Detroit is full tonight. Man I hate clacking my worn heels this far across the parking lot to make it to the entrance. No matter. Nod to the bouncer reading his book, then through the threshold. Yellow Red Sparks is on! Already. Sprint through the puzzle of people; front and center, second row back.
A team of two guitarists own the stage bathed in soft blue light. The lead vocalist is recognizable. Yellow Red Sparks, lead man. But the other quiet presence, I know him, I know him. A night...Gypsy Den...a memory of Melanoid strumming guitar under a single hanging bulb. That face belongs to the same man who now sits on the stool before me. According to a nearby friend, the two entertainers are siblings. Generally, the two pursue their own musical interest, but tonight they combine powers; wooing the crowd of eager listeners.
Blue light changes focus. A pretty little female with dimpley cheeks, dark bangs, and a high-waisted shimmer skirt has set up and now taken the mic in place of YRS. Test, test, back-ups, and guitar, and drummer. Stacy Clark is precise, but the audience grows impatient. Darling, opaque vocals are strong but seem effortless. But background vocals bulge from speakers. A twin voice materializes to aid Stacy. Instead of incorporating other musicians, she implements recorded copies of herself, and the floor begins to thin.
Twisting hands, stomping feet, eyes rolled back in a posture to speak to God. She is a Greek Oracle, in a trance, singing prophecy. But it is stiff, it is strange to watch. Stacy gives thanks to Yellow Red Sparks, to the residency, to the New Limbs. Plural Limbs.
Smoke. Final drink. And The New Limb is tuning, playing along side The Zombies, working out the kinks. Spectators begin to congregate, but keep their distance from the artists. "Come Be With Us." The sign adorning this message rests on the base of the stage, beckoning followers to join. To join in on the experience, the freedom, the beauty, and a purer level of existence. The New Limb are the perfect guide. A few make their move to the front, then tease the rest of the audience to inch closer. Then the music takes over.
Harmonies resonate, eery, enlightening. The feminine counterpart is feeling hoarse tonight. She glitters in a beaded orange dress, showing no exhaustion on keys. Special guests take their place next door to her setup. A cello, a violin. They move up and off stage as necessary. A tall dark lead vocalist stands center, sporting his vintage Hawaiian button-up and charming smile. His voice crashes, collides and intertwines with the voice of an energetic lead guitar man. Harmonies, float smoothly in the air. An Orange beauty amp glows a blacklight purple in the corner. Twisting, bending, rhythmically tight kicking, this guitar player releases delicate, scratchy, psychedelic sounds from his guitar throughout the set.
Pace, pace, pace, of a drum keeps the group in unity as each song morphs and changes levels. Only a mere moment occurs when he is taken over by distraction. A faint combination of flickering projector lights produce a movie over his face and covers the back wall. Turning, looking, the sight entices him to focus on the motion picture. But his fellow musicians pull him back.
A growing crowd is comfortable now. They step closer and let the music swallow. "Weeee are the dust, wee are the dust, we are the dust..." Simple lyrics in repetition become something more; an awakening. But the musicians are still growing, experimenting, testing their limits. This positive force is on the rise. Gentle harmonies seduce the company of Detroit to, "come be with us." We'll be following.
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