CROW’S NEST

CROW’S NEST

Pam Brent

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 its 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.

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 exciting, 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 ^nd dance sequence. The public may not agree, but personally, I would rather see him get really turned on by the music.

The Crow’s Nest is small, extremely so. One cannot possibly fathom the results of as renowned a group as the MC^ 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 on’s self 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 echos, 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.