Day Drinking in Detroit with Kid Rock's Guitarist and a Blind Guy in a Lizard Mask
There are for worse ways to spend a weekend afternoon
“No shit? You’re Kid Rock’s guitarist?”
Kenny Olson smiles at the two 20-something male tourists from Pittsburgh, who seems genuinely star-struck.
“Used to be,” Olson says in a raspy baritone. “I’m doing other stuff now. Got a gig tonight.”
He gestures towards a poster on the wall behind him, which features a picture of him wailing on a guitar, making an expression usually reserved for an especially difficult bowel movement.
The tourists lean in for a closer look. “Kenny Olson and Friends,” one of them reads aloud from the poster. They turn to look at me and my gaggle of new friends, who are hovering near Olson. The majority of us are dressed in black leather, all of it way too tight for healthy circulation. Also, one of us is wearing a lizard mask.
“These your friends?” the tourists ask Olson.
“Fuck yeah,” Blind Bob shouts back. Blind Bob—his nickname isn’t hyperbole, he’s actually blind—is the one in a lizard mask, which makes his declaration especially ominous.
“You guys in a band?” they ask.
We laugh, but nobody answers. Because technically, no, we’re not. We’re just Olson’s entourage, or at least we are today. What’s more, we paid for those bragging rights. We’ve signed up for Motor City Rocks, a new Airbnb “Experience” that offers a different kind of vacation. For $375 a head, we get to drive around Detroit in a limo, get day drunk, and listen to a guy who used to tour with Kid Rock tell stories about midgets, rock excess, and that time Florence Henderson grabbed his ass backstage.
Olson has had an impressive music career for a relatively unknown axeman. He was Kid Rock’s lead guitarist for 11 years, providing riffs and blistering solos for hits like “Bawitdaba,” “Cowboy” and “Only God Knows Why.”
He quit recording and touring with Rock in the mid-2000s —”the reasons are complicated,” Olson says.—but he’s not been hurting for opportunities. He's played with the likes of Metallica and Buddy Guy, Sheryl Crow and Snoop Dogg, Aerosmith and Chaka Khan. Keith Richards once called him “one of the best rock guitarists on the scene right now.” Keith Richards! That’s like the Pope saying, “That guy over there is the best Catholic I’ve ever seen.”
We’re outside Third Man Records, the vinyl shop and recording studio of Detroit native Jack White. Olson doesn’t know White personally, but “the store is pretty badass,” he assures us. It’s the latest stop on a citywide tour that’s been meandering at best. So far, we’ve seen the Motown museum, St. Andrew’s Hall (where Eminem got his first break), and the Majestic club. Olson has played at every venue except Motown, but his ex-father-in-law was one of the Temptations, so it kinda counts.
Skip Franklin, Olson’s manager, inserts himself between us and the Pittsburgh admirers, ushering us back towards the limo. “Come on, guys, let’s keep it moving!” he barks at us. “We’re on a schedule here.”
This is not entirely true. Other than driving around looking for music landmarks, we don’t really have any place to be until sound check at 7pm. But we happily play along with the ruse, because there's something thrilling about having a big, burly rock manager, with a face that looks like it’s not unaccustomed to receiving punches, treat you like somebody too important to talk to civilians.
“Sorry, man, I’d love to hang, but the tour bus is moving out and we've got another city to rock. Thank you, Detroooooit!”
Back in the limo, Olson keeps the group entertained with another rock tale. His former manager, the late Frank Dileo, also managed Michael Jackson, and he once put the pair on the phone to talk about a possible collaboration. Instead, they ended up debating the many variations on peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.
“Michael was making sandwiches for the crew on his tour bus,” Olson says. “And I told him how I like toasting the bread first before putting on the peanut butter.”
“You gotta toast the bread,” somebody in the limo loudly agrees. “That is so true!”
“Right? You get it, man. I also told him about bananas and honey.”
“Fuck yeah,” somebody shouts.
“You can’t just drop banana slices on top of the honey,” Olson explains, with the passion of somebody who takes this stuff seriously. “You gotta drizzle the honey on the bananas.”
Olson is easy to like. He's scraggy and disheveled, with a dad bod paunch and a big grin that peeks out of a grey goatee. He zig-zags between topics randomly, following no internal logic. One minute, he’s explaining why that Journey song “Don’t Stop Believin’” sucks because it’s not possible to be born and raised in south Detroit. “The only thing south of downtown is the river,” Olson says. “And then you’re in Canada” Then, apropos of nothing, he’s telling us about the time Joe C, Kid Rock’s midget sidekick, tried to beat up Gary Coleman during the video shoot for “Cowboy.” (Olson, of course, tried to talk him out of it.)
This is his first full-fledged Motor City Rocks outing for Airbnb; the first few were just “test runs,” he says. “They were mostly friends coming in from out of town. We’d just drive around and laugh.” Which isn’t all that different from what we’re doing now. But the customer base has definitely expanded.
Our group includes Blind Bob, a New Yorker by way of South Carolina, who lost his eyesight in an “explosion” (the details are sketchy) and rebuilds car engines for a living (the details of how he does that without the gift of sight are also sketchy) but his real passion is drumming.
“Once I went blind, it just came naturally,” he says of his newfound musical abilities.
His eyes are as white as a Michigan winter, and he carries around a pair of drumsticks and a seeing eye dog named Buddy, a Maltese with a spike studded collar and a weirdly calm demeanor despite all the noise. Blind Bob—he hands everyone a business card that reads “Blind Bob the Lizzard Man”—met Olson during a recent rock n roll fantasy camp in Hollywood, and decided he needed to make the pilgrimage to Detroit.
There’s also David Faisst, a German corporate exec who shoots music videos on the side, barely speaks English, and is dressed like he’s heading to an S&M bondage porn shoot. He’s here with Dacia Bridges, a Michigan native who spent the last 15 years in Germany working on her dance and electronica singing career. Rounding out our traveling party is Bella Bond, a small-framed brunette with enormous fake breasts—she shared this info with me moments after we met—that are barely contained by a skimpy leather halter. She traveled here from West Palm Beach, Florida, where she works as a model (mostly for biker conventions) and has a doctorate in pharmacy. Oh, and she also has minor brain damage.
“I got hit by two trucks, in the head,” she tells me. “I was driving, and they smooshed my car. The front was fine, but the trunk was pushed up into the passenger’s seat. Whatever cut my head was in my trunk. I don’t remember. I had amnesia.”
“Wow,” I respond, not sure what else to say. “I’m glad you're okay.”
“The doctor said I’m not at full mental capacity,” she tells me. “So, if I forget your name, I’m sorry. I’m not all there.”
It might be the drugs talking—when somebody pulled out a joint, I didn't say no—but this is hands-down the most entertaining vacation I've taken in years. And I say that as somebody who never much cared for Kid Rock, or white boy rap-rock in general. I’m not even all that impressed with the Detroit music scene. I love Iggy Pop and Motown, but not enough to fill my phone with photos of the empty stages where they once performed. There's nothing about this tour that's nearly as exclusive or “underground” as promised. Get yourself a flask and a GPS and you could easily recreate it. But you'd be missing the point. Like that old saying goes, it’s not about the destination. It's about taking the journey with a blind drummer, a German in tight leather and a guy who used to perform in front of thousands with a midget.
We pull up to the Fox Theater, where Olson has arranged for an all-access backstage tour. We’re joined by a few other people, most of them musicians performing tonight with Olson. Tino Gross, a local bluesman who looks like a character from a Tom Waits song—he’s a skinny white guy in a fedora and black sunglasses with a voice that sounds like he smoked a pack of cigarettes before breakfast—tells me that he performed in this very theater with Bob Dylan.
“I was in the lobby before the show,” he explains, “and Bob’s manager, Mitch, runs up to me and says, ‘Bob wants you to play tonight.’ He took me backstage, and pointed to a Marshall amp and a red strap. He told me, ‘When Bob looks at you, take a solo. And then when he looks at you again, stop.’ That was the only thing I knew going in.”
We all nod in quiet reverence, sitting in the dark and staring at the stage that’s seen so much history. Even Olson is at a loss for words. But then Blind Bob breaks the silence. “Are we done here?” he shouts, scooping his dog Buddy off the ground. “It’s drink-thirty. Let's do some fucking shots!”
We all laugh. That’s such a classic Bob move!
We're at a place called Otus Supply in suburban Detroit, a fancy restaurant with a music venue. It's just like the rock clubs on 8 mile, but with more white people and a menu that includes duck cotechino. Olson and friends are performing here tonight, and the backstage lounge is packed with a dozen or so musicians, friends and pay-to-play “friends.” The backstage is just a small room off the restaurant’s kitchen, with a few couches that smell like sweaty leather, pizza slices balanced on every available surface, and a big tub of can beers on ice.
A stern-looking woman, clearly in a position of authority, bursts into the room from the kitchen, “Guys, please,” she says, in her most polite angry voice. “There is absolutely no smoking weed in here!”
Nobody says a word. We just pretend we have no idea what she's talking about. Because obviously, none of us were smoking weed. What gave her that idea? That thick cloud of blue smoke hanging in the air must've come from someone else. We smile and avoid eye contact until she goes away.
I return to my conversation with Joe Sax, the lead singer and bassist of Olson’s new trio, the Scorpio Brothers. (The band got its name because Olson and Sax share the same zodiac sign, and they're “like brothers.”) Sax is dressed all in black, with long black hair and black sunglasses that never leave his face. He could just as easily be a cat burglar.
“I told Kenny, I’ve listened to your stuff, and a lot of it is, ‘Oh, I’m fucking high on cocaine, I’m drinking too much, I want some pussy,’ all this shit,” he tells me. “I’ve already done that. If we’re going to do this, you have to let me sing about shit that matters to me. And that includes getting political and shit. Kenny was like, ‘Go for it, dude.’ The working title for one of our songs is ‘Changing Minds.’ The chorus is ‘Changing the world is changing minds, this is the world we leave behind.’ Because you gotta care about what we’re leaving behind, right?”
As it’s happening, it feels like the greatest conversation I've ever had with another human being. But I know it’s all about context. Change a few circumstances, and I'd probably want to kill myself. But sitting backstage before a show, in a space banned to the public, where the beer and pizza are free, and people keep handing me joints, and Olson’s manager keeps checking on me—You need anything? A plate of mussels, a bourbon cocktail, a foot rub, a new pair of pants?—I feel special.
I’ve learned a lot about Detroit today. Maybe not a version that most tourists get, but a more intimate one. I’ve learned that there’s a catwalk above the Fox Theater and nobody is allowed to use it, but Olson and Dweezil Zappa snuck up there once. I learned that the club where Jack White punched a guy in the face has a great deal on mid-afternoon shots. I learned that the mansion of Motown founder Berry Gordy is for sale, for a mere $1.5 million, and Olson is totally thinking about buying it. (We had driven by to check it out and take a bunch of selfies in front of it while making rock horns, which really confused the gardeners.) I learned that Hot Tamales is the only strip club in Detroit that doesn't charge a cover. I learned quite a few things about strippers, in fact.
“Flint has the most strippers,” Tino Gross announces during one of the many conversations about Michigan strippers.
“In Michigan or anywhere?” Olson asks.
“The world.”
“What? No, that can’t be.”
“It’s in the record books,” Gross insists. “There are more strippers per human citizen than on any place on earth.”
“Are they also the pinkeye capital of the world?” Olson asks, and then breaks into uproarious laughter,
“Pinkeye would be a great name for a band.”
“I want to put together an all-girl band and call them Blonde Jeremy.’
Franklin interrupts a scintillating conversation about the strippers of Flint to let us know it’s time for sound check. This mostly involves making sure the microphone has enough scarfs attached to it, Olson making the “taking a painful shit” expression as he practices solos, and the synthesizer player doing the entire synth part from Van Halen’s “Jump.” I take this opportunity to talk to my other Experience cohorts, and find out what they’re getting out of this. Why exactly are they here?
“Some places have dinner packages with the stars, where you can meet them before or after the show and have a drink, but this is different,” says Dacia. “It’s more authentic. You don't feel like a fan getting a meet and greet. You’re just hanging out.”
Nobody in our group is under the illusion that this might be their ticket to a music career. They don't expect to be discovered, or given a record contract if they just impress Olson enough. “I don't have any musical talent,” Bella tells me. “I just like being around these guys, feeling like I belong here.” Most of them are happy with their non-rock star lives. Blind Bob has created his own weird universe. He tells me he’s heading down to Myrtle Beach, South Carolina tomorrow, to be a judge at a beauty contest at a biker bar called Suck Bang Blow.
“Do I want to ask how you do that?” I say.
Blind Bob chortles sinisterly while petting Buddy, his seeing-eye who hasn’t left his side all day. “You want my vote, your boobs better be covered in braille.”
The show starts late, but it's a raucous party. At least 300 people squeeze into the small space, and they’re ready to bob their heads enthusiastically while sipping on craft beers. Gross and his band Dumpster Machine take the stage first, and the crowd eats it up, especially “I Almost Played with the Stooges,” an autobiographical song about the time Gross almost played with Iggy and the Stooges.
The Scorpio Brothers get started around 11, and it’s an aural blitzkrieg. Olson delivers slushy guitar riffs that make your genitals vibrate like a speaker’s woofer. Dacia jumps onstage to join them for a cover of Hendrix’s “Little Wing,” belting out the tune with the soul of a seasoned R&B performer. The crowd hollers in approval, and so does the Olson Experience gang, but we do it more meaningfully, because we’ve been partying with Dacia for the past 30 hours. We have a connection with her that none of these civilians understand.
When it’s over, the crowd leaves but we stick around as Olson and his bandmates pack up their instruments and pound more drinks and sneak away for joints in the alley and talk about what an awesome gig it was. There’s a lot of exchanging of email addresses and phone numbers, and promises that this is the beginning of something, although nobody explains what that “something” might be.
“You’re stuck with me, Bob,” Olson says, giving Blind Bob a lingering hug. “For the long haul. You and me.”
“I love you, brother,” Bob says, still wearing his lizard mask. “Don’t let anybody know though.”
Somehow I get back to my hotel room. I have no idea how it happened or when, but I got there. I wake up with ringing ears and a pounding head and clothes that smell like bad decisions. My phone is yelling at me, and I see I’ve gotten a text from Olson. “Thank you for all your support my soul brother,” it reads, followed by several rock horn emoji.
I stare at my phone for a long time, not sure what to think. Are we pals now? Can I legitimately say, “Me and Kid Rock’s guitarist are soul brothers?” That can’t be right. Whatever happened yesterday, it wasn’t real.
I’m like the guy who visits a Caribbean island and decides he’s going to move here and open a rum drink stand on the beach and he’s totally serious, just you wait and see! Nobody actually follows through with that insane idea. We just enjoy the fantasy. We like the fleeting belief that this might be what our lives are now. It goes away eventually, when we sober up and the vacations ends and we get back to the real world. But while it lasts, it’s a beautiful feeling.
I crawl out of bed to look for my pants. They’re nowhere to be found. For a split second, I think about texting Franklin. He’ll know what to do.