White Lightening and Thunders - Michigan Palace New Year's Eve 1973, New York Dolls w Dr. Bop

Julie and I looked at each other, smiling, as we knew the LSD was coming on. Psychedelic colours sprang from our skin, blending as they twirled in the air, forming new and exciting designs which I felt blessed to realize. Much as an excited child at Christmas, I exclaimed “Look, look—look at the trees!” My girlfriend knew exactly what I saw, for the same vision was in her sight as well. The elms, in their leafless and barren mid-winter despair, had come alive with plumes of reds and yellows, enormous in size, some blending into other colours nearby to create figures of warm circular passions.

We were moving in unison, stealing softly through the snow. Formations of glittering white powder clung to our boots. As we crossed Grand River, I began to perceive a vibrating sound tingling in my ear. I looked around, puzzled, attempting to discover where the sound was originating from. To my astonishment, the impressions that our leather heels had made in the white snow were pulsating with colorful fountains of orange, green and red, each hue swirling towards the night sky in a siren’s song. My eyes and ears opened wider, as if such a thing was possible. Perhaps it was just the cold, for it most certainly was frosty, but strangely it suddenly seemed milder than it ever had before in any December past.

We stopped for a moment of forever and looked into each other’s eyes. I could feel the intensity of emotion exiting and entering my body as I witnessed the midair connections of outgoing and incoming colours. These feelings fired like rockets within me, pulsating ripples of euphoric pleasure. The glimmering of the street lights encased us as an echo of sound from a force that resonated from the top of the Penobscot Building itself! Others walked by, smiling, intuitively knowing the heightened sensatory level that our “white lightening” tabs had brought us to. Somewhere in time in this multi-verse, on some electrical wave, we all connected.

We traveled over the tire treads on the street, each trench filled with tiny cartoonist-created plastic-covered creatures all rotating in patterns that spelled out…. What did they spell? What was the message? It evaporated in a mist of warm steam. Still, the message could be read in the air…but what did it mean?

“Mischa, hurry, hurry—let’s cross!” Julie said, as we wrapped arms and nearly skated, sliding on and over the slush, to the other side of the street.

As we got within a building or so of the Michigan Palace, the colored marquee lights that lit up the boulevard flurried upon us, hitting us with the sounds of tiny aluminum foil stars that bounced off our coats, dancing upon our faces with the freshness of a cool mist. Looking up, I saw, high on the Marquee of the Michigan Palace, the large breathing black letters: “New Year’s Eve with The New York Dolls”!

We were now at the entrance to the theatre, and as Julie handed the usher our tickets, we passed through the doors. God was it ever warm in here, the kind of warmth that flows in waves upon your body as if you yourself could control the source of the heat radiating within you. As we hit the ladies’ lounge for a quick brush up, I mentioned to Julie that we had better be fast and not get too lost in the mirror of our own psychedelicized images—forever-changing patterns that pried at our hyper-conscious minds in a physical attempt to inscribe the mingling character of our personalities and their reflections upon our very souls. We walked hand in hand, exiting the lounge. The palace foyer was vibrant with colour; beautifully shaded burgundies of smoke rose from the carpeted floor, bellowing in magical formation around the legs of the passersby. Every breath we inhaled was an exciting bit of colourful movement. We sat for a moment, transfixed, looking deep into each another. Love is such a luscious aroma; our eyes beamed with smiles that stretched ear to ear, reflecting the beauty of the LSD within.

We were spellbound by the people parading their outfits around us. They were all aglow, a timeless fashion show highlighting everything in style from the past 100 years: Beats of the ’50s, glam heads, glitter queens, rubber gals, masters and mistresses, assorted hippies, leather bikers, Victorian gents and lollipop ladies. An Alice Cooper-styled rocker with a top hat and cape approached us, asking if we would like to join his party in one of the box seats. “Sure!” we each affirmed with glossy, stellar eyes, as our host escorted us to his seating area. When the cocaine was offered moments after our introductions were made, the particles that entered my nose hit like meteors colliding with moist ground as the force of air expanded my lungs; the exhale proved to be beyond a wonderland of euphoria.

You know you’re on good acid when you’re tripping out before the music even starts. Then, when it does enter the ears, it comes at you as a multi-sonic attack, pulsating in waves you see flowing in the air and completely immersing you in a magical blend with your surroundings. Such was the pulsating rhythm of the opening performers, ’50s-rockers Dr. Bop, as they blasted out their roaring style of Be-Bop lounge music. Beautiful they appeared, with matching low-lapel red suits and a brass section shining like beacons in a cornucopia of blaring notes that echoed and bounced upon the heads of the crowd, generating colours which had an indescribable aroma of sound. It was a groove of sure-fire heat moving in harmony with the motions of the members of this outfit as they unleashed a fury of sound that still reverberated even after the final harmony of their encore had faded.

We departed from our host and new-found friends with the most pleasant of feelings, floating downstairs step by step, inch by colourfully glorious inch, until Julie and I opened the leather doors of antiquity and proceeded onward. We were sinking into the floor, losing minute portions of our height as we drifted down the sloped carpet towards the luminous theatre stage. Every row we passed was another vision of otherworldly activity. Faces melted and reformed into expressions of the thoughts of their owners’ eyes, spun in a semblance of curvy laser-linked lines that connected into my own. A submissive male kneeled at the feet of a corseted girl; as we walked by she commanded him to pay homage to our knee-high leather boots. The offering was pleasant, yet it made me uneasy, as his temptress hungrily ogled the two of us with the depravity of a vulture.

Our mascara feeling heavy upon our eyelids, we stopped to light our cigarettes, and in a nanosecond a concertgoer with some champagne offered us a wonderful quencher for our thirsty lips. At the exact moment the refreshing mini-waterfall of sparkling bubbles flowed into my mouth, the MC appeared and cried out, “Detroit! Are you ready to ring in the New Year with the New York Dolls?”

Everyone in attendance stood, cigarettes on lips, hands clapping; a joyous roar filled the air. The Dolls crashed out their first song, the Motor-City hit “Personality Crisis,” and it was here that my eyes and ears first zapped into the sight and sound of guitarist Johnny Thunders. Amidst a kaleidoscope of colourful outfits, fishnets, and platforms stood Thunders, provocative in leather pants and swastika armband, slamming feverishly on the strings of his guitar. Notes crashed, ocean waves on rocks. His smirk taunting the crowd, he rode a watershed of sound that bounced off the theater walls and ricocheted back to him before evaporating mid-air.

Every row of the theatre was a party unto itself: bottles of champagne, beer, wine, and lines of coke; complete and total mayhem but in a suave, ordained manner, perhaps due to the beauty of the sound in the moment. Meanwhile, with a pounding drum beat and full bass line, the band mimicking shouts of animals, they broke into “Back in the Jungle,” another retro favorite that showcased Sylvan’s theatrics and Johnny’s guitar movements, along with David Johansen’s vocals. Feeding off the enthusiasm of the crowd, the band’s set became ever more dynamic as they performed. Wizzz!

Moving in closer, we got about ten rows from the stage when the Jaggerish lead singer fired a machine gun mercilessly into the air. Yeah, this was Detroit, and the rat-a-tat-tat of the smokin’ shooter took us into the opening reverberations of “Vietnamese Baby.” Plumes of smoke filled the air, so thick we were floating on a cloud of foggy erotic pleasure. The Jagger-influenced singer now made an overture that Thunders was to sing and lead the next guitar attack. His image reminiscent of a member of a ’60s girl group, Thunders rocked and moved with every hit, slide and scale of his guitar. He energetically rattled off “Chatterbox”; yeah, his guitar smoked a lot, and my baby gave me some lip, oh to the sounds of “Chatterbox.” The time was right, midnight straight up, and David opened a bottle of champagne on stage to toast the New Year. Moments later, another rhythmic attack of “Trash,” “Bad Girl” and “Pills” rang out, all to the pleasure of the crown, as we departed one year and entered the next. This incredible musical performance was New Year’s Eve and happening in the now in the Motor-City, 1973. Much as privileged time travelers, we thundered on an acid trip that propelled us from one year into the next!

On our way out of the Palace lobby, Julie and I heard that the Dolls were to be in London, Ontario in a few days, and that the coming attraction in about a month at the Palace was the Stooges. Ah yes, the Asheton brothers. We turned to each other with glimmering eyes that spoke, “We’ll be there!”

My mind flashed back to a long-haired hipster and the playbill he had handed us months earlier, as we were exiting a gig at Cobo Hall. We had never heard of the band, and although we missed their Detroit debut, we were euphoric to have been present at the Palace on this spectacular night, “thundering” with white lightening and the Dolls in Detroit.

“White Lightening and Thunders” is an excerpt from The Incredible Adventures of Mischa
by Michele Saint Thomas.