Tales From A Security Guard

    I couldn't tell you what the first show was that I worked but I knew I didn't like it. This was during an era in Detroit's music history where it seemed like 2/3rds of the rock bands were actually "indie". This meant a lot of local shows that were meant for a dive bar ended up at The Magic Stick. Same 5-6 bands you could see anywhere else for half the price and cheaper drinks. Things were so 'lax there, we pretty much did whatever we wanted so these circumstances with the shows didn't bother us as much. Some shows stood out because they were just fun and other stood out cause crazy shit (i.e. fights or Mayhem) was going on. I could tell you the circumstances in which I got a job at The Majestic Complex: my buddy, Jason Lockwood (RIP), was heading out on a summer long tour with the Koffin Kats and needed someone to cover his shit till he got back. Of course, the assumed idea on our parts was that if I knew how to wear a work shirt (tshirt that said security on it) and stand in one place for 15-25 minutes at a time that I would still have a job there even upon Jason's return. Since Jason was somewhat of a fixture, people were a little confused to see my face. I knew some of the bartenders for a hand full of years but by no means was I super close, yet, with any of these people. Like most bars, it's really just the high school cafeteria set-up: cool kids here, stoners/losers (all three of us) over here, sluts (male and female) over there. It seemed as though straight up nerds were never a part of what was going on. Principals, Zania-Mania (we'll get back to that soon).

    I think the first major event I did security for was The Majestic Complex's attempt at a fest called Fucking Awesome Fest. Great bands, poor planning which is kinda weird cause Black Christmas (Black Iris Booking) is set-up the same way with multiple stages and different kinds of rock bands playing. Fucking Terrible Fest, or so we called it, never really took off. It was pretty exciting to be working there so I didn't really care what they scheduled me for, so long as they told me I was scheduled for shit. They were known for scheduling stuff they changing it and not telling anyone. Fucking Awesome Fest was three days and I remember enjoying myself and meeting a few girls in the process. Not every event there was always fun. For example, a lot of the younger hardcore bands brought a lot of young, dumb kids around. In "tough guy hardcore", everyone thinks or feels as though they are king kong and the rest of us are simply natives to be ripped in half and/or tossed around and eventually destroyed. Often times, it was the youngest kids who wanted to fight and put up a fight while being kicked out. My friend, Jason, taught me what a "meat sled" was at one of these shows: basically you would kick the person's legs out from under them, straddle them, and ride them down the stairs. As barbaric and dangerous as that was, it was effective. Other times, we had to get creative like grabbing people by the throat and dragging them down the stairs (28 stairs to be exact.) 

    Working at "The Stick" was definitely my introduction to violence and self defense but nothing could have prepared me for what was to be known as "Hot Boyz events". This changed everything I knew about gay, black men. Excuse me, thug as fuck gay, black men. In the african-american community, it is very much a taboo to be gay. The term "down low" is often used in describing homosexual activity. There was nothing "down low" about this shit…unless of course you are discussing the multiple double blow jobs we would have to break up in the bathroom. These events could only be held in The Majestic Theatre (the location of Houdini's final performance, also held about 2000 people). About half the crowd was what you might call "flaming" and the other half looked like extras from Boyz In The Hood. I shit you not. The first time around, the production company hosting said events asked the venue to do drink specials, one of which was a pitcher…a fucking pitcher or long island iced tea. Between that and whatever these dudes drank before they got there, we were stepping around puke like they were land mines. The events also had a VIP section on stage, which was fucking ridiculous, but these people wanted to be seen so they paid extra to make sure that happened. The few times I worked these events, I would gladly accept bribes that were sometimes in the excess of $50-100 per person. The VIP section was no different. The first night I worked this event, I was standing on stage, checking out the two straight girls that came when I heard what sounded like a gallon of water hit the stage. No, it was this Deebo looking' motherfucker just spraying the stage down with vomit. Liquor soaked vomit. I say that because I could smell it from 30 feet away. This guy stands up, wipes his mouth off, and continues to drink his pitcher of long island iced tea. This shit was unreal. There were a few times where there would be a show next door in "The Stick" and bands would ask what's going on next door. After telling them, even with uber-macho hardcore and metal bands, you would always get one band guy asking "So can I check it out". One time, I totally caught a band person, near the back of the stage, making out with someone they had just met. It wasn't weird after a while but still so surprising, especially with bands that used the word "fag" in their lyrics. 

    Then there we "Funk Nights". This got interesting and sad all at once. When this "after hours event" became something the general dumbfuck could attend, it stopped being about really solid DJs spinning strictly 7" funk/rare-soul records. It became what we all know as a "shit show". "Funk Night" used to be held at the CAID and was moved, after some legal issues -- someone kept calling the police on them wherever they booked the event, to The Majestic Theatre. A busy night was once 300 people. That turned into 2k+ once people started catching on. The captain of this funky ship, Frank Raines, and the soon to be house band, Will Session, were always the most enjoyable part of the evening. I would be lying if I said the girls and confiscating shit didn't have its perks. Dumb kids, newbies to partying, would try to sneak 5ths of liquor in. One kid even tried stuffing a liter down his pants. Drugs were typical: everything from weed to heroin and a few designer drugs to shake things up. If we confiscated liquor, we always stashed it in the same place so everyone could make a drink. One particular night, I'm pretty sure we had more liquor backstage then one of the bars in the Majestic theatre did. Because not too many of the security guards did anything besides smoke weed, confiscating acid, coke, meth, Molly, ecstasy, and speed always brought a smile to some of our faces. We would have security meetings before and after these events. The meeting after was usually to discuss who got blown and to divvy up the shit we confiscated. That shit was like the New York stock exchange of vices. Deals were made, goods exchanged. It was a very cosmopolitan way to trade the things we could get in trouble for. Everything was thrown on a table and opening bids were made. Even now, I can still remember people arguing over the cocaine (I wasn't one of them, I swear.) FNGs (fucking new guys) would come and go, one time I remember one kid had never worked or even been to a rave and his first night doing security was a dub step event in the theatre. I was there with my then-girlfriend, selling medibles and having drinks. I remember someone walking past with eyes as wide as silver dollars. I was told their were dosed with some mushrooms and it "wasn't sitting well" with him. There were those nights when we would catch kids selling drugs in the bathroom and, being the smartasses that we were, we would confiscate the drugs then sell them back to the kid for double the price then bust all of the people that person sold to then instructed the kid that he owed us money before he left. I believe they call that extortion. For whatever reason, we wouldn't be allowed to cash our checks the following day so combat this issue, especially at sold out shows, we would sneak people in through the back for $10+ more than the cover price or sometimes a flat rate of $20. The night someone was caught doing this, they made $400+, just to give you some frame of reference. A lot of these nights made or broke some one's night. One particular techno event was especially interesting. Besides, busting girls giving dudes rough hand jobs in the crowd and breaking up a fight in the lobby before you entered the event, I found a blackberry. Nothing weird about that, right? Well to find the owner, I turned the phone on and checked the text messages. The very first one I saw seemed like it was from a friend. 'Hey, a friend of mine said they found you on the stairs crying and they said it looked like you pissed yourself. text me back, Chelsea.' There we those kids who would come to these events and having taken drugs at home in the backseats of their friend's cars, these youngin's felt they were ready to be in a large crowd with much louder music blaring. Wrong. The first time I found some kid wandering around the parking lot, beyond fucked up on drugs, calling out his parent's name wouldn't be the last time I saw people lose all sense of reality and revert back to an almost infant like state of being. In one way, I laughed but it another it tore me up inside. Watching people, kids of all things, slowly destroying their minds simply because they wanted to have fun was hard. I remember some nights I would get so upset that if the slightest issue came up, everyone would get kicked out. I had earned that reputation of having an absolute "zero tolerance policy", especially with guys. I eventually moved onto Saint Andrews, where you kinda had to care a little more about how you reacted towards unruly customers. Because I was such a "fan-boy" of some bands that played at the Majestic Complex, even if I wasn't doing the load-in, I was there early to maybe catch a glimpse of a band member or as was the case with Matt Pike from Sleep/High On Fire and Daniel Lanois who, amongst other things, co-wrote songs on U2's legendary Joshua Tree, I would have the chance to sit next to people at one of the two bars I was usually at (Majestic Cafe where most bands ate food or The Garden Bowl where cool people did shots in the middle of the day.) One of those times where it worked out in my favor, Triptykon and 1349 were playing in The Majestic Theatre. They needed loaders but didn't ask any. Naturally I jumped at the chance to do the load-in with their tour manager and certain band members including Tom Warrior who was one of the founding members of the super fucking amazing/legendary Celtic Frost. After the load-in and many thanks, Tom came up to me and shook my hand. It always made the shows better when you had that human experience with bands people. I think one of the greatest catastrophes was the Odd Future show in the Majestic Theatre. While we had people get shot, beat up, robbed, raped, or injured in some unfortunate way, what went down was truly sad. As I understand it, some people had an issue with Odd Future (rumor was most of their shows were ending in fights, brawls, small riots etc). Thankfully enough we live in a day and age where everyone is now a field reporter with video capabilities on their phones. One of the emcees said something that got a rise out of the crowd, so much so that someone threw a bottle on stage. After that, it was pretty much a melee. After several text messages and whatnot, I was informed that a certain manager decided to open doors from the Majestic Cafe into The Majestic Theatre.

    The Theatre wasn't severing glass per the warning that there might be several incidences. The Cafe was serving glass so it was easy to bring the "glass grenades" to the party. All of this is a video on Youtube. Think I'm lying, look it up. Look out for my buddy Ryan chasing a kid off stage and falling into the crowd. Crazy shit.

    There were wholesome moments of being a security guard. The look of joy when you give someone a setlist of their favorite band, arranging meetings, getting friends on stage, etc. Those are the moments that make me glad that I have been a security guard for roughly 10 years.

Break Anchor, Reggie's in Chicago

      

(from l to r: cris, jason, dan, kyle)

      I've been hanging out and riding around with bands since about 1997. It's been an interesting and, often times, strange journey. Break Anchor is a real treat to hang out with and sell merch for. Jason, Cris, Kyle, and Dan are some of the most down to earth dudes out there. Jason and I have known about each other since the Jack Kevorkian and The Suicide Machines days back in the early 90s, so it was kind of nice to finally hang out with a dude I've known for a while. One thing I've learned about traveling with bands is it's never what you imagine. It's not as glamours and wild as some people might think. For somebody like me, it gives me time to think about things outside of work and relationships at home. There is something about the passing landscape that is both thought provoking and mysterious, plain and monotonous. The spots of pine and grassroots farms are terribly interesting, even when driving through midwest states like Ohio and Indiana. This particular trip to Chicago was much like a lot of other ones: meet up between 1-3pm to hit the road and be there by 7pm at the latest. I was running a little late to meet up with Kyle Green, Jason Navarro, and Cris Golan at Golan's house (per my need to get a pint of whiskey and down two Mcdoubles from Mickey D's). We hit the road around 2:15pm and drove for about two and a half hours before we made our first stop (somewhere on the west side of Michigan). Like any decent road-trip of anything length, a good soundtrack makes the driving easier. A couple of newer pop-punk bands and some hip-hop. I was totally unaware of Jason Navarro's love for really solid, older hip-hop. They seating in the van went as such: Our captain for the whole trip, Jason, and Cris sat in front. Kyle Green and I sat in back and discussed favorite strains and concentrates (we're both big fans of Chemdawg). At each stop, Kyle and I got out to take massive, lung crushing hits of wax. We got into Chicago around 6:30-6:45pm. Between using my pen and swigs of shitty whiskey, I was able to rest up for a bit. 

      Break Anchor, is a throw back to that kind of pop-punk one might have found on the early Warped Tour comps and Beer Nuts…but with a bit more of a noticeable edge to their sound. They played with Cut Teeth (from IL), The Queers, and 88 Fingers Louie. 88 Fingers Louie had already loaded on stage and sound checked by the time we got equipment in Reggie's. This bar immediately reminded me of a cross between CBGBs, New Dodge Lounge (per the balconies), and The Shelter: sort of faux dingy rock club where extremely well known acts play from time to time. Everything about this place screamed "home" from the drink specials to the graffiti littered bathrooms. We loaded BA's equipment on stage then I got set up in the smallest merch world I've ever seen. After juggling some shirts and records around, everybody settled in then got a quick dinner. I wanted to sit among normal Chicagoans so I went upstairs to the rooftop bar and had a couple of beers and a shot. Reggie's rooftop or whatever had a typical sports bar vibe with flat screens and sports themed posters. Oddly enough, The Detroit Red Wings were playing that night so I silently cheered for our boys in Red and White for about 25-30 minutes then it was time to head back downstairs for doors. Before they opened doors, I got a spicy beef sub from the pizza place next door, few different kinds of hot peppers and spiced beef. Not bad. 

      This night provided me with a very interesting first: this was the first time I worked a show where there was an actual line waiting to get in. Cut Teeth, a pop-punk/post-hardcore three piece, played first. These guys were super nice and pretty hilarious. I was sandwiched between them and 88 Fingers Louie, which I was glad about cause I kinda don't like Joe Queer and his studio musicians. Most of my time behind the merch table was spent greeting concert goers and chatting with 88 Fingers Louie's driver, David who is involved in hip hop as an MC and DJ. Break Anchor took the stage and offered up one of their best sets I've seen since they started playing as a band. Jason, known for his biting on stage banter, did not fail Chicago in providing them with comments like "What? It's not like I said our hockey team was better…oh wait…" The Queers, who had their bass cab stolen the night before, were rehearsed. I'm not saying they are boring but they don't fuck up and play a lot of the same songs. That being said, I'm always grateful to hear "Granola-head" and "Punk Rock Girls", amongst other crowd favorites. The real treat of the night was 88 Fingers Louie. I remember seeing them way back when, always the opening or side stage band though. They were on quite a few comps back when all I listened to was punk or ska. I really can't say I knew their stuff to recall songs but I think the fact that they were so fucking good was what made recalling songs in the set so hard. I was able to purchase two of their cassettes after the show, Back On The Streets and 88 Fingers Up Your Ass (still in the plastic - less than 400 of either in existence.)

      Like so many shows, when the show is over…it's time to go. Bands and friends climbed into vans and cars and off we went. I passed out about 25 minutes after we left Reggie's and woke up about 10 minutes away from Cris's house where I met up with the boys. It was just like old times. Thanks to the gentlemen of Break Anchor and Reggie's for being nice and the lady who was working in the pizza shop next door for the great suggestion.

The Not So Little Tramp

     

      It was about a year ago, I spent about a month in Sacramento. While I was out there, I discovered a train yard and made plans to visit it as soon as humanly possible. The pack for such a journey is relatively simple: two beers, two joints, a snack (burrito), and a can of paint (I mean if you're going to the yard, what's the point ingoing without paint on your person?) Early one morning, I grabbed the aforementioned items and started my journey. It was an overcast, slightly chilly day which were perfect conditions per random pedestrians or assholes trying to rob anyone who came by. The walk took me, if memory serves me correctly, about an hour and a half there. In that time, it has drizzled a little bit and half of that burrito had been smashed into my face. To get to this yard, I had to go down some steps on the side of this bridge that was right next to Sacramento State that had a nice but almost cookie cutter style campus. Like most yards, there was a fence. In the distance I saw paint on trains, that meant there was a hole or some sort of access point and after walking along the fence for about 15 minutes in mud that was about 6-7 inches deep (and cold), I found the hole. Stepping into the yard is like any time you get into something: joy and, for me, a touch of fear. While walking around the yard, I took pictures of graffiti and the trains. That's when something pretty interesting happened. I climbed into one of the cars, to take a picture, and a older guy came out of the darkness. I nearly pissed myself. Actually, I probably did and just couldn't notice per the dampness from rain. "Hi, my name is Joe" said the elderly man in clothes that were just hanging onto his frail body. "My name is Shawn. I'm sorry. I just wanted to take a picture" I said with a bit of shake from shock of this guy coming out of nowhere. "It's nice to meet you, Shawn. What are you taking a picture of?" he said as he stuck out his hand. His hand was cold and frail like if I squeezed any harder and this guy would've had some broken digits. I showed him and then he told me about some other places I should visit while I'm in town. I offered him the rest of my food and a beer which, like any human being, he graciously accepted. I asked if I could join him and smoke. We sat down on the edge of the car where the door was open. "You're not from here, are you?" he said as I helped him down. "No, sir. I'm from Detroit." As Joe opened his beer, he said "I think I've been there once. That's in Michigan, right?" Watching his first sip of beer was like two people who haven't seen each other in a few years. I could almost hear "Reunited and it feels so good" playing somewhere off in the distance. "Yes, sir" I replied. "Sir? No one has called me that in quite sometime, Shawn. Thank you." Joe looked like he had been through more than any one of us could imagine. If I had to guess his actual age, he would've been about 60 something but his appearance made him look about 80. I pulled out my joint and sparked up. "Damn, is that weed?" he asked. After a bit of a chuckle, I said "Yeah, man. You wanna smoke?" Again, non-homeless people would accept a hit just as quickly a burrito. Coincidence? Not at all.

      Joe and I sat and talked. "You got a lady back in Detroit?" he asked with his mouth full of burrito. "Ah, I like someone but she doesn't like me" I said as I passed him the joint. Joe replied with some truly fucking sage advice "Well, if you go back, get rid of her and find someone that feels the same feelings that you have". We talked a bit more about his life, which he couldn't remember anything before he was 40, per his "god awful drug problem" (heroin). He says he had a family once and a small house somewhere in northern California. When his drug problem got to be too much, his family picked up and left. "I don't really blame them for leaving" he said with a distant look on his face. The conversation continued on for another hour or two. It started raining, so I decided if I started walking and stayed under the trees I wouldn't be too soaked (I was wrong). "Alright, Joe. I gotta hit the road. It was an honor to meet you. Maybe I will bump into you again" I said as I jumped down out of the car. "Shawn, even if our paths don't cross again, just remember this conversation and me. Ok?" I promised him I wouldn't and I never, ever will. To Sir Hobo Joe, cheers!