Nolan Factor 3/4/2010

The Nolan Factor

by The Real Jeff Nolan

March 4, 2010

Its Blowout time again and what could be less rock and roll than the Metrotimes' shameless pandering and self-indugent self-promotion during an event that has little to nothing to do with the Metrotimes other than the name. While I and everyone else will enjoy the "Hamtramck" Blowout, after poking through the most recent edition of MT I was left wondering what those indie-newspaper fruitcakes really have to do with it outside of throwing money at the three day event and plastering their name all over it.

I will be waiting for next week when Real Detroit Weekly sums up the highlights that I may have missed, and besides, I like Jeff Milo better than the cat-hugging old lady who does music for the 'Times. Maybe I am being too harsh, I mean how much integrity can be expected from a publication mostly supported by advertisements for prostitutes? On the other hand though, aside from Savage Love, both papers kind of suck.

Haute To Death

The last time I attended Haute To Death at the seedy Temple Bar, located in the Crack Cocaine district, I think it was "Boss & Secretary Edition," meaning that the sweaty hipsters were dressed less ab-fab glamour and more ab-fab business... or something like that. I really just remember flash-bulbs and disco-dancing on broken glass, but what more could you want? I drove with my friend Jesse, who was on LSD, and we made a hasty escape around the time that the crunching glass was brought to his attention.

Alpine Meadow

Org Contemporary

debtcollective.com/org.htm

On February 2nd I stood in a bright white room staring at sloppy cakes on pedastals in the Org Contemporary gallery, located in the pile of broken bricks and chipped paint affectionately referred to as the Russell Industrial Center. The whole event was rather confusing, as I could not recall the precise location of the space and was side-tracked by a number of other exhibitions, notably a video piece down the hall by former Sex Ghost front-woman Natasha. When I finally meandered my way into the gallery the front room confronted me with the most interesting piece, a cake teetering halfway off of its stand.

The rest of the cakes, some lopsided or toppled, others upright, struck me as half-assed. There was an arbitrary, art-speakish statement on the wall that I mostly didn't read and after looking around the room I quickly headed into the hall for a glass of wine. A brief conversation with a few random strangers outside of the gallery revealed the most interesting part of the show: that the artists were from Cornrow Rider from New York and with no money or transportation back and had used their only resource, food stamps, to fund the show. (A friend joked the other day that they are probably still sleeping in the gallery...)

 A quick glance around the room again and I saw a friend from the mountains of North Carolina eating the frosting off of a cake with a potato chip. It reminded me of the bathroom of the house that the members of Detroit band Blas é Splee once shared. It was a shocking, Barbie, day glow pink, but painted in the most horrible and sloppy manner, with no regard given to borders or mirrors. It was at first impression a murderous ruin, but then I learned the depraved story behind it: The previous tenant, who currently lives next door and attempts to buy roaches out of the ashtrays, had painted it with her fucking hands at 6 AM after unsuccessfully begging the neighbors for paint brushes.

 You can find Carl and the other members of Blas é at the Blowout, and they will invariably offer you a day-glow-pink copy of singles from their forthcoming album.