A long night in the D, part 2

From their first notes that night, Sonic Youth proved to be as excellent as their 90's indie cred suggested. Some people might not like a band apt to lay down their guitars and let the sounds reverberate -- the drummer providing the only hint of structure -- but I did. In retrospect, though, I can recall only one song specifically: the dreamy "Turquoise Boy" accompanied by the projection of a giant purple Prozac pill rotating on the screen behind the band. I dipped my head down and let it sway to the music.

After Sonic Youth finished their set, I was feeling thirsty enough to pony up the $5 for a Bud Light. My companions of convenience nodded in approval. "There, that wasn't so hard, was it?" one of them asked. If I'd done the math correctly I was still stevens on the night. Stagehands set to work arranging boxes of electrical equipment into a semicircle onstage. Then a hoary figure in white shirt and matching gray pants and vest walked out, and the crowd erupted in cheering. It was Wayne Coyne, lead singer of the band. He bowed then shined a handheld spotlight on the crowd. More cheering. He threw handfuls of confetti into the front rows and then walked off.

A few minutes later, the lights dimmed again. If I was only a fairweather fan of the Flaming Lips walking into the State Theater that night -- the memory of 2002's Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots having faded -- I quickly snapped back to fandom as soon as the band took the stage. The three original members emerged from behind the stage curtain flanked by six girls in Santa outfits on their left and six girls in alien outfits on their right. Cannons shot streamers into the air, and giant white balloons descended over the crowd on the floor. Rows of colored lights pulsated behind the band, and they started playing what I'd later learn was the first track off their new CD.

Throughout the show, what I most admired was the earnestness that the band projected. Wayne Coyne took frequent bows and thanked the audience repeatedly. He praised the boys in front of the floor crowd who, he said, had waited for four hours. Musical highlights for me included the song "Free Radical" -- a protest against the Bush administration with its chorus "Fanatical!" which the audience was instructed to answer by shouting "F**k!" -- and "Do You Realize?". The latter -- which includes the line "Do you realize, that everyone you know, someday, will die?" -- still manages to bring a little lump to my throat whenever I hear it.

The concert ended around 11 after a two-song encore. I thanked my two temporary companions and walked out of the theater, suddenly forced to think where I headed next. Oh right, my car. Following the stream of people back to the distant lots across I-75 made the walk seem somewhat less scary, but I could now see that the lots themselves were nearly empty. Infrequent street lamps threw down stark lighting and casted stark shadows on the dilapidated buildings around me. I turned right, left, then right again -- all these damned lots looked the same! And how does grass grow this tall out of concrete?! After a short eternity, the familiar contours of my car finally came into my view. I breathed one sigh of relief and another when I got in my car and locked the door. I was relieved to find nothing was missing.

My plan had been to leave my car in the lot and walk back to Oslo, past the State Theater, but I now wanted nothing more than to keep my car as close by as possible. I pulled out of the lot and drove toward the city center. To my surprise, the streets grew brighter -- leftovers of Super Bowl preparations, I thought. I soon spied Oslo out the left side of my car, overshot it, and turned to my right. The street seemed safe enough, and I pulled up next to the curb.

After downing some water and a granola bar and changing into my Ghostly shirt, I got out of my car, touched a kiss to the hood, and started walking. Some minutes later I realized I was walking in the wrong direction, and though two semi-drunk white girls didn't know where Oslo was either, they were more than happy to ask three Arab-looking gentlemen for directions on my behalf. These guys had no idea either but told us to "be careful for black guys". What a nice Benetton commercial this was turning into.

I finally found the elusive sushi restaurant / club on my own and penetrated the dark slender space. Happy coincidences! The guy taking money at the door was the same one who had sold me the Ghostly shirt I was wearing! Big thanks to Ryan for letting me in for the usual $5 cover instead of the specially upped $10 cover that night. What I didn't realize at the time, but what I found out the next day, was that I was attending a special event, one covered by the Metro Times:

Friday • 4
Motor
MUSIC

Few electronic groups of late have pushed the pedal as hard and fast as Motor, a duo made up of Bryan Black and Olivier Grasset. Since 2003, the London-based pair has released original material, done blue-chip remixes — including tracks by Depeche Mode, Throbbing Gristle, Marilyn Manson and T. Raumschmiere — and launched such side projects as XLover, Drugbeat and the Sick. Their newly released full-length, Klunk, is being hailed as a high-speed industrial techno vs. acid electro-house masterpiece. Some of the world's darkest and loudest club spaces have been playing the single, "Black Powder," for months. (An aside to Prince fans: When back home in Minneapolis, Bryan Black did sound design for the tiny dancer at Paisley Park studios.) Motor roars into the Motor City this Friday. Also appearing: Austrian-cum-Texan Brian Aneurysm. The show is a special combo edition of Vault and Sex & Sedition, and features DJ support from Ghostly's Ryan Elliott and Dethlab DJs. At Oslo, 1456 Woodward Ave., Detroit; 313-963-0300; $10.

After exchanging a few friendly words with Ryan at the door, I headed down the hall and turned the corner to head downstairs. I patted Cerberus on the head and held my breath. [More to come...]