After ambling around a scorching-hot downtown Detroit Tuesday evening in search of a pre-show burger and beer, a buddy and I finally made it to our seats in the Fox Theater’s upper gallery for Neil Young’s show. An ice-cold pilsener in hand, I eased into the velvety-red cushion and took in the wondrous ambience of one of the city’s crown jewels. Though it was my umpteenth time at the venerable theater, it still struck me at how EXTRA (as the kids are prone to say) it is. Everywhere you look it is patterns on top of symbols on top of ridges next to busts adjacent to gold-leaf and carvings below chandeliers and giant elephants and…you get it. I still remember in one of my first visits there, Jerry Seinfeld slowly took the stage peering up and around the space and said with dripping sarcasm, “I’m used to playing in theaters that are a little more ornate.”
The point is, this monument of a bygone golden-age of craftsmanship is the perfect venue to witness a man who represents these same traits, albeit in a grizzled, flannel-adorned form.
That is why it was odd to me (and to my friend who commented almost immediately on how their seemed to be a disproportionate number of “a**holes” in attendance) how boorish and angry and borderline disrespectful many of my fellow concertgoers were.
A harbinger of the ill-behavior that would become the night’s motif came when, upon entering the venue, we had to navigate around an obviously inebriated, slovenly graybeard who was incoherently barking at security who refused him re-entry. Picture a more rotund version of the poop-stomping, tighty-whitey rocking septuagenarian from Billy Madison, except it wasn’t “Don’t tell me my business, Devil Woman!” he cantankerously spouted, but something far mo-
“DON’T YOU F**KING TELL ME WHAT TO DO! I CAN F**KIN’ STAND HERE ‘FY WANT TO!”
(ahem) far more profane.
And while I agreed with my friend’s assessment that there seemed to be a decent number of ‘tightly-wound, middle-aged, angry-to-be-dragged-downtown-from-my-entitled-suburban-perch’ guy in attendance, they were far from the majority. The crowd was a mix of the curious and the die-hards, hippies and straights, young and old. It’s just that the former group was decidedly more vocal.
Neil, on stop three of a six-shows-in-four-cities solo tour, joined his myriad of pianos, guitars and singular Cigar store Indian onstage a little after 9PM (much to the chagrin of the crusty-ish fifty-something beside me. According to the size 75 font on the texts he was sending (Yes, I peeked), not only was he in need of some reading glasses, but also, due to the lateness of the evening, a nap). For the first couple songs (Buffalo Springfield’s On The Way Home and Neil’s own Homefires), things seemed to be going along swimmingly, but it was after a jumpy rendition of Only Love Can Break Your Heart that the buffoons in the audience preceded to break Young’s. In an attempt to wax nostalgic about his early experiences in our fair city he was repeatedly interrupted.
“I think the first time I came here was sometime in late 60s…” he started. “Or maybe mid-60s. I’m not too clear on the details,” he admitted to a roomful of chuckles.
“I played at-”
“FLOMBAUELAHH!”
“…a place called the-”
“LOLOGGHHH!”
“I can’t hear myself.”
“BOONGOLLUHH!”
“What’s that? Where did I play?” he asked, with a hint of bitterness in his tone. “I had something to say but I think I’ll forget it for now.”
He tried to maintain his professionalism and play on, momentarily lapsing on the next song in the setlist due to the intrusion. He stared contemplatively at his six-string, almost as if debating pulling an Axl and exiting stage left, but he did not. Instead he began Love Is A Rose sans-intro leaving myself and many others in the audience wondering what we missed because of some clowns and their alcohol-induced, narcissistic yawping.
This isn’t a gripe from a concert-newbie. I’ve seen more than my share of performances and understand that for many, a concert can be a release of sorts. They attend more for the the social aspects (and booze) of the show and less for the actual music. But this show was different in that, because of the fact it was essentially a man and his guitar, the intimacy of the performance demanded a more attentive audience. Just read what the man himself wrote in a message (titled “Rough Night”) on his Neil Young Archives website relating to the Detroit show:
“Because the St. Louis and Chicago crowds were all real listeners, the type of crowd I have come to love with the NYA shows…(they) were free and easy and I had the unbridled ability to lose myself in any song when the moment came. In Detroit, we had something going against that. It was the fourth of July holiday and some folks were celebrating, already high when they arrived at the show. Any subtle solo performance of songs is very challenged under those conditions…So I came away from Detroit a bit mentally bruised and battered, yet still happy that so many people enjoyed the performance that I had tried to give them, even though they were somewhat short changed by circumstance.”
Cool. Thanks guys. That isn’t to say that the show was completely ruined for me. On the contrary, I came away actually more impressed with Neil the artist than I was going in. At seventy-two, his voice (an acquired taste, I’ll admit) still maintains an impressive ra-
“POWDERFINGER!”
Umm…ok. What I said was that he still maintains an impressive range wherein he did not shy away from elevating to the high notes many of his contemporaries avoid by dropping an octave or two. One standout was Ohio, which he was actually able to introduce with a tale of the song’s genesis. He recalled hanging out at a “cabin in the Redwoods” with David Crosby and a few others just after the Kent State Massacre. Shell-shocked from the catastrophe, it was a glance at a rain-soaked magazine cover featuring the anguished face of one of the victim’s friends that spurred him to write the cathartic and influential protest anthem. Hearing this was like peeking through a window into the mind of an art-
“CINNAMON GIRLLL!”
Damnit, guys! Can we keep it down for a moment? (Sigh) A window, that’s what I was saying. A window into the mind of an ARTIST at work. Truly compelling stuff especially since he played the song plugged in, filling the room with a fuzzed out, gainy turbulence at odds with the quiet introspection most of the rest of the evening provided.
In addition to this nugget, he was able, in between the caterwauling, to reveal a few other tidbits. Of particular interest were those that involved his memories of Detroit, which date back to the Motown days where he once recorded at Hitsville with his group the Mynah Birds. Another story came after a wonderful rendition of Cowgirl In The Sand. Apparently, after playing at the now defunct Chessmate Cafe on Livernois, Neil would slide over to the White Castle across the street to write. Can’t you just picture Neil hunched over the cardboard carcasses that once housed those greasy delights? Amazing. And then he told how some girl let him come over to sleep at her house but he was relegated to the basem-
“HARVEST MOOON!”
I SAID THE BASEMENT! MY GOD! WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE? Anyway…apparently he got kicked out by her parents at like 4AM and had to walk in the cold towards the bridge, or something. It’s not like you care.
What? I have an attitude? Are you serious? You’re the ones shouting over and over and I can’t get a word in edgewise. You’re sorry? Well…you should be. It’s rude. I’m just trying to provide you a nice little review of the show and…Ok. Ok. I’ll go on, let’s just try to keep the comments to ourselves, capiche?
So, as I was saying…Neil went on about how he’d written Sugar Mountain for Joni Mitchell here in Detroit while holed up at her apartment that she maintained at the time.
“SUGAR MOUNTAIN!”
I…I don’t know what to say at this point. What do you expect to happen? I can’t play those songs. I am a writer! You see…this is a laptop! Not a guitar, a piano or even a damn glockenspiel! Are you upset that the ‘Solo’ in a tour billed as ‘Neil Young: Solo’ was not an indication that he’d be playing a set consisting of songs dedicated to the recent smash hit film, SOLO: A STAR WARS STORY? (Only kidding, of course. That movie was a flop) No? Than can I kindly ask you to shut the hell up?
Anyway, apparently then Joni wrote the song The Circle Game for him in return, which is the kind of cool thing you could learn if-
“CIRCLE GAME!”
Who said that? Oh, it’s you, stupid-hatted slob and his gaggle of drunken fools tucked into the corner at the top of the stairs. Do you mind not carrying on a conversation like you’re at a pub while I try to get this out? Yeah, you, Hawaiian shirt! BE QUIET!
“YEAH! SHUT THE F**K UP!”
Thanks ‘I’m-angry-but-I’m-not-entirely-sure-why’ guy in front of me, but do you understand that while your intentions are pure in trying to quiet the clowns behind us, your expletive laden outburst is just as if not MORE disruptive than their chit-chat?
“YOU WANNA SAY THAT S**T AGAIN?”
And now look. Stupid hat guy is coming down the stairs for you. Great. That’s all we need. A rumble of the stupids. Can you sit back down? Yes, both of you. That’s it. Good. Back up the stairs you go. And you…yes right there. Sit. You know you were just posturing anyway. What were you gonna do? Some NBA-skirmish-style puffed-out chests and arm-waving at best. That’s right. A whole lot of nothing.
(Looks at watch)
I think I’m about spent. Dealing with fools is exhausting. Where was I again? I don’t even remember. It’s like Neil said after the show:
“I could slip deeply into a song if not distracted, but I am just relegated to the surface while fighting off distraction, and so is the rest of the audience.”
You see? You’re the ones who missed out. This article could have been life-altering, Pulitzer-worthy stuff. Instead you get this…whatever this is. You happy?
Let’s just get it over with. So, Neil played something like twenty songs. They were a good mix of classics like Heart of Gold and Needle And The Damage Done and more hidden gems like Buffalo Springfield’s Broken Arrow. The Springfield’s I Am A Child carried with it a not so subtle critique at what’s happening at our border, something Young referenced by saying that “A lot of people are looking at that…”
Other than that he managed to keep his politics to the wayside for the most part and the focus on the music. The concert culminated in a one-song encore of a more recent addition to his catalog, the gorgeous, ukulele-driven Tumbleweed. The ballad, off of his 2014 album Storytone was a restrained way to end the sh-
“FREE BIRD!”
Annnnd…that’s my cue. Thank you and goodnight.