DETROIT COPS VS. THE GEEK NATION

It was a cool evening in September 1994. I was in Detroit's infamous Cass Corridor to see a self-proclaimed 'nerd-rock' band from San Francisco called Three Day Stubble play at a local Vietnam vets bar called the Old Miami. A newly-formed band called the Demolition Doll Rods were supposed to open, but they got to the bar too late and weren't given a chance to show off their legendary car part pasties onstage. I was disappointed indeed, having heard unbelievable stories about near-naked voluptuous strippers and crazy skronky sub-garage guitar mutilations that were the Doll Rods forté, but the show had to go on.

Three Day Stubble were in fine form, wearing the wildest threads, and scamming on all the underage teens sneaking into the show. Polyester and plaid abounded, accented by ties wide enough to pave a four lane highway, floods that rivaled anything seen in Revenge of the Nerds, and slicked back greasy hair that should have been sponsored by Vaseline. Then there was the music: crazed Beefheart-esque rock anthems which sounded like they'd been sliced up with Ginsu knives and put back together in completely random order. The singer looked ready to explode at any moment, and seemed like he was having trouble keeping his clothes on. The band included rock stars from bands like the Germs and Thinking Fellers Union Local 282 given a license to destroy all music with verve and panache. It was thrilling and hilarious and when it was over we were all a big sweaty mess ready for more of the same.

So the band announced that they would be playing another set at a goofy local punkhouse called The Bank (because it was actually an old abandoned bank building), and I caught wind of a rumor that the Demolition Doll Rods might show up and bash out a few numbers as well. Without a clue of the fucked-up evening that awaited me, I jumped in my car and motored to the crack hotel part of town not far from Tiger Stadium. I was a little worried about the car getting broken into for its broken radio, but I figured some other suburban kid's car would get broken into first. Little did I know that roving crackheads would not be the ones who would turn a super-fun night into a total nightmare.

I went in and was greeted by a suspicious punky guy who closed the door quickly behind me and demanded a few bucks cover. I didn't think anything of his paranoia, and the new formal nature of this long-running punk haven - my first mistake. But when I came into the room where the band was setting up (though the Demolition Doll Rods were nowhere to be seen) I felt comforted at being surrounded by the same goofballs I'd just been sweating with at the Old Miami. A tank of nitrous oxide seemed a little out of place somehow, but not particularly ominous, and most people weren't paying attention to it at all. All eyes were on the band nearly ready to captivate us once again with their improbable sounds. I made small talk with a few friends to pass a few minutes away, and then BANG - the drummer had started playing and we were all transfixed.

And then BANG BANG BANG and screaming and shouting and the sounds of dozens of people running into the room through the back door, and we turned around to be 'greeted' by Detroit's Finest, guns in our faces, shouting and swearing and terrorizing us into submission. 'GET DOWN ON THE FUCKING FLOOR AND PUT YOUR HANDS BEHIND YOU. NOW!!!' Some army drill sergeant type was screaming orders and obscenities at us as if we were grunts in training, when in fact we were a bunch of geeky kids from the suburbs or Windsor, Ontario (just across the river from Detroit) with a wimpy Swiss army knife as the only weapon between us. But to the Rave Action Squad we were dangerous gang members, hoodlums hanging out in blind pigs (a.k.a. after-hours bars) trying to fuck their sons and daughters and make them into drug addicts.

The screaming in our ears never ceased, with our faces flush with the cold marble floor for over an hour. Some of the Rave Squad in training were sent around to search us and bark questions which were really accusations. Some of us would get a little testy or sarcastic in our responses, which would elicit a sharp 'DO YOU WANT TO GO TO JAIL RIGHT NOW? THERE'S A FUCKING PADDY WAGON OUTSIDE READY IF THAT'S WHAT YOU WANT!'' A few of us, probably mostly Canadians, would push further, and then get 'OKAY WISE-ASS. YOU CAN ROT IN A FUCKING JAIL CELL TONIGHT. IT'S YOUR OWN FAULT.' We'd hear some cuffs being put on and scuffling out the door. And the accusing voice right out of some Kafka nightmare would come closer and closer.

Finally it was my turn. 'NAME!' 'Russ Forster.' 'IT DOESN'T SAY THAT ON YOUR I.D.' 'I go by my middle name...' 'KEEP YOUR HEAD DOWN!!' 'Yes sir.' 'WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?' 'I came to see a weird band that I just saw play at a bar.' 'DIDN'T YOU KNOW THIS WAS AN ILLEGAL AFTER-HOURS BAR?' 'No, I didn't.' 'WELL YOU'RE IN AN ILLEGAL SPACE, SO YOU'RE GONNA GET A TICKET.' 'Why?' 'I'M ASKING THE QUESTIONS HERE, NOT YOU. GET YOUR HEAD BACK ON THE FUCKING FLOOR!!'

Then it was over for me for another half hour, when I was allowed to finally get off of the floor and get my I.D. and a ticket for Disorderly Conduct. Some of the more green members of the Rave Action Squad looked at me sympathetically as I fumed my way out the door. They figured out that the whole raid was about as stupid and useless as they come, that we weren't the types who were ruining the moral fiber of the country with dance and drugs and free love. We were a bunch of wimpy, geeky, brainy losers who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. We were the kind of smart, talented types who could save this country from the kind of cultural decline it's fallen into in the 20th century, but not if were just going to get bullied by cops and fucked over by stupid politicians and told that everything we think and we create is not nearly bland enough for human consumption. And that laying with our faces buried in cold stone for what seemed like an eternity waiting to get yelled and sworn at is considered Disorderly Conduct.

The band got thrown in jail, got its equipment confiscated, had to go to court two or three times to plead its case, and ultimately was forced to pay $500 to get their gear and themselves out of town. I went to court three times, plead no contest at the advice of a court appointed attorney who assured me that plea would get me a $50 fine and probation, and then had the judge give me a $100 fine and another court date in six months to prove that I was no longer disorderly. I paid the fine, but refused to go back to court, and got a warrant for my arrest which took a $100 bond and another ten hours to get thrown out of court by a judge who amused himself by ridiculing me when I told him my profession was filmmaker. Need I wonder why I'm not inclined to become a respectable member of my local community? Need anyone wonder why I've got a chip on my shoulder the size of the Ambassador Bridge?

Someday the Geek Nation will rise up and tear useless civic parasites like the Rave Action Squad into tiny little pieces, singing Three Day Stubble songs all the while....

- Russ Forster