Friday started at Atlas. I had band practice so I didn’t get to Hamtramck until Flatfoot’s set. They’re a little more country than alt’ and the rhythm guitarist/singer looks an awful lot like my brother, which was sort of weird.

After 3 songs we headed down to the Belmont for Ancourage. They reminded me (surprisingly) of live Queens of the Stone Age. In between every song the bassist stomped on a delay pedal which weaved all the distortion together in a mass of loopy snap, crackle, and pop.

On the move again. At New Dodge we managed to catch the last stoned out jam from Blue Black Hours right before Mick Bassett. Yeah, Bassett’s definitely got the Bob Dylan thing down, even when he talks. This was a point of contention between me and my traveling partner. I was on Mick’s side. I mean, if you open your mouth and Blonde on Blonde comes out, you might as well go with it, right?

One of the many conflicts occurred at the 1 o’clock hour. I wouldn’t have minded staying put to catch Zoos of Berlin. Yet, we were feeling a bit antsy and headed to Small’s for His Name Is Alive instead. Small’s owners, Natalie and Mike were gracious as usual. As soon as I touched the barstool Nat’ had a Guinness ready and waiting (thanks again!). HNIA were their typical quirky selfs. Band leader Warren Defever had a guitar effect that caused his signal to randomly cut out in square digital peaks. It made for a strange distorted No Wave attack which I’m always a sucker for. Unfortunately, due to travel times (not helped by a house fire on Caniff), we only managed to catch 2 songs.

Saturday started and ended at Shenanigan’s (or Shananigans as displayed across the awning). Sh! opened. We played fine. Tight, but relaxed. One can never really gauge ones own performance. According to the response afterward I suppose we did fairly well.

Fontana followed. They had an early 80′s hardcore punk (ala Minor Threat, Negative Approach, etc…) sound. Complete with prepubescent yelps and screeches. The guitar player even pulled a little Rollins/Iggy inspirational microphone-bashed-against-forehead routine. By the look of their brace-faced fans and cardboard box filled with 7″ singles, hardcore punk is alive and well in the Detroit ‘burbs.

A FOX2 filmed Sons of the Gun finished off the night. A few Fontana supporters tried to have some fun slamming along but without the insulation of more bodies the sound man was having none of it. No matter, a little teenage oppression can be a great catalyst for music.

Staying up ’til 4 in the morning the past few nights (accompanied by the horribly situated clock forwarding) is leaving me feeling quite jet lagged. So, that’s it. If you attended, hopefully you enjoyed your time.