Red, Red River Roar
Now Playing: Franz Schubert--"Tranenregen" from Die Schoene Muellerin (I don't know how to do umlauts on this thing)
Goodbye, Madison House.

This past weekend saw the MadisonFest, three days of the best music in Michigan as a salute to the end of summer and the departure of Brandon Zwagerman for New York. Brandon, some of you will know, is the booster sans peur et sans reproche for the local music world, arranging and promoting shows in every conceivable place for the past couple of years. I met him over Ann Arbor Is Overrated, bonded over fondness for such local bands as the Avatars and Saturday Looks Good To Me, and attended nearly every show he put on at the Madison House and many elsewhere. It's safe to say that he enabled a social and artistic revolution in my Ann Arbor life; I wouldn't know nine-tenths of the people or local music I presently enjoy without his zeal, and this city would probably have turned into a fucking hell for me otherwise. That's just what he did for me, too; viewing it in terms of the local arts scene, his achievement is so much more impressive. Brandon, thank you from the bottom of my heart, and the best of luck in the future. This place will definitely be poorer without you, but will also be much better for your efforts.

It was, as John told me at Leopolds', a bittersweet weekend. It passed in random images, which shouldn't be much of a surprise. I'm still a little dazed myself: Sari Brown and Annie Palmer at West Park Friday, Great Lakes Myth Society later that night at the Blind Pig; cooking and a nap Saturday, then door duty at the Madison (where I stunned myself with my own enthusiasm; I had no idea it was possible for me to be that chipper while taking money and stamping hands), then music, music, music, and drinking, drinking, drinking, from the Madison to Arbor Vitae for the afterparty and home again; more cooking Sunday morning and a deceptive stealth hangover, lots of leisurely strolls, more music, a standing ovation for the Madison and Mr. Zwagerman, then a rollicking afterparty at Leopold Brothers' to close out a wonderful time that will always remain precious in my memory.

Random images:

--Passing by a bike-jousting tournament on the way to the West Park bandshell Friday evening; bike-jousting's entertaining enough, but when you couple it with musical accompaniment (in this case a guy on accordion pumping out "The Girl I Left Behind Me"), it gets so much better. Also, anyone who uses the exclamation "huzza!" in regular palaver is already halfway to heaven in my book.

--Running into Jess and Ricardo at the Great Lakes Myth Society show at the Blind Pig later that night. I had barely started drinking yet, but was in such a nostalgic mood (and was still so chuffed after getting my First BHF Book of Horror Stories in the mail) that I grabbed them both in a huge bear hug, which I think might have bemused Ricardo. I'm extremely proud of my volunteer work for Planned Parenthood, but it's always good to see her out on the social circuit.

--A couple of lovely little ending flourishes from some of the bands: the bassist for Dabenport ending their set with the opening lines to the Barney Miller theme tune, and Tania closing a song for Great Lakes Myth Society on her violin with the music for Pac-Man.

--The Madison front porch finger puppet show, starring Sara, Kristy, and Tania. I think there's actually film of it somewhere.*

--Stopping off at Village Corner on the way to the Arbor Vitae afterparty. Chris Bathgate had asked people for dance music, and I went home first to get some (the Go! Team, the Faces, the Pretty Things, and the Undertones). Figuring I might as well do some grocery shopping on the way and save some time Sunday, I grossly overestimated my capacity for recovery and grabbed a bottle of wine, imagining I'd "need" it the next day. I couldn't even look at a beer can without feeling queasy for much of Sunday afternoon.

--"Glen," the mysterious intruder of the Arbor Vitae afterparty Saturday night. This dapper young chap escaped from a nearby wedding dressed to the nines, stank like a French cathouse, and somehow worked his way into the Arbor Vitae loft. Curious, that, as it lies up a forbidding flight of stairs from either State Street or the back alley. He initially accosted Adam and I, taking us for a gay couple, and either (a) asked us for weed, (b) tried to "horn in on it," as it were (I only found out about that one the next day), or (c) both. The best part is that Adam's actually getting married this weekend (not to me, although I really want to check out Toronto). We never found out which of us was the "better half," by the way (his answer almost certainly would have been whichever of us looked more "street valuable"). Not taking no for an answer, he followed us around, and then other likelies, and capped his exploits by grabbing beer from Bathgate's fridge, a fatal error which apparently led to his discovery as an interloper. Hey, at least it wasn't dull.

--Finally properly hanging out with Ryan Balderas at the same party. I've been a fan for some time (Ryan was keyboardist and vocalist for the Casionauts), and we had a great conversation, ranging across film and music and eventually taking in the issue of his friend, who was attempting to generate romantic interest in a yong lady who had come down with them from Lansing. My "advice" (worth every penny, I guess, from someone who hasn't been in a relationship for at least six years) led to the fellow calling me sensei, which was cute.

--The smells from my house Sunday morning. As a going-away present for Brandon (famously proud of his Batavian heritage), I tried my hand at olliebollen, a literal "Dutch treat" from dough flavored with cinnamon, nutmeg and raisins and then fried in oil. I was planning to try frying, but hadn't done it before and didn't want to essay it while nursing a hangover. I went ahead and just baked the things, measuring them out with a spoon. They seemed to turn out well; I didn't see any left at the end of the night (they'd been "marketed" with Caleb's fruit, which he sliced at the table). After I finished baking, the first floor filled with the scent of warm cinnamon. Just upstairs lay the aroma of my housemate's shampoo, a weirdly pleasing olfactory schizophrenia.

--Sunday afternoon strolls through the Old West Side, in between (and often during) acts, smelling the trees, picking up walnuts, kicking them, sniffing them, throwing them at toddlers (not really), occasionally placing a finger to the sticky pine sap on my back (I'd sat against a tree in the front yard that turned out to be "sweating"), and reveling in the unaccustomed August cool.

--The final set ever played at the Madison, Bathgate's (ending with "We Die Most Every Night," to which just about everyone sang along in accordance with tradition), found me sitting on the rear banister, watching the lighted backyard with its packed crowd, filled with people and stilled activity, and then turning a glance to the sky, where one could see a plane far above, its lights blinking, coursing through the moon, the stars and a few stray clouds on its way to Detroit or Toronto. It was a lovely contrast: the homespun quilt of warmth, feeling and heartbreak on the ground, and then the vast violet blanket of the night and the ant of a tiny metal flying machine, all calling out the cold invitation of space beyond. Madness.

--The Howes family in general, and Maria in particular. Just fabulous; I've known her now for a few months, and she and her twin brother Tommy in effect formed their own sub-party for much of the night. We all had a splendid afterparty at Leopolds' (with nothing in me but a Coke), and... words fail me, really. Y'all are awesome.

I suppose what I'm trying to say is thank you, everyone, for everything. It was the best weekend in at least a year and definitely one of the absolute best on record.

*Pictures other than my terrifying Marjoe Gortner-like countenance Saturday evening will be made available for the curious once I learn the links.