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By Max Conroy

There are several definitions of the word scrummage.  It is synonymous to a rugby play called a ’scrum’, but also means ‘a general row or confused fight or struggle’.  A scrum can also, according to the Brits, mean ‘a place or situation of confusion and racket; hubbub’, which seems like the closest definition to the venue in Detroit.  Here is their mission statement from their site (do not click on this link if you have or might possibly have epilepsy): A psychedelic loft in Detroit’s Eastern Market district.  We achieve maximum fun.  We have giant parties with totally rad music encompassing all generas.  We teach you here at our university that no one is too stuffy to party.  This is the place where all your wildest dreams can come true.  There is apparently a market in Detroit’s Eastern Market district, but there’s no evidence of it at night; in fact, there doesn’t seem to be anything besides a graveyard, bombed out buildings, and the occasional liquor store and gas station…and this place. 

Scrummage University is a huge warehouse that must have been a toy factory at one time, based on the painted signage on the front of the building.  I drove by it a few times before coming to the conclusion that this must be the place.  There were several flyers that mentioned that it’s the large building that has ‘Toys’ painted on the front of it, but not the flyer that I had.  The flyers also stated that the event was to begin at 9PM, which is when I arrived, but there was no one there, except for a few people running the show and the performers.  Also, there is no mention of the Silver Apples playing at Scrummage on the venue’s site, so I’d seek other verification that a band will be there before driving through post-apocalyptic Detroit to get there. 

The Scrummage gate is barely wide enough for a car to fit through and is situated next to an operational junk yard; I deduced that it was operational based on the five rabid dogs hurling themselves at the fence, attempting to kill hipsters.  The parking lot is huge with weeds thriving in the cracks of the asphalt, an active train line in back, and several huge bonfire pits.  I walked around for a bit, soaking up the scenery, snapping photos, as other guests arrived.  After awhile, I noticed that everyone had 40s of beer, and asked the door guy Ian if it was cool to bring beer here: ‘Sure, man.  You should pick me up something.’  He gave me some shoddy directions to a liquor store, but I ended up finding a different one that had all the choice malt liquor and grabbed a 40 of Olde English and Ian a 24oz of Cammo XXX High Gravity for the shitty directions; he was thrilled.

By this time they were throwing huge pieces of furniture into the fire pit and igniting them.  When the fire would get low, they, presumably ‘official’ events organizers, would politely ask some people to get off of the wardrobe they were sitting on and then drag it into the fire.  This place is the ultimate in blind pigs, anything goes. 

You enter the warehouse through a defunct loading dock and enter into a wide open concrete room, piles of debris in the corners and outsider art everywhere.  There is a working bathroom that isn’t the worst that I’ve ever seen.  From what I gather, people live at Scrummage, so they probably rent the space, or maybe even squat there.  The electric hair trimmer in the bathroom also made me think that people live there. 

The opening act Benny Stoofy is kind of Scrummage’s house band.  They are some talented musicians that blend the low fi aesthetic with competence, much like Dr. Dog.  I dug a few songs and then went back to the bonfire with my 40 to chat up some people and enjoy the evening.

The Lotto Ball Show went on next.  They’re a synth-driven postpunk outfit from Chicago.  They seemed good, but the vocals were noexistent in the mix, so I again headed out to the fire after about two songs.

I went back inside after the music stopped to look at the unattended merch table and to watch people climb dangerously onto makeshift trapezes hanging from the ceiling.  Simeon, a perfectly normal looking fellow in his mid-to-late 60s, dressed in a bright green turtleneck, strolled across the floor to his rig and began calibrating or whatever one has to do to a pile of oscillators and beat machines to prepare them for a performance.

The Silver Apples are Simeon now.  He manipulates bass and melody sound oscillators over drum tracks, and sings: that’s the sound of The Silver Apples in 2008.  After listening to some of their records recently, I’ve come to really appreciate the late Danny Taylor’s drumming.  He lays down a hardcore breakbeat jazz style that really propels the monotonous vocals and bleeps and bloops.  But the music is essentially electronic music and the last thirty years of music has proven that a drummer isn’t absolutely necessary.  The lack of a drummer has actually transformed the Silver Apples sound into what it inspired: electronic dance music.  It’s fitting to see one of the pioneers of electronic music performing this way to the city that basically took what he was doing eons ago and went crazy with it. 

Simeon played for exactly an hour and politely declined an encore; this isn’t exactly encore-type music.  He performed a lot of the ‘hits’ like Oscillations and I Don’t Care What the People Say and did a handful of new compositions.  In the middle of the set, about twenty people got on stage a danced their freaky, uninhibited dances.  I went back to the merch table and bought the only Apples vinyl available: a limited press of 1000 called Selections from the Early Sessions.  I then went up to Simeon’s rig and snapped a picture of it just before he went up to it to tear it down.  I said, “Thanks, man.”  “It’s a pleasure,” said Simeon.

Click Below for information about the Selections record, some audio of the show, and pictures.

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By Max Conroy

The Raconteurs played Saturday night at the Fillmore Detroit with the Atlanta-based garage punk revivalists the Black Lips.  All 2900 seats were accounted for, but the place didn’t seem overly packed at all.  This would probably have been a concert that I wouldn’t have thought twice about, seeing the ad in the paper or hearing about it on the radio, but a friend called me before getting tickets the day they went on sale.  What the hell, I’ll go; I like the rock and roll; I consider myself a fan of J. White even though at times I want to dislike the White Stripes.  I really like the Black Lips, particularly their 2005 record Let It Bloom, but didn’t know that they were opening until after I’d committed to the event.  No matter what you think about White’s music or his opinions regarding his music, he’s done a lot for rock and roll.  I can’t blame him for leaving Detroit either.  That said, I can pretty much take or leave the Raconteurs.

When I first heard that White was forming a band, I thought that it was a great idea: breaking away from the mold of a two-person ‘band’ where he most definitely calls the shots to working with three to four other extremely talented people, writing songs and collaborating in a super group, like they did back in the late sixties through the seventies.  I could really give two shits about Brendan Benson, based purely on ignorance, but drafting the rhythm section of the Greenhornes, bassist Jack Lawrence and drummer Patrick Keeler, made me have to take this band seriously.  I have seen these two play live probably more than any other group of musicians. 

I’ve seen several incarnations of the Greenhornes, as a four-piece and a trio, and have seen them play with Holly Golightly several times.  One of my most profound dipshit, foot-in-mouth, moments was making some boneheaded comment about how the Greenhornes weren’t all that great to Holly Golightly while smoking cigarettes outside of Kraftbrau Brewery in Kalamazoo, and she basically said, “There are a lot worse bands out there.”  About ten minutes later, the Greenhornes tore the place apart.  I’d seen them open for Golightly a few nights prior at the Magic Stick and they didn’t exactly put their best foot forward, but every time that I’ve seen them since, they have been absolutely amazing; one of the best bands I’ve ever seen.  And so much of what made them so good was their impossibly tight rhythm section; Keeler, the definition of the jazz-influenced rock drummer, killing the skins, sweat flying everywhere, drinking whiskey; and Lawrence the silent rock carrying the rhythm, his expression is comparable to Elijah Wood’s character in Sin City:  blank, verging on scary.

I got the Raconteurs first record when it came out, but never really listened to it seriously.  I also had the chance to see them a Lollapalooza a few years back, but chose to see some other band that was playing there at the same time; it might have been Sleater-Kinney playing their last non-Olympia show.  The music seems fine, and I’m not sure why I haven’t taken the time to listen to their records, maybe there just hasn’t been enough time, who knows?  So this show was a good opportunity for me to really give their music a chance.

Upon entering the Fillmore Detroit, if you are a guy, you have to empty your pockets, hold all your shit for security to go through while they frisk you.  It’s been awhile since I’ve had to do this and was somewhat freaked out by it as I did have something that would be considered contraband, which I held under my wallet, hoping they wouldn’t notice.  They were some huge fellows and seemed very good at their job.  I made the mistake of wearing a green shirt that said ‘Boston’ on it with a clover.  The guy who was about to frisk me mumbled something, and it sounded to me like, “If I find anything in your pockets, I’m going to fuck you up.”  My stomach sank as I was holding onto my wallet and contraband, hands shaking.  I quickly ripped out anything else that I had in my pockets and explained rapidly what it was.  He could tell that I misunderstood what he’d said and repeated it: “I should fuck you up for wearing that shirt.”  That I could handle.  The Pistons were just knocked out by the Boston Celtics in the conference finals.  “Oh, sorry, man.  I totally didn’t think about it.”  “You should go home and burn that shirt.”  “Oh, I will.”  My hands were still shaking when I bought a round of beer five minutes later.

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 By Max Conroy

This past week has been one of the most eventful/busy of my entire life.  In seven days I saw Jandek, wrote about it, interviewed Donita Sparks, saw Blind Mellon in Flint, crashing that night in East Lansing, saw Solomon Burke in Detroit and motored immediately after to Grand Rapids to hang out with Uncle Fucker.  I got back to Ann Arbor last night around midnight.  I had a real good time, but I’m glad to be convalescing here on this beautiful Memorial Day.  In my travels to East Lansing and Grand Rapids, I picked up some great records at some great shops.  If you’re anywhere even close to Grand Rapids and like records at all, you have to go to the Corner Record Shop, just outside of GR.  It rivals Encore and is about to become an entirely analog recording studio and venue as well!  Another surprise is that Uncle Fucker dusted off the Telecaster this weekend in a moment of clarity, and I recorded some of it for you.  I have also edited some of what I recorded at the Solomon Burke show.  Featured here are Lay My Burdon Down, performed by the choir before he went on, and Diamond in Your Mind, the song that Tom Waites wrote for him on his first comeback album.  The choir provides an accurate representation of the enthusiasm of the crowd, along with a healthy dose of ecstatic joy in loving Jesus.  Diamonds is just a great song and was recorded by Burke recently, so it captures his sound now.  The third track is Uncle Fucker shredding All Down the Line, the Stones song.

Lay My Burdon Down:

Diamond in Your Mind:

All Down the Line:

Stay tuned for the Donita Sparks and the Stellar Moments review and interview.

by Max Conroy: 

It doesn’t sound like it’d be all that great, hanging out at an Elks lodge on a Friday night, but it’s not at all what you’d expect.  This place is sweet, positively the coolest bar, club, venue, night spot I’ve been to since I’ve moved to Ann Arbor.  There may be better places to go in this area, but I can’t imagine it.

My friend rents a huge house from the Elks.  It’s on a hill overlooking the city; it’s large, seemingly affordable, and right next to the lodge.  We ate dinner at her place and had a few beers, we’d already been at the Old Town for a good number of rounds, and she proposed that we should go the Elks for a beer.  I was down.  I mean shooting the shit with a bunch of older dudes in funny hats sounds like a good time to me, but I was not prepared for this place.

It’s an old school black Elks lodge, patronized by a bunch of real nice fun loving, soulful dudes.  The bar is downstairs and the rules for the guests are posted on a huge sign on the ceiling of the stairway as you enter, gents must remove their hats upon entering.  I guess it’s a three dollar cover, but we got by because we know their tenant.  The ambiance of the place is enough to make it a cool spot: salmon colored walls, orange vinyl booths, a dark cavernous feel, a vintage bar, and a cozy dance floor packed with hipsters.  Heinekens are three bucks and the DJ spins old and new soul, funk and hip hop; it was great to hear Sharon Jones’ What Have You Done for Me Lately blaring through the place followed by James Brown’s Sex Machine.  It’s a shame that I don’t dance or if I do I have to be in a state where I can’t possibly remember it.  I held down the booth and sipped my Heineken while my people hit the dance floor, digging the scene, choking on smoke, loving watching the Elks get down, hanging out and serving drinks.  As we left, they were closing the doors presumably because the place was to capacity, so get there before one AM.  I’ll definitely be coming back to this place.

The Elk’s lodge also has live jazz on Mondays and Tuesdays and is open to the public on Fridays and Saturdays to swing from the rafters.  I also believe that they host barbecues, which I’d love to check out.

  By Max Conroy:  

     The night prior to the Sharon Jones show, Cousin Justin and I made it to the Magic Bag to check out Scott Morgan’s Powertrane and Blue Cheer.  I’d never been to the Bag, which apparently hosts a brew and view, along with live music.  From what we saw, there doesn’t appear to be a bad seat in the house, which is actually filled with seats, and a tiny pit in front of the stage.  The beer was reasonable: under $5 for a Bells.
     Scott Morgan opened the show.  His band consisted of himself on vocals and guitar, Bobby Gillespie on lead guitar (apparently a Detroit rock scene vet who played with Rob Tyner post-5) and a dramatically younger rhythm section in comparison to Gillespie and Morgan.  The Sonic Rendezvous Band is a band that you either absolutely love or you just don’t get it.  I’m part of the former crowd.  When I got the Sweet Nothing album (recorded in ‘78 at Second Chance in Ann Arbor and released in ‘98) when it was released, my freshman year of college, I could hardly believe what I heard.  While playing it for the first time, I saw a buddy on my floor walk by and I grabbed him and forced him to listen to a track at high volume.  He likes cool music and is still a good friend, but he’s definitely a person who doesn’t get it.  He politely found a reason to get the hell out of my dorm room quickly and I learned that people don’t have to dig your tunes to be cool.  SRB never released an album, only a single, which the cousins have shamefully unloaded twice.  That’s part of the mystery behind the band, that they could be so fucking sweet and never actually be a proper band.  Scott Morgan was just as important as Fred Smith was to SRB, writing and singing approximately half of their material, so naturally I was very excited to have the opportunity to see some of this stuff live.  Surprisingly, Scott Morgan still sounds great.  He has to be over sixty and sings from the gut.  They did two SRB songs, Love and Learn and Highjackin’ Love, which were great.  His voice doesn’t quite have the force it did back in the day, but that was 30 years ago.  They also did a Rob Tyner song, which Mr. Gillespie wrote and several songs that appear on the new Powertrane album.  The highlight of their set was a blazing rendition of Respect, which was the song that put Scott Morgan on the map with the Rationals back in the sixties.  There was one flub, where the drummer wasn’t able to hit a cymbal at the right time, but that seemed to piss off Scott Morgan more than the crowd, which is what we should expect from a professional. 
     Now for Blue Cheer.  As I mentioned in my previous post, I don’t really know a whole lot about the band or what they’d sound like after all this time.  The most recent Cheer song I’d heard up till the show was recorded in 1968.  Walking up to the doors Justin and I were talking about the Grande and how we were certain that they played there and that we’d have been on acid if we were walking up to the doors of the Grande to see them.  After the first song, Dickie Peterson reminisced that his first time playing Detroit was at the Grande in ‘68 with the Stooges and the MC5, which he called the first power rock concert.  As Dickie recanted the days of yore my heart started to regain its natural rhythm and my brain stopped boiling for a second.  Dickie is the rock star of the band and the bassist, so the bass is cranked to the point of affecting the body’s internal chemistry: eyes cross, synapses misfire.  Then, wham!  They’re into the next song.  They played virtually all Vincebus Eruptum, excluding BB King’s Rock Me, and several more recent numbers, more recent being ‘85 to the present.  The band is made up of original members, Dickie and drummer Paul Whaley, and Andrew McDonald on guitar who has been with them for the past 23 or so years and wails with the classic uncontrollable guitar-face.  Whaley looked to be in poor health, but could still pound those skins.  Peterson even mentioned in between songs that there’d been rumors about Whaley, presumably that he wasn’t with us anymore.  He also mentioned that he’d seen Whaley do unspeakable things with Janis Joplin, which was kind of cool.  Justin asked me if I saw that guy walking down the street would I believe that he’d been with Joplin…no.  They sounded great, played well and rank up there with Slayer and Motorhead as one of the loudest, heaviest shows I’ve ever seen.  Immediately after the music stopped, I looked around and noticed that every last person was wearing ear plugs.  I should have brought ear plugs.
 

Check it out.  Tons of rare Detroit soul.

Been listing all day long.  I need a beer.

Highlights of the Detroit 45s:

 Bobby Williams on Lu Pine       Clarence Jackson on Valtone

  David Ruffin on Anna            Don McKenzie on Miracle

 Gino Parks on Tamla             Herman Griffin on Anna

  J.J Barnes on Kable             Johnny Mae Matthes on Reel

   Little John on Martay          Nolan Strong on Fortune

Shades of Blue on Impact     The Counts on Westbound

The Downbeats on Tamla      The 4 Imperials on Chant

The Magnificent 7 on Thelma   The Wonderettes on Ruby

Plus there’s a ton of Motown, and some other ones that are Detroit/Michigan and I don’t even realize it.  There’s just too much to post audios on and review - I just had to get them up.  It should be a hell of an auction.

Coming up is more soul 45s and after that is rock 45s which we have a ton of including lots more rare Detroit stuff.

As for the audio blogs, Justin and I found another Detroit Tigers song from ‘84 which is totally sweet and also another version of Jesus is a Soul Man which I will post and write about. 

Cousins Vinyl’s official beer is Cousins’s Ale Creme, made by the Frog Island Brewing Company in Ypsilanti.

It’s a sweet, creamy ale that is high in alcohol content and mmm-mmm good.

The glass you see is my lucky Tigers glass.  Every time I drink out of it, the Tigers win.  I didn’t drink out of it in the World Series games they lost, and I’ve felt guilty ever since.  Cousins Vinyl actually gaurenteed a Word Series victory last July 21st, when there were haters and non-believers everywhere, and we almost did it.  I’ll say it now, the Tigers will win the World Series.  And you better believe I’ll be drinkin’ Cousin’s Ale out of my lucky Tigers glass to do my part.