We got there early. Maybe earlier than we should–there were three opening acts, after all–but we didn’t know what kind of crowd to expect, and it couldn’t hurt. Neither of us had been to the Bling Pig before–so we had plenty to observe. For those of you who haven’t gone (and you really should sometime), it’s a dingy, ill-lit cramped space, the kind of place that I always take a minute to check out the emergency exits, but it’s got a lot of character. You can look around and get a sense of the history of the place, of the bands that have played, of the people who have danced , of the bodies that have crashed against one another, of the sweat shed, of the drinks spilled, of the voices that have sung, screamed, echoed and echoing. Ann Arbor’s a city full of places like these–places that tell a story that could only be told here–even as high-rise after high-rise goes up (across from the Blind Pig is one of these new high-rises) and chains encroach downtown, even then there remain these hidden flames of the city that still burn.
For the first two opening acts, my friend and I sat on stools to the side of the main floor. There were a handful of people standing in the center, but especially for the first act, The Landmarks, the crowd was still slim. Regardless, both bands grooved with what was there of the crowd, and there was never that moment when the crowd is too loud or too quiet, when the crowd is clearly uninterested or would prefer for that band not to be playing. No, even people like me, who were sitting on the sidelines gave the bands most of our attention. I preferred the more groovy sounds of the local band, The Landmarks, but the acoustic, softer tones of Air is the Arche were a refreshing break from the heavier, harder rocking beats of the night. Both bands are something to watch out for, and I look forward to them popping back up on my radar.
After Air is the Arche finished, my friend and I left the safety of our chairs to go in search of a bathroom. We wandered downstairs, through a maze of hallways, into the bar below, the Eightball Saloon, which was reminiscent of the inside of a dirty, vibrant carnival attraction. While there, I took the opportunity to read some of the many lines of wisdom, poetry, and advice that had been sharpied on the inside of the stall by various customers, for your reading pleasure. I was reading a rather crude observation out loud, “anal is good for your soul,” when a fellow patron loudly contradicted me–and well, I wasn’t going to disagree with her. After that bonding experience, my friend and I returned to the surface world to find our prime seating location stolen–but there was only one more opening act, so we decided to stand.
By the time the final opening act came on, Valley Hush, there was a crowd gathering in the center, bodies brewing and shifting to the front, to the middle. Some were like us, and merely seatless, but plenty were getting in position for the main act. Still, you could sense the crowd warming up, and some were even dancing to this band, to their fleeting melodies. I liked Valley Hush and their music, but I was impatient, I was ready for the band we’d been waiting for, and I felt like this last band’s set dragged on, we were so close, we were nearing the threshold–oh, I could hardly keep myself together, I couldn’t stand there much longer. I was ecstatic when they ended–sorry Valley Hush, you were great, really–and the crowd began to thicken, now was the time to cram yourself in, to sneak between as many bodies as you could, to find a place as close to the front as you could. Now was the time to rock.
And, nearly three hours after we had arrived at the Blind Pig, Flint Eastwood arrived on stage.
I thought I knew what to expect. I’d seen them before, about a year and a half ago–and I knew some things would be different, there was a new EP, they were no longer wearing bolo ties, but I thought I had reasonable expectations for this performance. They had only been the opening act then and not the main show, but things couldn’t be that different.
I was wrong.
Flint Eastwood started with the usual, “Ann Arbor, are you ready to rock?” shtick, which Jax asked us until she was satisfied with our answer, and then they came to life. They opened with the song “Oblivious,” and as soon as the music started, they were everywhere on stage–they were jumping, they were dancing, they were thrashing–they were exuberant with an energy that I cannot imagine possessing. There was only three of them–Jax, her guitarist, and her drummer–but they managed to stomp around the whole stage (except for the drummer, who still managed to thrash and bang on his drums as well as he could) and Jax was constantly on the edge of stage, right over us, right in our faces, banging her body to the beat. She was constantly moving her mic from stand to hand, strutting the stage, leaning out and over, pointing at members of the audience here and there, commanding them to sing a melody or clap their hands–and they listened, how could they not, they were enamored. When she ordered us to clap, we clapped. When she ordered us to sing, we sang. When she ordered us to dance, we danced. If she had ordered us to jump off a bridge, we would have. The band’s energy was infectious and we were pulsing, we were being pulled into Jax, as if she were the heart of a black hole. She too, was being pulled in, not to us, but to the music–there were parts where she was so caught up in it, caught up in her own dancing, that she would forget to sing. It wasn’t a problem, (nor probably even noticeable for most of the crowd), if anything it was beautiful to watch. For the bulk of the show, they played the rest of the songs from their latest EP, Small Victories, but near the end, they played “Can You Feel Me Now,” an in-your-face song if there ever was one. We were told to put our pistols up, so we did, and we rocked out to the song with our pistols, our hands, our arms, flying, thrashing, pounding the beat. After that, they announced that it was time to end and they would play only one more song: the title track from their EP, “Small Victories.” Before the song, Jax talked to us for a moment, and she told us if we were going through shit, she wasn’t going to tell us what to do or how to get over it, she couldn’t, but for the next few minutes we had to dance. So we did. During this “final” song, Jax jumped off stage and into the crowd, where she danced with us as her guitarist and drummer continued to rock, drenched in sweat, and then she climbed back on stage where the three of them collapsed. While they laid stretched out on the floor of the stage, they audience clapped and hollered and cheered, this rising, roaring, noise that never ended, no matter how long the trio refused to budge. Finally, after a matter of minutes, the band rose from the dead, claimed they needed just a rest, and played us one more song, another oldie, “Billy the Kid,” with the very fitting lyrics: this is the end.
After it ended, as we left that dark and dirty place, every member of the audience was handed this note, this little thank-you card. Because here’s the thing, this show didn’t happen at some 3,000 person venue. It happened at the Blind Pig and the attendance was in the low triple-digits. Currently, Flint Eastwood’s latest single,”Find What You’re Looking For,” has 7,684 views on Youtube. For a band like Flint Eastwood, every view, every member of the audience, every purchase of an album, every individual contribution–all of that matters. They know it, and as an attendee, you can feel it. They’re not a band that can take things for granted and their gratitude overflows their being, their presence. So please, next time you’re looking for something to do, skip the blockbuster or Netflix or Jimmy Johns, and maybe head downtown to the State Theater or Fleetwood Diner, but definitely stop by the Blind Pig sometime, even if it isn’t a band you know. Support the places that make Ann Arbor, well, Ann Arbor, and support the little guy–he’s got a long and difficult journey ahead of him, but with your help, I think he might make it.
