Service Frontroom

I came across something serendipitous tonight. Going to a friend's house at Marshall and Allen in Ferndale, I parked on the street by their house, and noticed that across the street there were lights on in one of the two seemingly abandoned, signless old storefronts, with real live people and what looked like wine, white walls, and black frames. So I hopped over after greeting my friend, and sure enough, art was afoot.


Kenny "Karpov-The-Wrecked-Train", as he's familiarly known around these parts, is a photographer of many things, and is artistically enthusiastically interested in Detroit people, culture, history. His series of Macomb Ballet Company dancers, in stark, well-composed black-and-white digital prints were hung tightly spaced in the small storefront, their tightness belying the grace of the content.


The space itself--a month-old community center called Service Frontroom--has an interesting grace about it. Well, more a romance. The floor's in need of repair, but I love floors that aren't repaired. There are patches of crumbled paint, but I love missing paint's revelation. An eight-foot American flag covers a short corner, and there's a pretty well-equipped kitchen behind the front room. The word "S E R V I C E" is hung on the wall in old-post-office manner and color. There are vegan snacks and Trader Joe's Wine on a table constructed of rough wood. I feel like this room was once full of fine time-pieces and hats, or like it was a building in Williamsburg that was teleported to Ferndale's "Secret Garden" sector.


I meet Corrine Rice after nibbling on a pumpkin spice cookie. She's happy about being co-operator of the bourgeoning collective space. There are a lot of plans for it, including, but not limited to, pop-up dinners, raw food classes, yoga, art shows, and health talks. Some events will be free, some not, some by donation. Rice knows that things like yoga and health information are really important and that people in this area often can't afford them, and wants to make sure the community part of the center doesn't get squelched. Rice herself is quite experienced with both cooking and teaching raw food techniques. I liked the sweets. 

For a more complete schedule and information on how to donate or become involved with the space (I have a feeling almost any talent can be used), visit their facebook and their Real Life Website. Visit them anyway. I know this place is brand new, (still waiting on occupancy permits) but it's worth checking out through whatever its evolution will be.

This is way longer than I intended it to be.

"It's all new songs. All of them," Lo-Fi Bri yells to me, looking at the band. He's smiling, bewildered, camera in hand. I know. I saw them a month ago at the CAID, where the above pic was taken.

Let's scroll back a little here. I could give you the entire history of the Rogue Satellites, besides parts of 2010 and 2011. Everything that band did for most of its history, I knew about. But I'll truncate that history: a drummer and a singer-songwriter played around with a synth way back in fall of 2007. There were beers, tears, many late-night loft practices, apartment fires, marriages, marriage proposals, divorces, mini-tours, stolen cars, projections, and Pictionary games that followed, speckled with dirge-y two-piece pop-rock that would wake up in a bar called a "coffee" shop in the morning sun. There was a bassist for a while. Then there was a keyboardist-singer, and then the drummer quit, so the band had made its way back to a two-piece, in a different form, in late 2009. Another drummer dabbled for a while. Then the keyboardist-singer parted ways as well, and for a moment the Rogue Satellites were singular.

Then, a very fierce and unexperienced woman named Lisa was (as I understand it) coaxed into doin' a little auxiliary work, and, unsure as she was, started practicing intensely on vocals, glockenspiel (as I like to call it, "the glock") and tambourine. The first time I saw this incarnation of them, I must admit, I was disappointed--perhaps mostly because of my history--at the stripped down and awkwardly performed songs. Too slow; little zygotes of songs; and being in the cold, decidedly silent Trumbullplex didn't help. But I did notice that this woman, who had never considered singing in front of people before, had quite a sweet voice, that might actually grow to compliment Jaye's. That was in October.

Last month the Rogue Satellites closed an art show at the ever-interesting Contemporary Art Institute of Detroit. And they really blew me away. The songs that seemed to trudge in fragments before, now held together nicely, varied in atmosphere, tempo, melody. Jaye's insistence on barre chords had matured into the use of a heavily effected bass played as a rhythm guitar. Lisa, so unsure and quiet in October, now shone, perfectly complimenting Jaye with her voice and getting there with stage presence. The parts are very specific and seem to be painstakingly mechanically written, but they work, especially with the moods of the music.

So I saw them again last night at the art/music studio space they rent in Corktown (appropriately called Corktown Studios), with two other incredible bands. Though some more animation would be good for Lisa, the subtlety and serious calm of her confidence really works well with the darker, crafted music. It was great. They've worked very hard and it's paid off.

The Rogue Satellites have really grown in the last few months, and I would suggest anyone who hasn't seen them lately, or at all, should go out and see their next show. I don't know when that will be, but you can keep up with them on le facebook. I mean, they make Lo-Fi Bri excited, so that should be enough for you.

The Conundrum of Spring

When Spring comes, we become voyeurs again. We peek into flower beds and perk up for the love songs of trees and swamps. The sounds of birds have become particularly dense, almost overriding the noisy swish of cars driving far too fast down the block. Thank God. Winter mild though it might sometimes be, requires self-examination to a point of unnecessary self-loathing. The inwardness of it isn't productive. It's a cancer. It eats from the inside out and, because we cannot appreciate the silence of Winter, we distract ourselves with paralysis that we pretend to be movement (shadows on the cave walls during winter are very nice). 

Sometimes, the loathsome conditions of February are met so suddenly with the bustle and rage of Spring that it shocks the system. We panic. This can be the case every year, even when it is expected. One cannot truly prepare for fulfilled promises after months of brokenness and mystery. The change even, at times, triggers a further coil inward, to block the burst of collaboration, of physicality, of joy and sex and work. It's too much to see the truth and light. Too much to have the ability to venture and conquer. This is the conundrum of Spring. And it applies liberally to those who have forgotten how to adapt to it. Namely, repressed and confused adults.

So, then, our missions must be to accept the words of Spring as we accept the words of Fall. Though it's hard and allergic to brush off the dust, exciting colors lie beneath. Though a run may render a painful fall, it also renders a good story. Movement gets those little bulbs of expenditure sprouting. We must thrust ourselves into every dawn now, get planting, and make eye contact. Look into the eyes of the world and its moving parts. It's terrifying to fully see a thing. But it's the first step to authentic experience, and it's necessary among present conflicts and perils. Just as important as reserve, store, stabilize are to the Fall, so leap, plant, share are to the Spring. The ideas we talk about at harvest time--the slowing and localizing of life--are not dismissed but rather invigorated by the persistent growth of an early, swift "warming up".


The panic-inducing business of March is just and beautifully a phase. Enjoy it.

I Saw Mythical Beasts

**Disclaimer: I am way behind the musical times when it comes to the business and news of it all.**

It is a rare and mystical acoustic trio that can command the attention of The Loving Touch crowd on a Friday night, and it's like sighting Sasquatch for a cellist in that bouncy sound-hole to ring clear and strong. Matt Jones, Colette Alexander, and Misty Lyn are beauteous unicorns, then (and the sound guy, too!).

I saw Matt Jones and the Reconstruction last night. First of all, I've thought before about the use of a cello as the bass instrument before, so it was exciting to see that idea in action, and it really worked with the register of the vocals and guitar. The cello's sound was pure, thick and rich, and I could go on for days regarding Miss Alexander's craft with her instrument, not to mention her fluid and intense movements. I kept my eye on her through the set, just watching her technique, trying to pick up a few things for myself. While that fact in itself could have been enough to really overcome the other elements of the band, Jones's own particularities with melody-writing and subverted folk kept the focus moving, so that the songwriting shone just as well. I'm always impressed with a good melody, but it wasn't the usual brand of washy folk, which impressed me further!

Had I not been paying such close attention to the fantastic cello work, I would have focused much more closely on Misty Lyn, who provided near-constant backing vocals. I don't know if Misty Lyn normally plays with them, but her harmonies and energy really worked. She's one of those songwriters that everyone I love dearly has mentioned to me at some point but I'd never had the privilege to see in her own band. Obviously I still haven't, but seeing her with Matt Jones gave me an idea of her prowess.

Please check out their Facebook after you've downloaded their record on bandcamp. It's been a while since I've been around the Ypsi/Ann Arbor scene, but I used to hang out there a lot, especially around Tone and Niche, and I know there's a lot of music out that way that's really right up my alley. Last night was a very nice reminder of that.

No Promises.

Yep, it's been a while. I've been hibernating.

By "hibernating," I of course mean spending all my free time doing non-productive thinking by way of internet scuba diving, and staying away from all friends besides a few by all means. And not going out. And claiming all sorts of unconfirmed alcohol allergies.

In any case, a combination of Old People Podcasts and a change of jobs has me feeling a little more social. Oh yeah, Spring's ominous eyes on me, too.

So I went to the Blowout.

This year, I wasn't nearly as organized as last, and considering last year wasn't very well-organized, that means basically I barely even knew when, who and where everyone was playing until band members told me. I had a lot of fun, and talked to a lot of friends I hadn't seen in a while (you know, the hibernation thingy). I saw over the weekend, in order, Bars of Gold, SOYSV, Child Bite (missed Danny Brown because my stupid ass had to be at work erlai in da morn); Cosmic Light Shapes, Ferndale Acid Scene, Old Empire, Pupils (names got shorter as the night went); and Jeecy and the Jungle, RLK and V, The Beggars, Beekeepers, Betty Cooper, Factory Girls, and a little bit of The Dirtbombs. I started on Thursday with Brandon Moss playing the kit with his hands, and ended it with Kyle McBee getting naked--lily-white naked--amongst a blushing crowd. Can't say it was a forgettable weekend.

It was good to, like, go out in public. Thanks, Blowout.

Ends Meeting Ends

Sunday I was at a memorial for someone I thought of as an aunt through my teen years, surrounded by people who guided me through my formative years. As I sat in the church pew, during a lull, a spark of memory ignited and I recalled that last night I dreamt that I was being executed. I was going to get a lethal injection for a crime that I didn't commit. I believe the rest of my family was too, but I'm not sure. In any case, the battle had already been fought and I knew I was going to die. Most of the imagery was in a white cinder-blocked hallway, but the events were so cerebral that imagery wasn't that important. Emotion was everything.

The part of the dream that I remember involved knowing that I could pick my last meal, the last music I heard, and my visuals while I died.* And what it really involved was me accepting the quickly coming inevitability of my own death. It was REAL. Unlike my zombie dreams, which seethe with reverie, adventure, and independence, this dream shoved together my consciousness with the end of my consciousness. The processes I went through in this flash of night were genuine, even though I know the probable cause for profound feelings in dreams. While the processes may be an effect of my brain trying to sort out its intake, that doesn't make the lessons or the experience any less real or valid. It really jarred me, forcing me to not just think about the reality of death but to truly experience it, completely forget it for eight hours, and resurrect it in the midst of slight grief. And of course, once it's resurrected, that feeling can be remotely accessed; genuinely re-felt upon command. It requires that unconscious point of gullibility and spontaneity to tap that feeling truly. Quite an unsettling sliver of sleep, that one.















*For the record, salmon sashimi and mashed potatoes with Mom's eclair cake, Erik Satie's Gymnopedie No. 1, and Elizabeth Lake shore at sunrise.

Everything Is Good.

You might think that title is a hippie-dippy succession in my philosophical post parade. But you'd be wrong, even though we should constantly remind ourselves of that little nugget. Have you heard Tone and Niche? They're pretty incredible people who write classic and moving songs. And not just moving in the slow, sad, must pay attention to all the words way; there's a real captivating melodic genius to Anthony Retka's writing that doesn't require active attention. It's so easy to hear and understand even through the poetry and nuance mixed in like peat to the rich musical soil. With influences as time-honored as Lennon and Dylan, and as far-reaching as Andrew Bird and Leadbelly, they've found ways to interweave pop science with contemporary songwriting experimentation. But basically, they write a damn fine song. And violinist "Niche" Nicole Varga? Just try standing on two legs while she plays her solo on "From Her to Me." I dare you.

Well, anyway, tonight they're releasing their first full length album since 2007 (I can't believe Rust was that long ago!). It's called Everything Is Good, and I can't wait to hear it. It's a pretty optimistic sentiment in ornery, cranky times, which is actually both comforting and yet seems a bit sarcastic. The band believes in their friends, believe in heartfelt conversation, and believe in the community of artists around them. They talk about the good in everything constantly. Tonight's show is at the Berkley Front, it's costume-optional, and you can even bring a painted or carved pumpkin to decorate! Time for me to bring out my best Nancy Drew.

The funny thing about me promoting this release is that I haven't heard a single track. I'm not even sure if I've seen them perform more than two of the songs on it. But I'm so assured in Retka, Varga and gang's ability to craft something beautiful that I'll confidently say it's more than worth the money to get, and the songs are so sweet that you'll find yourself humming them on car rides home from work, or walks to the mailbox. Please go. If you can't make it to the show, consider buying it or one of their other releases from their store.