchair rock and roll repartee is rampant with claims of firsts…shit like whether or not Jackie Brenson and His Delta Cats “Rocket 88” from 1951 is the first rock and roll song is purely arbitrary. But collected below are some questions that have been bugging me for awhile (and some that I just made up) that I feel can be answered one way or another. Anyone who can solidly prove or disprove any of these questions as fact is strongly encouraged to post the relevant, fact-checked information in the comments section. Also feel welcome to ask your own questions. Hurry. I may just participate in the comments. This just might be fun.

1) Is Bo Diddley the first performer to reference himself by his full name in his own song? Is Bo Diddley the first performer to use his name as the title for a song?

(I know most of the old bluesmen…Robert Johnson, Blind Willie McTell… refer to themselves in their songs, but I can’t think of a specific example of one using their full name)

2) Is Frank Zappa’s “Freak Out” the first LP packaged in a gatefold sleeve?

(I don’t even own a copy of this record, but I know it came before “Sgt. Pepper’s” which is usually credited with the honor)

3) Is the Beatles “Back in the USSR” the first example of irony in pop music?

(please be thorough and refer to a proper dictionary definition of the word irony. This one will be hard, but I honestly think it’s a pretty important distinction)

4) Is the photo in the gatefold of the Stooges Funhouse LP the first example of ripped jeans in pop music? In popular culture?

(Again, hard to prove, but terribly important)

5) Is the Jarvis Street Revue’s “Mr. Oil Man” the first environmentally-minded LP/song?

(Only other one of remotely the same time period is Marvin’s What’s Goin’ On LP from 1971. JSR is from 1970)

6) Is Ricky Wilson’s four-string guitar the first instance of a guitarist purposefully omitting strings to obtain a specific sound?

(I’m almost certain there’s examples of people doing this just for a recording session…but not so sure that I can name any particulars...can you? But is Wilson the first to do this and stick by it?

7) Is there a band before the Gories whose drummer used no cymbals, no snare drum and no kick drum?

(Uh…if I need be more specific, how about a drummer in a ROCK band)

8) Was Sub Pop’s Singles Club the first 7” subscription club?

(I’m lazy…)

9) Is the White Stripes “Lafayette Blues” single the first double B-side 7”?

(I’m lazy still…)

10) Is Whirlwind Heat’s “Do Rabbits Wonder?” the first album to have all the song titles be the names of colors?

(Everyone always says there’s some jazz record that’s already done this, but no one ever seems to be able to name that jazz record)

The Art of the Band T-Shirt...a Perspective

Not too long ago I helped some valued friends work on a book about the history of band t-shirts. The whole process excited me and I learned a lot on the way. For example, each t-shirt featured in the book needed to be cleared by the band/their management before being used. Now my legal training is relegated mainly to weaseling out of parking tickets, but common sense would've led me to believe that an image a band has licensed to be manufactured on wearables should be fair game for publishables. And it could quite possibly be that way and the folks over at Simon and Schuster were just being cautious.

Either way, I still think it's pretty cool that David Byrne gave permission for them to use a bootleg Talking Heads t-shirt design. And it's lame that Grandmaster Flash wouldn't let them use his awesome '81 tour t-shirt complete with Sugar Hill Records logo printed on the reverse.

My main duties for the book involved interviewing rock stars and rounding up a variety of shirts for possible inclusion in the book. Included are such personal jams of mine like a baseball-style 3/4 length red sleeve from the first run of White Stripes tees, a thrift-store salvaged Gories black cat (later edition, printed after the screen for the white trim around the letters broke), a Jonathan Fire Eater monstrosity complete with band-supplied blood stains bleached-out, a couple of Sonic Youth prints and some more I'm forgetting.

Personally, my only problem with The Art of the Band T-shirt is the six pages dedicated to Blood on the Wall t-shirts that are, at best, faintly memorable. Otherwise, this portable tome rates head and shoulders above the trashy, fashion photo'd Johan Kugelberg curated Vintage Rock Tees (available at shitty Urban Outfitters near you) or the laughable dribble of Rock Tease. Both the latter books focus primarily on the 70's and 80's era of rock and roll t-shirts whereas The Art of the Band T-shirt has no set cut-off date for band inclusion. Conversely, The Art of the Band T-shirt provides way more historical background and storyline with each piece mentioned whereas the other two toilet rolls, more often than not, just give you a picture of a t-shirt lacking any relevant context or story.

Hilariously though, all three books include the Jamie Reid designed, promo-only Sex Pistols Never Mind the Bollocks... shirt printed inside out with both the front and back cover of the LP depicted on the front and back of this shirt. Granted, the shirt is BADASS and supposedly the print resembles properties more similar to a latex applique as opposed to standard t-shirt ink. But badass enough to warrant inclusion in all three books?

Plus, the other two books are particularly white. Mainly old shirts of boring old white musicians. The Art... features such United Colors of Benetton diversity as 95 South, Public Enemy, James Brown, the Boredoms, Afrika Bambaataa, Run DMC, Rick James, Martha and the Vandellas, MF Doom, etc. This book feels more American than either of the other two. And in turn, American is always better.

So I hereby give my full support behind The Art of the Band T-shirt and urge all twelve of you faithful readers to up and purchase a copy. To spur the possible purchasing, I am offering two (2) copies here as a giveaway. Whoever emails me or posts a comment here with the best/funniest/most amazing t-shirt find/story/dream/whatever will soon become the proud owner of a copy of The Art of the Band T-shirt (I really prefer the comments, you know, just in case you want to win). Also, positive comments on the Amazon Reviews page for this book will possibly be taken into consideration for extra credit.

Feel free to answer the standard t-shirt questionnaire I used on all the stars and post it in the comments.

What was your first rock band t-shirt?
What was/is your favorite rock band t-shirt?
What was/is the most annoying rock band t-shirt or design?
What do you think is the most iconic rock band t-shirt or image?

Ten Little Known Facts About the White Stripes...

To help celebrate their ten years of performing together, here are ten juicy nuggets of White Stripes trivia you may or may not have heard before...

- If you listen closely, you can hear the pet chihuahua Elroy on the song "Sugar Never Tasted So Good"

- the first White Stripes silk-screened poster (not including the Gutterfest '99 mention) was printed on thrift store LP's (not the sleeves but the actual records) for a show in Milwaukee opening for the Mistreaters in 1999. These were printed by Eric Von Munz.

- No one has yet to successfully discover the final easter egg from their Under Blackpool Lights DVD.

- They have played "Do You Love Me Know?" by the Breeders and "I've Been Loving You Too Long" by Otis Redding in rehearsals, but never in the live setting.

- Their first show outside of the Detroit area was in Toronto at Club Shanghai on October 14th, 1997.

- The first magazine that ever put the White Stripes on the cover was a photocopied fanzine called Hot Dog.

- the White Stripes have opened for both the Pretty Things and the Rolling Stones

- the 3" record for "The Denial Twist" is only available personally from Jack White

- people who've performed live on stage with the band include (but are not limited to): Chris McInnis, Chris Mistreater, Steve Nawara, Steve Damstra, Beck, Jeff Beck, Johnny Walker, Jack Lawrence, Jools Holland, Hector Macquarrie and Loretta Lynn

- no one has yet to properly identify the mysterious white object in Jack White's hand on the cover art for the album Get Behind Me Satan

Got any good triva yourselves? Post it in the comments. I live for this shit.

Eric's Trip, the Record Collecting Impetus and a Journey Escape

I write from Moncton, New Brunswick, home of Sub Pop's first Canadian band Eric's Trip. It's not too often I visit a band's hometown and get excited (in Thunder Bay I called all the local record shops looking for the Jarvis Street Revue's "Mr. Oil Man" LP with no luck) but having never imagined in a million years that I'd have any reason to be in this town, I will have to admit I'm a bit geeked.

Eric's Trip lasted from 1990 to 1996, with reunions in '01 and '06 and a performance planned for this year's Sappy Fest in August. Taking their name from the Sonic Youth song title, their lo-fi home recordings and creepily simple artwork (pen/ink, cut/paste, b/w photos) have always rung true and cool without pretensions to do so. Lead singer and guitarist Rick White is a pure musician who seems wholly unconcerned as to how the surrounding society views his music. He is not a musician because he wants to be one, he is a musician because he can be nothing else.

Where a song like "Behind the Garage" is a soft lullaby played simply on an acoustic guitar and sung with plaintive voice, the band also thrashed out fuzzbombed and noisy indie rock like "Sloan Song", obviously indebted to Sonic Youth/Sebadoh/Dino Jr, but ultimately branching off into its own independent, mid-Nineties, maritime province originality. The later stuff off of Forever Again leans a little more psychedelic, but never does it wary from its honesty and intrigue. With Julie Doiron's able-bodied bass and sweet-as-pie vox, Marc Gaudet's solid chops drumming and whatever Chris Thompson decided to add as guitarist, the band is as pure as a French mountain stream.

Eric's Trip is a band I think a lot of people still don't know about, almost frustratingly so. These records are so clearly amazing, differing from their inspiration and existing almost in a vacuum where the sounds are sincere and timeless. Yet you rarely hear anyone mention word one about them. So I guess that's why I'm writing now. Spreading the word. Y'all definitely need to check out their Sub Pop debut Love Tara and fill in all the blanks from there.

This fascination started when I called Sub Pop in the Winter of '97 to request their free mail order catalog. I'd previously hand-written them a love letter asking about the vinyl availability of Superfuzz Bigmuff, Screaming Life and Bleach (at the time, non-existent) the status of the Singles Club (defunct) and whether or not they would send me any free shit. I was amazed to get a stack of the rocket ship "Powered by Sub Pop" stickers, some Supersuckers guitar picks and two Eric's Trip pins. I believe I gave one to Trevor Naud. The other should be in my archives somewhere.

(The letter writing campaign came to me in a spell as I trolled through my record collection one night looking for any address listed on a back cover, liner notes, whatever. The Foo Fighters never wrote me back. The Super Stinky Puffs letter got returned to me. Rage Against the Machine sent me free copies of the "Ghost of Tom Joad" and "No Shelter" 7"s.)

My receipt of said catalog is one of the ultimate watershed moments in my brief life. Not only did the descriptions of the records hit me as honest, poignant and funny as fuck (and would thus be my sole inspiration for my attempting to write about music) but the catalog was my slow birthing process into the seedy world of record collecting. I've not been the same since.

While my introduction to the Sub Pop Singles Club history would be via two pages from the indispensable Rolling Stone's Alt-Rock-A-Rama book (also responsible for introducing me to: the Shaggs, the Memphis Goons, drummer jokes) my full immersion came through my purchase of the Sub Pop discography poster. This 24"x36" full-colour placard on 120-pound paper pictures all of the label's releases starting with Bruce Pavitt's original Subterranean Pop fanzines and going all the way to the soundtrack for the documentary Hype some 15 years later.

So many times I referred to that poster that the images might as well be tattooed to the inside of my eyelids. With clear demarcations as to what releases were sold out, still available via mail order, never released to begin with, recalled, that poster acted as my road map for years to come.

So with a little teasing from the catalog and flat out taunting from the poster, I made it my mission to collect all the releases depicted therein. The Moby 7" where he covers Misson of Burma's "That's When I Reach For My Revolver" in speed metal fashion? No thanks. It's not on the poster. While others my age surely pined for Pamela Anderson as depicted in a skimpy red bathing suit poster on their wall, I dreamed of the days I could actually hold a copy of Nirvana's "Love Buzz" single.

So I discovered Eric's Trip the same way I would discover loads of other bands I came to adore... through the "With Love, Sub Pop" poster. Whereas I'd heard about Soundgarden, Mudhoney and Tad through my voracious Nirvana literature consumption, it was this poster that led me to search out other titles I would have otherwise ignored. So I grabbed a copy of the Fastbacks Zucker at a Southwest Detroit pawn shop (only because of the label it was released on) and fell in love. I grabbed the ESSENTIAL Hazel "Truly" single before I had an inkling it was essential. And I slowly accumulated every Eric's Trip release on the label, resigning myself to the fact that they were the real deal.

I bought my Flaming Lips single off Brendan Benson over a meal of mozzarella and tomatoes with blueberries and milk for dessert. The Jon Spencer 7" from Dave Buick as we carpooled to go see Mudhoney. Fugazi at the WFMU Record Fair. The Dwarves "She's Dead" b/w "Fuckhead" as my first-ever eBay purchase in February 2000 for the price of $37.50. The "I never thought I would ever own this record in all my life" Nirvana "Love Buzz" from Chris Brokaw (of Sub Pop bands Codeine and Come) via Nils Bernstein (long-time Sub Pop employee who I stumbled onto as he was eBay selling and managed to get a Gories 7" test pressing, Billy Childish #'d 2xCD and loads of other goodies not to mention tons of invaluable writing advice) with money I was given for my high school graduation.

And with a little bit of hindsight, my Sub Pop collecting provided me with a wealth of information that still proves valuable daily. It was my gateway drug into the world of indie rock trivia and minutiae. So while I may not care much about the Mad Daddy's single I own, I do know that band member Slim Chance would later go on to play with the Cramps. Or that creepy Helios Creed dude has a single that kinda sucks, but he played in a band called Chrome that made some whacked out racket that's pretty alright.

I can trace my existence through Sub Pop releases and where/when/from whom I bought them. Even nowadays where there's no poster to designate all the releases after catalog number SP-374, I still know that I bought Sleater-Kinney's One Beat on tour in Munster, Germany in 2005 or that I got the Wolf Eyes "Stabbed in the Head" single at their show opening for Sonic Youth at the Majestic Theater in the summer of 2004. Even more insane to me in a way that is impossible to explain is the amount of Sub Pop product I get sent for FREE without even asking for it.

Partially because I write about it. Partially because I've come to know some people who work there. Partially because they stock some Cass product. But on the whole, I turn into a nerdy little school boy every time that Sub Pop promo mailer makes its way to the HQ. I think too many reviewers believe they are owed records, the promo spigot eternally pouring its riches (and its wealth of mediocrity as well) onto them in an orgy of Western wastefulness. I buy a LOT of the shit I review (as far as 7"s, practically all of it) and am proud to do so. I view the promos I receive as a privilege and not a right.

So as one of the last remaining few who actually consistently purchases music in the tangible form, I am eternally grateful every time it is given to me. I don't write about music to make money. I write because I love music. To get a free CD, especially something I want or plan on reviewing, is just magical. Once that feeling is gone, you can put me out to pasture. And the same should be true for ALL music writers in the world.

So with hopes of turning up Eric's Trip super-rarities, I pencil out the addresses of all the record stores listed in the Moncton Yellow Pages and start walking. At Live Wire I get the CD version of Songs About Chris and Rick White's recent solo LP. More importantly, the guy behind the counter tells me that Marc Gaudet works at Frank's Music. They call me a cab and $12 later I'm at Frank's only to find out that Marc is on vacation.

So after buying a live Elevator (post ET outfit featuring White and Gaudet) LP, I thank the clerk and offer him a guest list spot for tomorrow's show. He graciously accepts and tells me Marc will be at the show as well. I leave my phone number and note that I'm looking for vinyl copies of and The Gordon Street Haunting and Elevator Part 1, you know, just in case he has any lying around. I figure it pointless to bother asking for any of the original cassettes, but maybe I can ask him in person.

This time a $15 cab ride gets me to Spin-It where a deadstock Canadian pressing of Thee Midniters "Land of 1000 Dances Pts. 1 and 2" is tempting, but a quick needle drop proves some groove damage on side 2 does affect play. I instead buy some post cards and the Atari game Journey Escape.

So I ask this of you...how come it was only at the beginning of this tour that I was told the shitty, shitty band Journey was given their own Atari game? I'm equally befuddled and pissed at this fact. Taken from the the Wikipedia entry for this game, here's the description of the plot...

You're on the road with Journey, one of the world's hottest rock groups. A spectacular performance has just ended. Now it's up to you to guide each Journey Band Member past hordes of Love-Crazed Groupies, Sneaky Photographers, and Shifty-Eyed Promoters to the safety of the Journey Escape Vehicle in time to make the next concert. Your mighty manager and loyal roadies are there to help, but the escape is up to you!

Funny though is the fact that you start the game as one of the lowly members of the band (you know, the shitty second keyboard dude) and each level gives you a member with a little more prestige, ultimately ending with (I can only assume) the legendary Steve Perry. Correct me if I'm wrong, but this is the first ever band tie-in with a video game? That alone is pretty interesting and unbelievable.

Back at the hotel and a perusal through the phone book leads me to an entry for a "Doiron, Julie" and I muster up the balls to call her this morning and invite her to the show. How embarrassing for me when the Julie on the other line, clearly confused, says "you're looking for the singer, eh?"

Oh well. I don't get chances like this often. At least I tried.

And it's all because of that little mail-order catalog...

Mix For the College-Bound...

My 18-year-old cousin Rebecca is going off to college this year and my gift to her was in the form of my infinite musical knowledge. Not really knowing what music she likes or dislikes, here's the mix I made for her that will (hopefully) prove valuable during freshman year...

Cat Power "I Don't Blame You"
Pure perfection. Some say this song is about Kurt Cobain? When Chan Marshall hit the mark so precisely, it hurts that much more when she misses completely as on The Greatest.

The Orange Wedge "From the Womb to the Tomb"
Unknown bridge-spanners from garage punk to psych rock from the wilds of Western Michigan and somewhat affiliated with the legendary Fenton label.

The Shins "Young Pilgrims"
In first grade we had a Thanksgiving time Pilgrim party where we made tri-corner hats out of black construction paper and ornamental buckles fashioned out of square pieces of yellow construction paper (with a square cut out of the center) taped to our shoes. We marched down the main school hallway as all the other classrooms took time out to watch us and admire. That is what this song reminds me of.

Eddie Floyd "I'll Never Find Another Girl Like You"
I called an audible...barely even know this song but it seemed like a bit of Detroit oldies can never hurt the mix. Dig his version of "Raise Your Hands" as well.

The Walkmen "Look Out the Window"
From their over-looked split EP with Calla. Such a memorable guitar part that Paul Maroon tweaks out of nowhere. Very Necessary.

The Rondelles "TV Zombie"
Unbeatable bass line, hand-claps and nonsensical teenaged lyrics. Priceless.

OOIOO "UMO"
Brought to my attention via Mick Collins and "The Night Train" on WDET radio. Can't remember the last time before this I bought a song after hearing it on the radio? Queens of the Stone Age "Lost Art of Keeping a Secret" maybe?

The Fiery Furnaces "Rub-Alcohol Blues"
Originally by Dock Boggs, the Furns keep the lyrics but add their own waltzing piano to update this tear-jerking wonder.

The Yardbirds "Happenings Ten Years Time Ago"
Because it rocks and paved the way for "I'm Sick of You" by Ig and the Stoogs and "Touch Me I'm Sick" by the Mudhoneys.

Beat Happening "Indian Summer"
Is Calvin's voice just putting us on? Or is he really serious? I don't know and that's why I adore this band.

Cybotron "Alleys of Your Mind"
The first Detroit techno record and currently the most-played song on my iTunes. Makes me love Adult. even more than I did before.

Dan Sartain "When You See Me Coming"
This dude is tearing up stages all across Canada opening for the White Stripes. And this is his best song to never appear on a full-length record. Complete with uncleared Ol' Dirty Bastard sample.

Quasi "Hot Shit"
Another song that is perpetually in my head. Perfection plain and simple. Going so long into the start of an album without any lyrics is a ballsy move, but Quasi does so with ease and killing you with its sincerity and clarity.

Nick Drake "Pink Moon"
There's no reason any 18-year-old girl should not think this guy is amazing.

The Hentchmen "Gawker Delay"
See the 3700 words of pure bullshit I wrote about this album a few posts ago.

Six Organs of Admittance "Close to the Sky"
Jingle-jangle drone guitar angle. Chasny cooks this one live with his wicked band.

The Pretty Things "You Don't Believe Me"
The lyrics to this one get me every time. And the chimey guitar is heavenly. Another great 1st song on the album wonder.

Sleater-Kinney "Tapping"
From the "Get Up" CD single. Wonky Brownstein guitar wackery stops and goes without ever losing momentum. Why buried here?

The 5.6.7.8's "I Walk Like Jayne Mansfield"
Such ingenuity could only be birthed in Japan. The musicians in that country are smarter than Einstein and Bill Murray put together. Oft-imitated, the fakers are never remotely comparable.

Kelley Stoltz "Put My Troubles to Sleep"
"There ain't no rhyme, there ain't no reason, why you are free and I am freezin" starts the masterpiece from Stoltz's upcoming Lp for Sub Pop. Complete with numbing "Ba ba ba ba ba ba ba ba ba ba" vocals that rouse you up like "Hey Jude" at Live Aid or some shit, this one will destroy you in the most beautiful way. Stoltz jams always end mixes tight.

The First Twenty-Five Songs I Purchased On iTunes...

So I got suckered into this whole "online music purchasing" scam with a $25 iTunes giftcard for my twenty-fifth birthday. First off, some songs I wanted to buy but could not find on iTunes:

Foo Fighters "Darling Nikki"
Folk Implosion "Cabride"
EPMD "I'm Housing"

And then, songs I wanted to purchase, but forgot about or wasn't going to buy the (necessary) entire album...

Big Star "Thirteen"
Dock Boggs "Rub Alcohol Blues"
Yeah Yeah Yeahs "Sealings"
Soundmaster T "Dance, Too Much Booty in the Pants"
Sonic Rendezvous Band "Electrophonic Tonic" or their cover of "(Like A)Rolling Stone"

And the songs I actually purchased, in order...

Stone Temple Pilots "Big Bang Baby"
I'd been searching for this one on a 7" for ages. It don't exist. So iTunes may have it's advantages.

The New Pornographers "Mass Romantic"
I think I'd been searching for this one on 7" as well. I think it doesn't exist. Heard it once on CJAM (Detroit's only college radio staion, located in Windsor) about two years ago and have been wanting to hear it again ever since.

The Walkmen "Red River"
The lead single off the SpiderMan 3 soundtrack? What awesome world are we living in?

Yeah Yeah Yeahs "Cheated Hearts" (iTunes Acoustic Exclusive)
Saw them do a better acoustic version at their AOL Sessions back in 2004. A free Cass record of the winner's choice to anyone who can email me an MP3 of THAT version. Email me at cassdetroit@aol.com

Yeah Yeah Yeahs "The Diamond Sea" (iTunes Acoustic Exclusive)
My sister has this song on her computer and on first listen I wasn't impressed with the Y's take on the Sonic Youth staple. But I'm willing to give it another chance for ninety-nine cents.

Oaktown's 3-5-7 "Juicy Gotcha Krazy"
Ok, so this is where the secret gets out. I've been trying to recapture the innocent booty hip-hop of my youth (late Eighties and early Nineties) for some time now. Back when 96.3 WHYT in Detroit had such stylin' DJ's as the Party Princess Lisa Lisa and (lest we forget) Fogold, I was the hypest, flyest white kid on my block. After this, the deluge...

KRS-ONE and Boogie Down Productions "Love's Gonna Getcha"
Remember the cable TV channel "The Box"? I wish I had videotapes of their old broadcasts.

Marcy Playground "Saint Joe on the Schoolbus"
Ok, so 89X used to play this a lot and I thought it could've passed for a Nirvana b-side.

Del Tha Funkee Homosapien "Mistadobalina"
Urged to search this one out at my older brother's request. Trying to figure out how to spell the song's title was half the fun.

DJ Freaky and MC Nas D "Gold Diggin Girls"
Vivid memories of 5th grade and Mrs. Hasho's class come rushing back. Sweet sample of Midnight Star's "No Parking on the Dance Floor" is pure finesse.

World Class Wreckin Cru "Turn Off the Lights"
A booty ballad. I thought I'd never get to hear this song again.

K7 "Come Baby Come"
Remember ESPN's "Jock Jams" CD series? This guy must've made millions, right?

DJ Magic Mike "Drop the Bass"
Sampled by the Beastie Boys. Or maybe Magic Mike himself sampled the salty "DROP!" lyric from someone else. Anybody?

AMG "The Booty Up"
Lyrics like "I can play Monopoly and still do it properly" just don't turn up in indie rock. That's why indie rock is lame.

Wyclef Jean "We're Trying to Stay Alive"
Featuring Jean Forte with the unforgettable line "I'm eatin mangoes in Trinidad with attorneys" and although I have no idea what in the hell that means, it has not kept me from repeating it. When I first spun? Clicked? (I don't know how else to say you played a download) this for the first time my eyes welled up, in awe of the ultimate perfection achieved with the Bee Gees "Stayin Alive" sample coupled with a swagger full of half-time drums.

Poison Clan "Shake Whatcha Mama Gave Ya"
I never knew Luther Campbell was on this track. This is featured on the "Booty 101: The Forbidden Dances" album. And to think I'd never have an excuse to type "Booty 101" on here.

Poison Clan "Dance All Night"
A song I had actually forgotten about, but thanks to the existence of "Booty 101" I remember.

DJ Jazzy Jeff and the Fresh Prince "You Saw My Blinker"
Vividly remember venturing into a Harmony House where my dad tried to convey this song title ever-so-delicately without mentioning the obivous "Bitch" addendum to the title. Quite possibly one of his favorite songs of all time after Rick James "Superfreak" and the B-52's "Rock Lobster". My dad rules.

Cybotron "Clear"
Reading about Cybotron it's as if every song they ever did is the most important track in techno history. I unexpectedly discovered that "Clear" is sampled on Poison Clan's "Shake..." and cracked a smile. Awesome.

Cybotron "Alleys of Your Mind"
So this is supposedly the first Detroit techno record. It is perfect in every way, equal parts Bambaaataa and Kraftwerk and totally paving the way for jams like Adult. One of the top 5 dance records I've ever heard.

Cat Power "House of the Rising Sun" (iTunes exclusive)
Her track record of covers versus originals is pretty damn close. If i could just get a complete version of her take on the Nerves "Hanging on the Telephone" then I think the covers would easily win.

The Yardbirds "Happenings Ten Years Time Ago"
I guess this is how they get you...too lazy to figure out how to transfer my LP or 45 versions to CD, I opt for laziness and spend ninety-nine of my last 125 iTunes cents on it. And it still rocks.

Questions: How do all those Stooges bootlegs end up on iTunes? Anyone got any tips for good late 80s/early 90s booty jams I may have forgotten? Or better yet, 96.3 playlists? And what's the deal with album-only tracks? How does everyone else feel about iTunes exclusives? Do the bars under "Popularity" signify how many times these tracks have been bought? Am I the first person to buy some of these?

For a brief moment, I feel as if I've recaptured the days of rollerblading in the basement with the radio cranked. There is no such thing as a guilty pleasure for me. It's just all pleasure.

The Hentchmen and the Strange Case of Revisionist History...

The story behind the Hentchmen’s mini-Lp Hentch-Forth and its CD reissue as Hentch-Forth.Five is an intriguing microcosm of the Detroit rock scene as a whole, both upon the initial release in 1998 and upon its re-release now in 2007.

What began as an unassuming live collaboration at the Magic Bag on February 6^th, 1998 soon developed into much more enterprising endeavors. At that show (a bill that included Rocket 455 and the Wildbunch) White joined the Hentchmen for a rather spirited take on the MC5’s “Looking At You” segueing straight into a cover of the Brit-Invasion classic “Some Other Guy” penned by Barrett/Leiber/Stoller.

Sometime after that the combo agreed to record a single together, most likely drunkenly decided at a Pin-Ups bowling league night or a Keep on Trash John Syzmanski/Dave Italy DJ night, either of which would’ve been at the Garden Bowl, the nascent nexus of Detroit’s then-burgeoning garage rock scene. It would be the first time the Hentchmen would be joined with an extra player on record and only their second waxing without the trusty Farfisa organ.

The single was recorded later that February by Jeff Meier at White’s Southwest Detroit house located at 1203 Ferdinand. Using a piano salvaged from a local Catholic school, the quartet banged through “Some Other Guy” and the Jeff Beck and the Yardbirds’ “Psycho Daisies”.

The choice of “Some Other Guy” stems from White’s then-current obsession with the Beatles BBC version of the track. At 2 minutes and 50 seconds, the Hentchmen’s version would be the longest song they’d released at that point

“Psycho Daisies” stems from the brief five-month period in 1966 where both Jimmy Page and Jeff Beck were members of the Yardbirds. While accounts differ as to who plays what on the recording, the centerpiece of the song is a back-and-forth dueling guitar match that White and Hentch stringsman Tim Purrier recreated with admirable intensity and aplomb. The CD version eliminates a cruel fade-out on the 7” that robbed the listener of some prime riffage real estate.

The song’s lyrics are a geographical hop-scotch across the United States explaining why one wouldn’t want to stay in places like Mississippi or Pennsylvania. As the song modulates into its chorus, it’s made clear that California is the place to be, if only for the fact one Mary Hughes is there.

Hughes herself was a featured actress in Dr. Goldfoot and the Bikini Machine and was romantically linked to Jeff Beck (hence her inclusion in the songs lyrics). The endearing thing about this is that the Hentch version of the song sings the lyrics as “Mary Lou” It’s cute and funny and a prime example how songs can change meaning upon re-interpretation.

The problem is the Hentch-Forth.Five version has vocals John Syzmanski re-did some eight years after the fact. It’s clearly audible when the song modulates into the pseudo-chorus and there’s suddenly double-tracked vocals where, for it’s entire existence until this point, there’d been John alone and monotone.

And that’s not it. A majority of the songs originally featured on Hentch-Forth have been tweaked or overdubbed to the point where anyone who’s even remotely familiar with the original will notice the difference.

While clearly a matter of opinion, I take these overdubs as an affront. Chalk it up in the same column as Steven Speilberg’s decades-after-the-fact digital erasure of guns in law-enforcement hands in E.T. or the abominably pointless “Greedo shoots first” kerfluffle of the redone version of Star Wars.

One can argue a piece of art is never finished, always in a constant state of flux open to reinterpretations and edits. And I can agree with this. But what we’re left with now is a revisionist history where the version of “Psycho Daisies” preserved for posterity, digitally burned into tens-of-thousands of compact discs is not the same one presented to people years ago, the version that provoked the reaction and status that made these recordings worth reissuing in the first place.

That being said, I prefer Iggy Pop’s remix of Raw Power. As my Stooges CD buying days started at a time where one could make the choice between the original ball-less Bowie mix or Ig’s needle-burying testament to ferocity, I chose Iggy. And so as the remix version is established as the one I’ve grown-up listening to, I develop an affinity and attachment to it.

So too will the scads of kids out there hearing these songs for the first time, no clue or warning as to the original presentation of the music. And that’s the shame, because the vocals on “Psycho Daisies” stick out like a sore dick. It’s CLEARLY not of the era. And so I ask: What was gained?

“A lot of it is just me doing it for myself” says Syzmanski of the overdubs. And that’s all music should be for. Once you start figuring in what the audience wants to hear or what some punk blogging kid’s gonna write, you’ve tainted your inspiration and your output. So while I completely disagree with the finished product, I wholeheartedly agree with John Syzmanski’s principle.

The single’s artwork was meant to conjure images of Liverpool in the 60’s…the smokestacks in the background and the somewhat out-of-place chain on the front cover conveying the feeling of an industrial town. The “Featuring Jack White” tag was tongue-in-cheek, as at that time, no one had ever even heard of the guy.

In August of 1998, under the working title Gawker Delay, the band decamped to record in an old auto factory in Pontiac, MI with Jeff Meier at the knobs. Owned by Gerald Shohan (member of Detroit punk patsies Coldcock and later Bootsey X and the Lovemasters) Room 222 was stocked with a Hammond B3 organ and piano that would prove crucial in the album’s dynamic. And only being occupied for a weekend in, the band was in and out without bother. Coincidentally, it would be the same weekend White shuttered his Third Man Upholstery business.

A live version of this song, complete with the “garbage, junk” lyrics as well, can be found on both the Ghettoblaster Volume 1 compilation and the Motorvatin’ Hentchmen full-length on Norton. The (as John calls it) Rolling Stones-like “ooh-ooh” backing vocals were inaudible on the original mix. Pointed out by Tim Purrier during the ‘98 mixing process, it was possibly a lengthy procedure to go back and re-do the mix to DAT. So as was their attitude at the time, they demurred “fuck it” and soldiered on.

With hindsight and a handful more albums under his belt, Syzmanski now admits they should have spent the extra twenty minutes at the time to go back and do it right. Further explaining his reason for re-doing parts on the record, John explains, “This is the only record of ours we own. It’s the only record we can do this on, whether we want to or not. Our first two albums, to show you how punk we were, were done on cassette four-track. When we were done with the songs, we’d record over the mastertapes. I wish we still had that stuff around so I could remix it.”

“LA.M.F.” is an abbreviation of “late model Ford” and a nod to a Johnny Thunders album with the same initials with differing punctuation (supposedly co-opted from NYC gang graffiti). The words invoke the metaphor of a poorly performing automobile toward having faith in a higher being

I’m three quarts down and it’s black all around

And I’m halfway pissed cause I don’t deserve this

This lyric is immediately followed by a wordless backing vocal accompaniment reminiscent of a church choir. It could just as well be a keyboard, but I like to imagine it as vocals, majestic and angelic, recalling a happy-go-lucky 1950’s television show theme song. This moment is one of those Hentch intangibles that’s so hard to explain the importance or significance of. You either get it or you don’t.

White’s bass on the song is as fresh an interpretation of a standard walking blues progression as you’ll find. Each verse plucked slightly different than the preceding one, not taking center stage, but providing the punch and balls that the band knew they were getting when they enlisted White’s services.

“Automatic” sticks out bad. The redone parts are out of place, from an airy organ that appears nowhere else on the record and wouldn’t show up in Syzmanski’s arsenal until years after the initial waxing of this song. Still, lyrics like

One on my left

And one on my right

One in my hand

And one out of sight

are a witty and original stance on as mundane a topic as manual versus automatic gear-shift in your automobile. While I will tire quicker than most of lyrics about cars, hot rods and that whole subculture, the Hentchmen have always managed to be innovative and imaginative when incorporating the subject into their songs. See also “LeSabre Radar” and “Cars on Film” for further reference.

“Gawker Delay” is un-retouched here and is the absolute pinnacle in the Hentchmen recorded canon. As always, it’s a Hentch instrumental with a brilliant title (see also “Naked Sister”, “Casmere and Campau” and “Creep of the Year”) that captivates.

This is, without a doubt, my favorite Hentchmen song of all-time. With the repetitive bassline conjuring the monotony of being stuck in traffic, Tim’s guitar buzzing with feedback-laced bounce and drummer Mike Latullipe’s metronomic pounding punctuated with apropos accents are all perfect. But it holds nothing to Syzmanski’s organ playing.

The dramatic and thundering string of notes the Hammond B3 hits at the 1:05 mark of the song are so rife with emotion and full with being that I feel my efforts to describe it will be fruitless. And this feeling struck me the first time I heard the song, July 25^th at St. Andrew’s Hall in Detroit. My immediate reaction was something like “What the fuck was that?” feeling entirely struck and overwhelmed at the power with which an instrumental song could move me on first listen.

And after almost nine years, hitting the repeat button over and over as I A-B the LP versus the CD I am still in awe of this song. If you get stuck in this wordy, self-important overwrought review or are just fed-up by this point, I will leave you with this simple advice: the song “Gawker Delay” is reason enough to purchase Hentch-Fourth.Five.

(side note: White joined the Hentchmen for this St. Andrew’s gig. Syzmanski recalls him playing the entire show while I remember otherwise. John also claims Jack played guitar on one song while Tim played bass…this I do not remember. There were probably no more than 50 people in attendance.)

“Me and My Monotone” is where side 2 would begin. Here we have Syzmanski’s insightful lyrics:

You know

nobody moves

they all just sit there

They think they’re going places

But they don’t know how to get there

And I feel so all alone

Just me and my monotone

This personally feels like an indictment of the state of affairs in this town, both in 1998 and 2007. Some things never change. Same as it ever was. People speak big and act little and the wise ones are left only to observe it all. White would oftentimes cover this song during solo live performances, appropriating his Hentch-Forth bass part to a Kinks-styled guitar stab. I thought I had a recording of this to share, but a long trawl through the archives proves otherwise.

I honestly don’t think I’ve ever seen Syzmanski given credit as a gifted lyricist and that’s a shame. Where the “Monotone” lyrics above are studied and attacking, he’s just as capable of being charmingly juvenile and aloof. A song like “Perpetuate the Continuance” from FormFollowsFunction is the perfect example as to how a painfully obvious self-observation can carry unforeseen weight and meaning.

“Big Screen Lover” is a Purrier tune about a cineaste-turned-shizo, off to Hollywood in search of the glitterati. Tim’s driving punk guitar augmented by Syzmanski’s harmonica and brilliantly ends with the line “All the stars are old or dead.”

Tim songs are almost perfectly analogous to Lee Ranaldo’s songs in Sonic Youth. Never more than one or two a record, they are perfectly written to the point of perfection and are a welcome momentary departure from the singular voice of the band’s front-person.

“Little No More” is reminiscence turned wow as a high school sweetie is seen all-growned-up. The mention of a seeing her at the “civic fair” could point to a reality-inspired track as Syzmanski spent some of his youth in St. Clair Shores and I vaguely recall attending a fair in that city that was neither state, county, church or vanity…no, it could only be described as civic. Which is odd, because I can’t think of any other instance of a fair I would consider “civic”.

While weak only in comparison to its surroundings, “Carry Me Home” is similar to “Little No More” in blurring the divide between what could possibly be a drunkard’s plea (the song’s title) or a sweet-hearted request for some quality time spent snuggling. The pre-solo drum fill is actually White and Latullipe playing matching parts on opposing drums (a tom and snare, respectively, I believe).

“R&R Cancer” also suffers from unseemly organ additions and vocal re-dos. While the original piano arrangement was pounding, the organ doubled over Syzmanski’s vocals, while slightly charming, ruins the stripped-down early Chuck Berry vibe the initial version had. The cribbing of Darby Crash’s “gimme gimme your heart” lyric from “Lexicon Devil” is an appreciated re-appropriation and the idea of a “rock and roll cancer” itself can be a humorous hypothetical…is Syzmanski implying a diseased music scene? A tired and tread genre? Something that needs to be cut off with a scalpel and tossed into a pile of medical waste? Or am I reading too much into this?

John says, “After we recorded ‘R&R Cancer’ I immediately started doing the vocals differently live. And that always bugged me. So I changed them.”

I always thought this collection of Hentchmen songs had a fair amount of weird stops and starts. Things like the punctuating blasts before the lyric “rock and roll cancer” or the ping-ponging guitar/organ on “Little No More” always struck me as odd little slashes. With hindsight it doesn’t feel so pronounced, but maybe a bit of their Devo infatuation poking through, coupled with a knack for making independent song structures and parts gel with a dose of ingenuity.

According to Syzmanski, there’s even silent film footage of the band in the studio.

“Jack had found some 16mm camera he was messing around with. On the way up to the studio we stopped and got some film for it. There’s probably a good 20 minutes of footage, you know, silent, of us goofing around. I’d really like to see that.”

The title Hentch-Forth came from yours truly and originally appeared on a headed-for-the-dump chair at Third Man Upholstery. I jokingly told White he should suggest it as the album title to the band, as he’d mentioned they were having trouble coming up with one. I didn’t know it was their fourth album, nor did I register they were adding a fourth member. I merely thought it sounded cool. There’s debate between White and myself as to whether the initial use of the word was as “hentchfourth” and not the hyphenated version actually used on the album.

When told that the band would be using the title, White presented the news with regret more than anything. He didn’t want to see me get a big head at the age of sixteen. Latulippe envisioned the future as such: me removing a pair of mirrored sunglasses slowly before saying, “Hentches, your new song title is….” Luckily, that never happened, though the big head is debatable. White lobbied for me to be thanked on the record but alas, it was not meant to be. With the reissue, I’m still not thanked. I think it’s better that way.

The album cover of Purrier onstage in Athens, OH on New Year’s Eve 1997 is iconic. Clad in a stylish 1960’s houndstooth dress, legs perfectly akimbo at 120 degrees from the knees, Mike just barely peeking over his left shoulder, Misfits Fiend Club pin clearly beaming from its place of distinction on the guitar strap, eyes fixated downward…it’s an image that totally doesn’t make sense if you’ve ever met the guy. He’s as straight-laced and un-crossdressing a man as you can meet.

And therein lies the beauty. The juxtaposition of this, in Dave Buick’s words, stereotypically nerdy guy, wearing a 30-year-old dress, onstage, captured in mid-rock is comparable to the juxtaposition of a 9 song mini-LP released the same day as your CD/LP full-length, of adding a bass player just for the recording and release, of doing it all so fast that your already not happy with the mixes, of coming back years after the fact to finally make proper what has become an essential cog in Detroit music history to many people the world over.

The back cover photo was taken at a local funeral home. It also spawned a creepy outtake of the session, an image of White, eyes closed, in a coffin with the Hentch boys paying their respects. In some ways it seems that the inclusion of that photo would be symbolically appropriate on this reissue, the idea that the recording has finally been put to bed.

White would join the Hentchmen onstage for the record’s release party on October 23rd, but only for a rendition of Hank Williams “Jambalaya”. Tim would don the same dress he sports on the album cover and it was generally a rollicking good time.

The next two tracks, “Club Wagon” and “Ham and Oil” were originally featured on a 7” released by Gas Records from Finland. The band was put in touch to the label through Norton Records and the request was for two instrumental tracks. They were done at the Pontiac sessions.

“Club Wagon” is most likely a reference to the Hentch van, a Ford Club Wagon bedecked with many a bawdy bumper sticker, lots of highway miles and a top-notch stereo system. Tim’s guitar makes the song. “Ham and Oil” are traditional gifts at a Hamtramck wedding and the song is ultimately forgettable.

Rounding out the CD is a previously unheard second take of “Psycho Daisies”. I find this interesting to no end. At the time, I can’t imagine any of these bands completing a usable second take. Once you had a passable recording down to tape, you were done. You mixed the thing and sent it off. And this isn’t just the Hentchmen…you will be hard-pressed to find alternate takes of any Detroit bands of this era…the White Stripes, the Dirtbombs, Bantam Rooster, Detroit Cobras. Tape and time were at such a commodity that what you hear on the finished records is, most-often, all that was laid down in the studio.

But the alternate take had no vocals (which makes sense, no reason in completing two separate vocal takes at that time). So Syzmanski was finally able to right the lyrical wrong of “Mary Lou” to “Mary Hughes”.

Despite my griping, this record is still beautiful. Syzmanski explains that many of the vocal takes were missing from the original ¼ inch 8 track tapes and so there was no choice but to redo them. He believes his original performances on “Yesterday’s Trash” and “Me and My Monotone” were worth keeping had they actually been available. ( ¼ inch 8 track is, mathematically, the same fidelity as a cassette 4 track)

He also says he’d always thought the LP was a little fast, that all the songs sounded sharp and that it’s been corrected now. Add to that an ill lacquer-mastering engineer and what you end up with is a 12” that was known to skip on many turntables and never achieved its full potential because of it. While the LP tracks spark with a force unrealized on the vinyl release, the songs originally released on 7” ultimately feel a bit flattened from the transfer.

The CD running order mistakenly places “Little No More” and “Carry Me Home” up one spot each where “Big Screen Lover” is relegated down two notches. This is merely an oversight, John acknowledges, and was not intended.

There are so many reasons this re-release shouldn’t make sense. But it ultimately does. My self-implied personal attachment and involvement notwithstanding, Hentch-Forth (and its .Five companion) is the best single collection of Hentchmen material you will find, and thus, one of the best documents of Detroit garage rock in its coming-of-age phase of the late 1990s.

Image Details

-from Metro Times advert for the show
-from Metro Times general advert for the Garden Bowl, featuring Syzmanski in performing a bar handstand. Must be viewed in person to achieve full affect
-label scan of Canadian pressing of "Psycho Daisies"
-originally lyrics hand-written by Syzmanski for "Psycho Daisies" note the "Mary Lou" inclusion
-original Keep On Trash flyer. Unsure of the origin of this phrase, it would appear in the run-out groove of the "Psycho Daisies" side and eventually end-up the title of a song by the Go
-poorly photographed 16x24 poster for the St. Andrew's show. a two-color silk-screen designed by Steve Shaw. Silk-screened posters for local bands at this time were unheard of and this one is considerably rare.
-excerpt from hand-written Jack White solo show setlist, note the inclusion of "Monotone"
-perfunctory CD cover scan
-perfunctory scan of original Gas sleeve
-Hentch-van State of Michigan registration, recovered from Car City Records lost and found circa 2000. I hope his license number has changed, cause I don't know how to black that shit out.
If you've made it this far, I've got one free copy of the Hentch-Forth.Five CD to giveaway. Email cassdetroit@aol.com with something worthwhile...a scan I should've included above, a searing critique of my opinion, a sycophantic agreement with what I wrote, whatever. Winner will be picked at my discretion. And as always, keep posting comments. That shit makes my day.

Cannes You Dig It?

Approximately two weeks ago I got a phone call from Mick asking me what I had planned for May 22nd. Before I could even muster a response, he said "Your answer is nothing". He proceeded to tell me that some film set to be the hit at the Cannes Film Festival used a Dirtbombs song in it and that we were asked/invited to play the premier party, dependant on hotel room availability. A few days later I'm reciting my memorized passport number to Mick over the phone. And a few days later I find out that our flights alone cost $14,000. Our guarantee for the show was initially $7500 but after those costs it got knocked down to $5000.

Couldn't help but think the Dirtbombs were just flown over as some massive ego-stroke for an unexpected character. My initial feeling was that the whole thing is a modern performance art rendition of Great Expectations. Whoever I actually think the person who brought the band over actually has nothing to do with the plan and secretly Robert DeNiro's character has been supporting us the entire time (I know only the movie version of this story…apparently there's a book as well). Ko thought the whole charade would end in a Punk'd manner while Mick personally kept thinking he saw Alan Funt somewhere. Ain't it grand to be immediately suspicious about the wonderful fortune to befall us?

The flights were fine and painless and I slept well on both of them (Detroit to Paris and Paris to Nice). On the Nice flight I sat next to a dude who's tourette's-like pig snorts were both annoying and sad. I said nothing.

The bus waiting for us at the Nice airport was comical in its inappropriateness. This was a 30+ passenger bus complete with cargo holds underneath, a collapsing door that opened with a lever, rainbow striped upholstery, two television monitors and a front window the size of proper Amish quilt. All for the express purpose of getting the five Dirtbombs (Troy, Ko, Pat, Mick and myself) from the Nice airport to our hotel just outside of Cannes.

The buildings and scenery on the French Riviera are peculiar. It's all very reminiscent of certain LA neighborhoods like Eagle Rock. The houses perched upon rocky precipices, surrounded by exotic needle-y flora, so picturesque that it's hard to fathom that people (hell, REGULAR people) live in these abodes, driving their funny cars like Peugeots and Renaults in between the frequent trips to the beach and emergency baguette runs.

We stopped briefly at the venue site (the Cannes outdoor fish market stall) where we sized up the stage, lights and overall set-up that was soon to be torn down for so the market could take place the next morning, only to be re-set for us to play later that night. There were huge posters? Tapestries? Wall-coverings? All over the place with the names of the featured actors of Le Scaphandre et le Papillon emblazoned on them, as well as over-sized reformatted nautical maps with a splatch of red paint and the film's title curving downward like a flaccid penis when viewed from the side.

To the Pierre et Vacances. The rooms were much like those we stay at in Australia, ie meant for an extended stay with lots of comfort space. A foyer, a living/dining room with a small connected kitchenette, two separate balconies with self-locking sliding doors, one bedroom with two twin beds (Pat's) another with a queen size bed and balcony access (mine) as well as a shower/sink room and a toilet sink closet. There was a small TV awkwardly positioned flush against a wall next to a sofa sectional, leaving no logical viewing furniture. The television was not turned on once during our entire stay. And neither was I.

Staying at a place like this makes me want to go get groceries, to spread my crap all over the place and just settle in. But the brevity of our trip severely limited how familiar I could get with the place. In the same way, I don't get my usual day or two to re-familiarize myself with the language I was barely taught my middle two years of high school and one pitiful semester in college. With a warming period I can actually get by alright…in no way as fluent as Mick or Ko, but light years beyond Troy's quirk of trying to get people to understand him better by speaking English with a French accent. So on first try he will say "Do you have a cigarette?" and get absolutely no response, he will retry with "Zoo yoo ave a zigarette?" usually with some added hand-motions. This amuses the rest of the band to no end.

I crashed asleep on the queen size bed listening to Kelley Stoltz on the laptop. Pat woke me up later and we go exploring with Ko. Not too far, as the heart of Cannes is a good five miles away from our spot in Mandelieu and we were more interested in eating.

So back to the hotel restaurant. Pat starts off with a 23 Euro bottle of red wine, served chilled, just the way he doesn't like it. But he also explains he's never had bad wine in France and tonight would be no exception. I had the pizza with jambon et champignons while Ko got it margherita-style and straggling Mick (as rounded up by Ko) got the rabbit with mustard.

After lots of talking Troy shows up and we all decide to head into town together. Back to the room to change, I throw on my blue oxford shirt from grade school, my clean brown leather zipper boots and my grandfather's hand-me-down black polyester suit coat coupled with a pair of vintage Levi's 517's and a just-bought-yesterday-from-Kmart pair of grey toe/heel white Hanes sweatsocks.

And the rest of the band was all dolled up too. Ko in a fancy skirt, Troy in a suit and tie (first time I've ever seen that) Pat in suitcoat (I see that in my sleep) and Mick in some weird black button-down collared shirt with some shit embroidered down the back complete with art-damaged silk-screened t-shirt underneath and stylin' black leather shoes. I cannot recall a previous time in which we were all dressed up. So we hopped in a cab and made towards the scene.

The red carpet was for BBQ the new Gus Van Zant film about a rouge, hat-wearing Canadian garage rocker. We saw Mickey Rourke walk in haggard as hell, followed by the cast of the movie of which I knew no one (although Van Zant did look familiar, but not in a WickedCool inventor of satellite radio way). Played a somber-as-fuck Elliott Smith song over the PA while the cast was making their entrance and I could not fathom as to why. Even after discovering said song is featured in the movie, it is certainly not your typical "thump-thump-thump" red carpet techno crap.

The conversations b/n band members were particularly priceless at this juncture: (me) "I think that's Jamie Lee Curtis….nope," (Mick) "No, it's Gwenyth Paltrow" (Ko) "It's what's-her-name? From the 'Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe' movie."

Ko got stopped on the street by some lady who began taking her photo and then started taking group portraits. It was interesting how quick band members (I think Ko and Troy) offered up the info about our (come on admit it, minimal at best) involvement in the Schnabel film. I felt awkward when she was taking the photos and thought Mick did too when he started to complain…only to realize he was complaining that someone was between him and the camera.

We just walked aimlessly as a band. It was nice. I stopped at an ATM, Pat got cigarettes, Ko, Mick and I bottles of water…just absorbing the atmosphere. Uphill on a windy, narrow street flush with restaurants on both sides of the avenue, all hustle and bustle and self-importance and flickering French accents.

We finally settled at a prime restaurant on a busy corner. Ko and I got fanciful ice cream dishes while Troy and Mick both had drinks that came with glo-sticks plopped within. Pat had some apertif? I truly cherish the times that it is the band and only the band spending time with each other. While I am certain to tire of each one's foibles more than I can keep count, it's as if once we're all together a perfect balance is struck. Remove one of us from the equation or add an outsider and it becomes a mess.

So after respite there we canoodled down the street, ran into some Americans Troy met earlier (apparently they even knew who the Dirtbombs were) and slowly, tiredly decided to head back to the hotel. We walked up the street, searching for something just out of reach (a good time, another bar, hope) along all the docked yachts. We resigned ourselves to hailing a cab and with no such luck end up at the cab stand. Mick, Ko and Pat took a cab and Troy and I were in another.

Cab ride cost 26 euro and I gave Troy 15 for it. I don't think he tipped the driver. Withdrew 100 Euro at the bank and by the end of the night was left with 50…fuck. Gave Pat 20 for covering me at dinner (he said he owes me 5) and 15 to cover me and some of Ko's ice cream (for she bought me the water). Shit. I gotta be more frugal. (Pat would give me 10 Euro early the next morning)

So back at the hotel I read for a bit and then went to the lobby to check email, composed a list of White Stripes rarities for their NME cover story and listened as some lady berated the man at the front desk for not having her room key.

Realized that the past four days I'd slept in four different time zones…Nashville, Detroit, somewhere over the Atlantic and now Cannes. Pretty impressive and probably the reason I didn't doze off that night until light had already begun to break.


Early morning pointless wake-up from housekeeping. Damn I hate that. Didn't see a sign to hang on the door and so I'm forced to deal with TWO French women in my room at the crack of whatever. As if the awakening wasn't enough, they actually began to start to talk to me and try to engage in a conversation. Was this their first fucking day? Are all other idiot guests who forget to put the sign on their door handle just happy as shit to see you? Apparently a "no" does not suffice at this rest establishment and instead (I shit you not) I had to sign my name on a piece of paper next to my room number (320) to, I'm assuming, provide written proof that I in fact did not want my room tidied. At this point, I really wish I had that piece of paper just to see how fucked my signature actually looks when I write it immediately after being woken up by some ignorant schlubs.

I didn't get out of bed until 4pm. And I awoke feeling sick…pale green phlegm spit into the sink and a runny nose I blew all over the shower. Troy gave me a packet of Airborne that I drank on our Detroit/Paris flight but as I already had a little sniffle going on I think it was too little too late. The sickness was nothing debilitating, just a minor annoyance that would be unnoticeable by the end of the day. Pat went out on the town and as I combed my hair in the water closet (the mirror in the shower room was rightfully fogged) I heard a knock at the door and expecting Pat, said "What's up cracker?" to which a nervous French dude looked at me confused. I said "No" and he walked away.

Picked up in hotel lobby around 5:30 and straight to the venue. It really was just a shelter like something at Detroit's Eastern Market. This day everyone was working frenzied, putting together tables fresh out of their Ikea boxes and other general activities of preparedness and such.

The drumsets provided came with snare drums. Mine was a metal Gretsch and I decided to use it over my personal wooden Gretsch. I'm really not a gear nerd…just give me something that can withstand the force with which I play and I'll be happy. Tones…fuck tones.

So soundcheck was painless…Pat and I got monitors on separate channels and everything sounded just right by the time we were done. Our lounge behind the stage (near the food prep area) was just a series of over-sized changing screens situated in a circle. Inside were some couches and tables. After brief relaxing, we headed down the street to eat.

First course was a lentil salad. Not bad, but I stayed away from the onions and tomatoes on it. Second was some pork (chop?) dish with polenta. Tasty. Thirds was like a caramel brulee or something. Mediocre. Hearty baguette for munching in-between. Pat tried to tell the waitress he was not hungry, but they didn't seem to understand. He really doesn't like to eat before a show as it messes him up somehow or another. I helped out with part of his pork because he was feeling guilty, but he actually ordered a cheese plate for dessert.


Walked around for a bit, realized nothing was open and that Cannes is a pretty fucked touriste town lacking a culture outside of restaurants. Back to our hut in the back and I zonked out.

Woke up and walked out to watch the red carpet for a hot minute. Sharon Stone was the only face I recognized and she was appropriately bombarded with press attention. Back in our hut, Pat brought Julian Schnable to chat.

What a laid back and cool guy. I was honestly impressed. I remember Jack White saying about Jim Jarmusch that he just "seemed like a guy who was in a band" and while that comment is so obtusely vague, I could immediately understand and comprehend how he meant it. Anyway, Schnabel (to me) just seemed like he was a guy in a band. He was pissed we didn't get to go to the screening. He said he'd arrange one for us in Detroit. He explained in detail how "Chains of Love" is used in the film. He said his initial idea for the song at that moment in the film was "the Stones' song that's the address…shit, the only instrumental song on '12x5'" to which I quickly piped up "2120 South Michigan Avenue" without geeking out and telling him that the German pressing has a longer version of the song.

He explained how some friend of his left "Ultraglide" lying around and that he put it in his CD player with no idea of what to expect. He hadn't heard any of our other records. He said it reminded him of Arthur Lee, the fuzz of Jimi Hendrix, and the voice of (with Mick's help) JJ Barnes.

Julian mentioned that he was friends with Lenny Kravitz and suggested (or maybe said that Lenny suggested?) we do a cover of "Chains of Love" with Lenny. We were all mostly polite in an awkward way before Pat brought up David Cross' proposed video treatment for "The Sharpest Claws" in which Mick apes a Kravitz video where shit like not having milk for cereal and other random "bad luck" crap happens, his idea that Lenny is guilty of ripping Mick off or some such shit. Julian replied, curtly, "Well, I don't know anything about that" and I think we all felt a little awkward

He said we were the first choice for performers after Mick asked if we were only there because Tom Waits said no. Julian was honestly sincerely cordial. He introduced his gorgeous wife. He repeated all of our names as if he was explicitly trying to remember them. He introduced his son, Vito, and some other guy who owns a castle in Germany. Mick also asked if he'd heard anything other than "Chains of Love" that we'd done, expecting that Julian would be surprised watching us perform live, not expecting such terrible, awful noises and racket to come from the studious and prestigious musos behind the operatic "Chains of Love". (sarcasm) It's times like these when Mick over-estimates his shock factor that really get to me. You write catchy songs dude, this isn't your noise project. If they heard "Chains" then they know what they're getting into.

More hurry up and wait. When I finally ventured out to the party room I thought I saw Sofia Coppola. As I got closer, I thought it was Kim Gordon. Later in the night I figured she was probably just a nobody. I did feel a little uncomfortable in my blue jeans and threadbare Black Cat fireworks t-shirt. Underdressed is always worse than overdressed. No one stared, pointed or anything like that. In fact, the complete opposite. When in the party room I felt like I was totally ignored and invisible. Which is really fine in the end.

The scene itself was tres impressive. One of the food serving station had a full-on swordfish head positioned on the table to appear as if the beast was piercing through and the rest of its body was hidden underneath. Add to that a huge faux tree branch suspended above the main bar. Immaculately lit with greens and purples, the day before the thing was open on the bottom and surrounded by wire mesh on the sides. The night of the show the branch was totally enclosed and filled with live butterflies. Now I know next to nothing about the production aspect of private parties, but I can imagine that having a live butterfly wrangler on the payroll is fairly expensive. And these weren't just your run-of-the-mill orange and black monarch butterflies weasling around…no, these things were an exotic blue and BIGGER than any other living butterfly I'd ever seen.

Schnabes (as I assume he would be fine with me calling him) got onstage to introduce us, said something about Gerard Depardieu, and we were off into "Chains". Like the bat mitzvah and wedding reception we played in '05 and '06 (respectively) it seemed the beginning of the Dirtbombs' set was the impetus for most people to leave the party or at least, you know, go for a walk.

I'm fine with such designations at this point, my body artificially manufacturing whatever chemical an active audience exudes and instead pretending that we're playing the greatest show ever. And our performance was not bad…minus Troy's bass head shorting out and being fixed immiediatly (I believe in "Ode to a Blackman") and him missing his entrance on the final chorus to "Kung Fu" and a moment or two where I felt out of sync with Pat and my early start on "Ode" (by a hair really) we were perfect.

One woman stood in front of the stage and danced as she watched us. Applause between songs was light but audible. The span of the entire thing was 40 minutes at most. "I Heard Her Call My Name" as a closer was fun, and only once we started playing it did I remember hearing that Lou Reed is the godfather of one of Schnabes' daughters.

Our set, in order, was:
Chains of Love
Start the Party
Get It While You Can
Underdog
Ode to a Black Man
Stop
Motor City Baby
Cedar Point '76
Kung Fu
My Love For You
The Sharpest Claws
I Heard Her Call My Name

I was really tempted/planning on grabbing one of my tom mics during "Kung Fu" and whispering "do-do-do-do-do-do-do-do-do" or, if I felt ballsy "I've been working on a piece that speaks of sex and desperation…" Just vocalizing the "do-do…" backstage to Pat got me a laugh. But my conscience thought that if anyone were actually paying attention (a pretty big if) and actually caught the reference (a slightly more massive if) that it could actually get misconstrued. So I balked and instead just blew into the microphones before doing my best (pale) impression of a free jazz drummer.

Most amazing was the fact that Mick played the entire set without breaking a string. With him only bringing one guitar for the gig (and bringing it in a metal guitar case, which was then placed inside a cardboard box and then sent as checked luggage) we were pretty much anticipating sheer disaster. So that was a nice thing that actually went our way.

Back in our hut immediately after the performance Schnabes showed up in his pajamas (bad ass) with a tray of desserts for us. Class act. We sat and talked some more. I've nothing but good things to say about that man. He wanted the rest of our music and we promised to send it to him.

And from there I didn't do much else. Basically stayed in the back room while everyone else was cavorting in the crowd while DJ WOMC played the most obvious dance hits of the 70's that (of course) got everyone up and dancing.

A trip or two out into the party room proved to be boring and uneventful. I felt guilty being at such a soiree and not being totally wowed. Like I wish I could've replaced myself with someone who would've actually taken full advantage of the night and enjoyed themselves to no end. Me? I was content with our performance, glad to meet Schnabes and nothing more. Alright…I ate too many sugar-loaded desserts. Oh well. Hate to be blasé about it all, but that's how it felt.

Troy said Kate Hudson gave him a kiss and told him we were fantastic. I don't believe him for a second, especially since the guy we saw on the street he said was Sam Shepard looked absolutely nothing like any picture of the guy I could dig up. Like the fella who played Wild Bill Hickok on Deadwood, yes, but I'm still not sure what that guy's name is…maybe one of the Carradines?

After what felt like an appropriate amount of time at the shindig (yet while the party was still going) we climbed into the van (a much more feasible 11 passenger minivan with the last bench removed to make room for our gear) and made back to Pierre et Vacances.

I spent a chunk of time in the lobby on the Internet. Then to bed.

Woke up and decided not to shower. Packed all my shit and at 8:30am we climbed back into the comically oversized bus and made way to the Nice airport. As our bus driver dropped us off some band members exchanged hugs and goodbyes. Was I cold and removed in feeling that I didn't really have to say goodbye to her? Especially since I don't think I spoke word one to her during the two times she drove us? Or was I just somewhat emotionally vacant, forgetting that it's always nice to have someone to say goodbye to at the airport?

We checked in fine. Lines for the metal detectors were a tad long, but we weren't fazed. As I finally got to the X-ray conveyor belt and metal detector I was unceremoniously told that I was in the wrong line and that I must go to "five". Let me explain the situation this way…there were five different stations for these checks. With two lines starting on a stairway, it was terribly easy to just get into one of these lines without seeing the one 8x11 sign posted so that only people already in the correct "JFK/ATL" line could read it.

So I put my belt back on, stashed my laptop back into my briefcase, put my shoes back on (probably) reclaimed my passport and boarding pass and made my way back through the line over to what I luckily guessed was "five", stuck behind a flight crew in which every member impressively managed to set off the metal detector and warrant a wand wave-down.

I went through the laptop/shoe/belt rigamarole again and passed through the metal detector with the greatest of ease only to get a very non-sensual patdown. Dude at the end of the belt asked if he could check my bag and I say sure. He unzipped my suitcase and went straight for my kick pedal. "Oh no…zis eez naht good"

Now I'll be the first one to admit to the dangerous powers of a kick pedal…but only when under John Bonham or Patrick Keeler's foot and unleashing a wicked stuttered beat or better yet, "Scentless Apprentice". Otherwise, it's just a big hunk of metal no different or more dangereuse than this heavy PowerBook with which I write to you.

So I say "Fuck" and Frenchie Le Peu looks at me, offended, and says "Fahk me?" To which I have to clarify, "No…not fuck you" which has quickly become my new favorite phrase.

My initial fear that I would just have to leave the kick pedal for them frogs to take home and try to invent ways to kill people with was assuaged when I was told I could just check my suitcase. Luckily I had only previously checked one bag and was able to check another without any money having to change hands. So backwards through the security line for a second time all the way to the check in desk, with mere minutes to spare before they stopped check-in. Luckily there's no huge line of people at the desk, but it appeared that the baggage conveyor belt had ceased to operate, leaving a backlog of bags that still needed to be moved somehow or another.

A kind gentleman behind one of the counters directed me to an empty stall where he weighed my bag, tagged it, gave me my luggage claim check and sent me on my merry way. Somewhere in the middle of all that I realized I'd left my briefcase where the dude was going through my suitcase. I was lucky and prescient in figuring it was no big deal.

Back through the security line (third time's a charm) and at this point I just didn't give a fuck. Walked to the front of the line, took the metal part off my belt, through the teleporter-looking device that never takes me anywhere all while the X-ray jockey is trying to make me wait or some other bullshit. I reclaim my briefcase unharmed and go directly to passport control (a line that was long and sinuous earlier) with no wait and reconvene with Mick and tell him my entire ordeal as we still had 5-10 minutes before boarding.

I guess the entire thing was just a way to pass the time.