CREEM ONLINE: MC5 — Live At The Crow's Nest

CREEM—March 1969
by Pam Brent

MC5
Live at the Crow's Nest
March 1969

(Editor's note: Now that people seem to be so interested in the MC5 again, we thought we'd dig waaaaaay back into the CREEM archive and pull out this review from the very first issue. Not only does it give a glimpse into what an MC5 show was like at the band's apex, but it also gives us some insight into the greaser scourge of the time.)

The editor told me to get out some local news, so that’s precisely what I’ll do. Since for the past two weeks, the highlight of my weekend has been a visit to the Crow’s Nest West in Westland, I shall give an account of the happenings there and put in a plug for the place.

The little sister of the Crow’s nest East (under the same management) is located at 8606 Haller, near Joy and Middlebelt. Included in this metamorphosis are, first, the Tantrum and later, the Peek-a-Boo club, both ill-fated and hopelessly overrun with grease. The Crow’s Nest has wisely eliminated this hazard by banning and refusing to admit the grease. They achieve this end by the employment of several well muscled, but friendly (to freeks) bouncers.

Dear Editor:

Thanks for the CREEM. Surprisingly, it’s quite good, by contemporary standards of rock criticism. I had about given up on the Detroit scene. The Fifth Estate is bad news. I stopped reading that “Kill the Cops” sh-t along with the sh-t in the regular newspapers a couple of months ago when I realized it is as bad for the organism as eating sugar or taking speed. Down trips are simply not necessary, and I’m no escapist either.

The MC5 are here now and I wish they’d leave. They’ve been getting pretty bad reviews all over, so hopefully they’ll fade into obscurity real soon. A very close friend of mine, who has also been working with frontiers of science and should know better, had dinner with the MC5 and said they seemed to understand when he told then about the constructive things we are doing here but I doubt it. Anyone who is still raving about that bullsh-t “throw a rock at a cop” revolution when there is already such a fantastic revolution going on all around is practicing such an advanced form of blindness that I suspect a serious mental disturbance hiding behind their revolutionary front. Man, we went through all that sh-t on Haight Street. Every so often all the kids would go sit in the middle of the street and chant the “streets belong to the people” and the cops would come along and tear gas them. And what would they have done with the street anyway? Sit in it and create a growing pile of garbage and Coke cans and cigarette butts and sh-t just like they had on the sidewalks. It seems so obvious to me that anyone can have anything they want, if only they have a use for it. That’s just the way the universe works. Those of us who know what to do with the power and the responsibility to order our lives have not found it lacking. And remarkable changes have taken place. I have known many of the important figures on the local revolution scene and I honestly wouldn’t want to see any of them with political power over me, honest! Listen to the Beatles man, really.

—Celestially yours,
The Greater Body c/o Greg Shaw
California, May 1969

At present, the crowd varies with the band having a gig there, although it consists mostly of the usual suburban freeks and heads, with a large helping of frats. New and established members have separate doors by which to gain access to the club. You will have to pay one dollar extra for membership. One is inspected, to insure that one is not a greaser, and then allowed to deposit one’s coat free of charge.

Upon entering the neat, paneled chamber, one immediately notes the small size of the place and the inactivity of the crowd. Everyone sits around, grooving. You may also dance, if you work up the nerve to start this seemingly foreign activity.

The main room has two stages with a couch lining the entire wall opposite the main stage. A few posters hang framed on the walls and light stands protrude out of the dance (?) floor.

The lower level is simply a cement block basement of the sort one expects to find in a suburban home. There is a refreshment stand with chairs and tables scattered throughout. They now show filmstrips on the wall. As I hurriedly ducked under the projector beam, I thought I noticed Mickey Mouse. The Phenomena is an average local hard-rock psychedelic group. They are together, but not exceptional musicians. Their music, however, was danceable. Even in their mediocrity, they were quite enjoyable.

On the other hand, the Mandala were a disappointment Musically, they are perfectionists and exhibit vast originality and ability. Their style is unique, and the arrangements interesting. At one point, the superbly talented drummer kneels before the lead player, and, drumming on the strings, creates a beautiful Spanish-style melody. Very exiting, along with the drum solo, during which he uses his feet (and no drums).

The thing that detracts from their music is the meticulous wearing apparel, and over-rehearsed, obviously put-on stage performance of the vocalist. He stinks! He goes through a whole routine of convulsive movements and dance sequence. The public may not agree, but I would rather see him get really turned on by the music.

The Crow’s Nest is small, extremely so. One can not possibly fathom the results of as renowned a group as the MC5 playing there until one has actually lived through the experience. This, however, is not easily done.

Arriving approximately thirty minutes after opening time, one is confronted with a block-long double line, in which one is obliged to stand, freezing for an added half hour. Once inside, one pushes and shoves one’s way through a solid mass of human flesh in an attempt to rid (oneself) of that unwanted coat. Having succeeded in depositing it on the lower, a fight to ascent the stairway ensues.

Reaching the main level, where hundreds of bodies are sitting or standing awaiting the Five, one listens to the Ashenperpol. A fairly good group, but one whose music is made all but inaudible by the constant flow of persons pushing and shoving to rid themselves of their wraps.

The temperature soon becomes unbearable, and, as the Five mount the stage, the place is literally an inferno. Rob Tyner invites us to remove any extraneous clothing, and in response, shirts, ties, scarves, etc. Are removed. The music begins. The wall of sound assaults every cell in these close quarters (so much more greatly magnified here than elsewhere). Bold, exalting tones rip through the heat and set fire to the very air, as sweat drips down the backs and brows of all present.

The roaring vibrations and now-language combine to put the audience in an indescribable and frenzied mood. The voice of the Five resounds all that is the youth of today. An aura of all our sought-after goals; love, peace, freedom, and f--king in the streets—they are (echoes), an incarnation of our will. We receive them with appropriate joy and rapture.

Listless movement resumes as the band breaks for fifteen minutes. The basement fills with people, as it is a few degrees cooler. Ascending the stairs, someone opens the door, and a frosty breeze provides longed-for coolness. A cloud of musky steam sizzles around me for the remainder of the ascent. Upstairs, the doors have been opened, allowing billowing steam to issue from them into the cold night. Everyone that leaves is engulfed, for a time, in his own private cloud.

The Five’s next set caused an even greater fever of heat, as we were all urged to stand. The vibrations were good, but the close air burned. The management plans, happily, to remedy the situation through the purchase of the adjacent warehouse. Good luck and more power to them.

All in all, the Crow’s Nest will never equal the Grande, but has the potential of providing a good time for its patrons.

Photo: CREEM Photo Archive