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| Bandheads In Repose by Mitch Phillips |
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 Join Mitch Phillips on a amateur photographic jaunt into P-town as he and his aging guitar player, Junior G travel to their old digs to see Funkt @ The Ventura Lounge, unwittingly chance upon a felony in the pursuit of good reggae music, pay Mode good money for a four-minute "Revolution" @ Griff's Grill and conspire to warm up Junior G's absent wife with twelve inches of hot-pink, vibrating latex.
' "Do you think if I get this for her she'll stay home next weekend?" he said wistfully..'
Band-heads in repose....
I set out to kill two hanging albatross with one Saturday night clubbing; the first to conquer my techno-phobia regarding my new digital camera, the second to assuage my guilt and show Junior G a good time. I owed him, maybe forever, or at least until he gets his license back sometime in November.
Last year we wandered out of The Red Dog in Milford and he drifted 'one toke over the line' while reaching for a Johnny Winter CD on the floor of his car. That move sent him to jail and me walking home at three in the morning. Ever since then it's been probation, substance abuse therapy and a chilly attitude from his wife who's grounded him to the homestead (without a license) every weekend since - abandoning him for an overnight at her mother's house. Junior G's convinced she's having an affair - with another woman no less.
"That fucking slut!" he'd seethe, half-mocking. "I know something's going on...." he growled and then filled me with the pregnant details of his suspicions. At least twice a year she and a female co-worker take a four-day trip to some spot on the map under the guise of 'work-related-trip.' Add that to frequent late nights at work and I'm not totally convinced he's wrong about the affair, though I know he can be mad-jealous about his women. Junior G's got a past, like me, and he figures that sooner or later the karmic wheel is gonna come back and crush him for all his past misdeeds. I'd like to reassure him but I'm not sure he's wrong about that either; I've been crushed by the weight of my past and have the emotional limp to prove it.
"There aint nothing you can do to keep the wheel from rolling, " I said. "If you just consider yourself crushed already you're ahead of the game emotionally, I figure."
"Yeah, " he replied flatly. My fatalistic rationalization didn't seem to lessen his burden. "I know, (pause) It's just, I don't know. Let's just get out of here. " We piled into my truck and started driving to anywhere away from the exile of home.
Plastic Cars and Convenient Bars
We didn't settle on a destination until we were halfway to Pontiac. Then I remembered a Michiganbands.com calendar post for a band called "Funkt" at The Ventura Lounge in Pontiac, a corner bar on Baldwin and Kennett where Junior G and I played an occasional gig in our past lives. The Ventura was a satellite to the old Fiero plant, serving hardcore shop-rats who couldn't face their existence without a stiff drink to steel their resolve to keep working. Lucky for them it was right across the street, close enough to take an emergency liquid lunch if needed.
The plant closed down over a decade ago, small plastic cars giving way to the minivan and SUV craze of the nineties. Somehow, The Ventura's held on and has served as a stable gig for working musicians ever since. And it's a bar where you can get a decent drink for a good price, not the watered down dreck served by a machine in a tiny glass that costs five dollars. I preferred gigs like The Ventura, perhaps because it catered to my red-neck brethren here in the outskirts of P-town. Sure, the neighborhood's gone to hell, but it's casual, devoid of urban pretense, a place where anything can still happen. It's the place where I discovered what Mick Jagger really meant by "Brown Sugar." ( I say yeah, yeah, yeah, Woo!) Time flies when your young, dumb and full of cum.
Face it, we're all "Funkt"
We strode into The Ventura like it was only yesterday we walked off the stage and into the parking lot to share controlled substances or uncontrollable females. The place was exactly as we left it; stage in the southwest corner, bar stretched along the west wall, and the bathrooms was just as sticky, cramped and dirty as I remembered; It was usually occupied by some trucker who's bowels took a beating from road-tacos and got in there just before you did.
We took a seat at a small table in the back along the east wall, close enough to the door to make an emergency exit if necessary - an old habit we'd picked-up to escape angry boyfriends of female fans we invariably violated.
Funkt had drawn a good crowd for the Ventura. The double-up table of multi-generational patrons who applauded the band's every move suggested mostly friends and family. But the rest of the bar was occupied by enough neighborhood regulars and wanderers like us to make it a decent turn-out.
I whipped out my digital camera and started pushing buttons; buzz - whirrrr - beep, beep. "I'm heading for the stage," I said to Junior G. He just nodded, sipped on his diet-coke and contemplated not drinking. It had been exactly a year since his fateful night in jail, and exactly a year since he'd had a drink. I don't think that thirsty look in his eye will ever go away.
MB not MA
After snapping-off a few pics (none of which satisfied), I approached the stage and introduced myself to the band. Turns out Funkt has former members of the now de-funkt JiveStick. Buddy recognized me from my brief stint with BobRaceCarBob (it's a palindrome, stupid). We shook hands, they thanked me for coming out, I thanked them for posting on our site and we were both thankful that was over. The band continued with their music, I continued making bad digital photographs of the band making their music.
Near the end of their first set, Funkt showed their appreciation and announced my presence to the room. "We'd like to thank Eric Phillips from MichiganArtists.com for coming out and supporting us." The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end as I cringed. I approached the stage and whispered the correction. "I'm sorry, that's Mitch Phillips from Michiganbands.com. Michiganbands is in the house people so be sure to check out their site when you get home." The doubled table of Funkt devotees clapped and I felt a flush of embarrassment redden my face.
It wasn't their fault; I wasted two years writing and editing news, articles and reviews for MA only to have those efforts ignored and even eyed suspiciously by the paranoid MA-triarch who owns the domain name. Now I have to continually distance myself from MA while trying to promote MB. Any public mention of our site is greatly appreciated. Any connection with MA is not.
At least Funkt had the class and the good manners to recognize Michiganbands.com at their gig - which I wish I could say for ANY other act I've worked with recently and, by default, worked for by helping to promote their music. If Michiganbands.com got polite reciprocation from every act we've featured on our site, we wouldn't have to worry about promotion at all. We depend on the kindness of strangers to help spread the work since there's no money for traditional promotional materials. Word of mouth or bust. Our thanks to the good-natured boys of FUNKT for their kindness.
Satisfied that I'd completely fucked-up every photograph I'd taken (I really need lessons with this thing), Junior G and I left The Ventura Lounge to continue our adventure elsewhere.
Duped by a Liquor-Store Felon
Traveling south on Baldwin, I'd stopped at a liquor store to buy some smokes and a diet coke for Junior G and myself. Typical of Pontiac, one side of the store was completely covered in bullet-proof glass to protect the clerks from crack-heads with firearms and anybody else who wanted trouble. The usual displays of lottery-tickets, phone-cards and pagers were mounted to the glass, but in addition a hundred or so nationally released CD's were displayed as well. Bob Marley's "Legend" CD immediately caught my eye.
"How much for the Marley disc?" I asked the clerk.
"Whij one you talk about?" he replied in broken english with a heavy middle-eastern accent. "What you want - you show me." I followed him along the wall on the opposite side of the thick plexiglass and pointed to the CD I wanted. "Ten dollar."
"Sold," I said. I really needed some reggae to cheer me up and Bob Marley never failed me. I handed him a ten and he handed me the disc - no receipt.
"If there's a problem, you bring back and I give you another, ok?"
I was in a trusting mood tonight. "Ok," I said and headed out the door with what looked like a used CD. I over-paid but I really needed some reggae and wasn't in the mood to dicker. It wasn't until Junior G opened it up on the way to Griff's Grill that I realized this wasn't a used CD, but digitally duped contraband violating Title 17 of the U.S. Copyright Law. A felony had just been committed. A closer look revealed that the cover art was a poorly duplicated ink-jet version of the "Legend" cover art. Another felony committed. What to do? Do I call the FBI? Do I call the local police? Do I call ASCAP, BMI, NARAS? Nope, I listen to Bob Marley and forget all about it.
(until now that is - as of this writing, I called the Pontiac Police Dept. and reported the crimes I thought were committed. Hey, it's one thing to dupe copies of your favorite CD's and give them to you friends and another to mass produce them, display them in your store and sell them for a profit without ever purchasing the rights to duplicate or purchasing CD's meant for resale. I couldn't live with myself if I just let it slide - tomorrow it could happen to any of the independent artists we help promote. An artist deserves to be compensated for their work, period. The Pontiac Police Department referred me to the FBI since a violation of Title 17 is a Federal offense. Their number is 248-879-6090 - I'll let you know how it all turns out later ).
Mode @ Griff's Grill
Junior G and I walked into Griff's, payed our five bucks cover (my MB credential means exactly dick - as usual) "You on the guest list?" asked the dutiful doorman. Nope, says I. "Five dollars each, please." Whatever. I don't mind paying the entertainment and besides, I'm still feeling a little guilty about the reggae contraband in my car.
Upstairs, Mode is just beginning their set. They whip through a handful of songs that, honestly, I can't remember what they sounded like at this point and I didn't take any notes since I was busy wrestling with my digital camera. But a soulful tune called "Revolution" caught my ear and I still remember it a week later.  This is a good sign that the song is worth the listen - or it repeats the word "Revolution" so many times it's now imprinted on my cerebral cortex in big block letters. But I liked the feel, and if memory serves, it's political or social significance. I called Junior G a week later to ask him what he thought. He said there was a lot of jangling guitar. Chorus-ridden delays and a jangling strummer. Junior G's a purist when it comes to electric guitar; if it doesn't have pure, blues infused raunch with a deliberate destination it gets his small hairs up.
When mode finished their set, I introduced myself, passed out a chunk of business cards, thanked them for the song "Revolution" and headed for the door. Again, I wasn't happy with the photos I'd collected but I thought I had at least something to work with.
Vibrators: The Secret to Post-Band Marital Longevity?
At 1 a.m. Junior G was still going on about his wife's extracurricular activities, real or imagined. I decide to give him a much needed diversion and pulled into Waterford's only adult bookstore, Front Page News. The place has been there for as long as I can remember - or at least as long as I've been able to get through the doors - and is open 24hrs (or was) for those rare sexual emergencies that seem to happen not long after the bar closes.
After numerous raids, harassments and city lawsuits failed to close their doors for good, the owners finally got rid of the seedy 'behind the green curtain' peep-shows that caused them more trouble and loitering than it was worth. But now the place was a brightly lit, one room warehouse for sexual paraphernalia of all flavors. Front Page has gone mainstream, competing with the likes of such suburban novelty stores as the Lover's Lane that opened just two miles away. Thousands of videos, DVD's, CD rom's, magazines and newspapers fill the volume of the room while sexual devices of every imaginable shape, size and texture line the walls. Junior G was hovering around the vibrators in the $25-$30 dollar price range.
"Do you think if I get this for my wife she'll stay home next weekend?" he said wistfully, holding up a 12" hot-pink phallus with variable speed control and 'enhanced texture.'
I sighed, considered the scores of women back in our prime who used to follow him around like lost kittens into bathrooms, parking lots, motels, woods and never even think to ask for reciprocation. We used to laugh about it, for chrissakes.
"What's happened to us man?" The wheel's come full circle to crush us both.
- Mitch Phillips
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