Melissa Giannini

This past Saturday, I was covering a festival (I’ll post the link here once it runs) that started with a concert on the JMZ platform and segued into a loud and rowdy, ska-filled (and ridiculously fun) subway ride to a Brooklyn venue where about eight more bands played on two stages—one inside the venue, which doubles as a junkshop, and one outside on the patio, which doubles as a junkyard.

As the final band wrapped up, I took a seat on the patio and let the humidity and noise wrap itself around me like a nostalgia blanket. In a city where you can get a ticket for drinking a cup of coffee on the subway, and a region where even rich gallery owners get busted for serving wine in the Hamptons,

I often find myself reminiscing about my former home—Detroit—where cops didn’t mess with the small stuff. Like that one summer night we filled plastic bottles with vodka and lemonade and drank while splashing around in the fountain in front of the Detroit Institute of Arts for hours. It was certainly illegal, not to mention unsanitary—that fountain serves as a toilet to many no doubt—but we were just a group of kids, enjoying our city. And I’d like to think that all the police cars that whizzed by on Woodward Avenue saw us and recognized that and respected our right to expose ourselves to dysentery.

So anyway … I was basking in the glow of getting away with a similar, harmless yet insubordinate act—our subversive subway ride/punkfest—and as the drummer crashed down on the cymbal for the last time of the evening, my phone buzzed with a text informing me of a violent police raid on funk night at Detroit’s CAID gallery the previous night. I’ve heard that these newer parties are spin-offs of the original, legendary funk nights that were held at CAID (then known as Detroit Contemporary) back in the early ’00s, and that the crowd has since grown and “changed.” Even so, I’m not sure a swat team was necessary.

I went to a funk night for old time’s sake during my most recent visit to the city last December (this one held at Bohemian National Home), and there was a line of people waiting to pee in a mop bucket inside a broom closet. That never would have gone down in the old days. Bo House has since stopped hosting the parties, which often went well into the morning.

I’ve also heard that Brad Hales (esteemed DJ of the original Free Funk Fridays) is now spinning his rare 45s along with Frank Raines at Woodbridge Gallery on Forest Avenue. If I still lived in Detroit, I’d be there no doubt. Hales is also the esteemed proprietor of Peoples Records—my favorite record store in the city. Its first location burned down in the Forest Arms fire a few months back, but Brad was scheduled to reopen in a new location on Woodward a couple days ago.

Here’s a sweet photo of the old place.

Here’s another photo—this one taken at the first funk night back in 2000, I think.
That’s me sitting on the stairs!

In the foreground in the brown corduroy jacket is my dear friend Ryan, who now lives in London and says that people there drink on the Tube all the time.
Well, not anymore apparently, according to this story in Reuters:

Underground Drinks Party Ends in Mayhem

Oh! Here’s a fun flyer from the first funk night: