ZAPPA PLAYS ZAPPA

Last night Stavros took me to Zappa Plays Zappa at the Motor City Casino’s Soundboard theater. Neither of us had ever been to a show at Soundboard before, although apparently he has spent quite a lot of time in casinos for gambling purposes. Because of my good breeding and natural aversion to all aspects of life’s underbelly, I was wholly unfamiliar with what to expect but looking forward to a new adventure.

We left slightly early because I fantasized about getting a cocktail at a fancy casino bar while lights flashed and jackpots clanged into buckets and lovely women in sequined gowns threw dice on felt. The glamour factor began to dissipate as we exited the freeway and passed the bombed-out building adjacent to the casino’s parking lot but still I clutched Stavros’s hand in anticipation. As the parking guard pointed us toward the proper entrance, we noted a mid-fiftiesish hippie couple standing just outside smoking. The female squatted like an old Chinese woman waiting for the bus as the man chatted jovially with the black security guard posted at the doors. Both hippies had long, curly gray hair and wore loose tie-dyed outfits.

“That’s about the gist of what you’re gonna see in this show,” Stavros commented, a Zappa fan all his life.

Hmm, I thought, okay, mentally adjusting my image of the artsy, eccentric, brunette, glasses and vintage outfit-wearing audience.

The security guard pointed us up an escalator to the theater. We stepped off into what amounted to a large food court with the theater at one end. At the center was a coffee island. There was a really crummy-looking bar that looked like they lifted it right out of Metro Airport next to a huge dining room. Four middle-aged women sat at a table along the rail in the bar and guffawed their brains out as we passed. They were either drunk or recently released from a mental institution because nothing’s that funny.

“I bet they don’t have Stella,” moaned Stavros glumly, gazing at the scene.

There was a lobby just outside the huge dining room with an “associate” (which is what the casino calls employees, I know, because I saw a lot of doors marked “Associates Only”) stationed at a podium monitoring a long line of people waiting to enter.

“What is that?” I asked Stavros. “What are they waiting for?”

“To get in,” he told me.

“Is it free?” I was amazed.

“No,” he said.

As we rounded the corner, I stared in at the restaurant, wondering what was so tantalizing that people would be willing to stand in line like starving Russians to get in. The place was about a quarter full, so it wasn't like it was at capacity or anything.

“I think it’s all-you-can-eat,” my brilliant Stavros said.

“Ah!” said I, as I watched a man in a trucker’s hat salt a giant bowl of rice.

We approached the cadre of guards and associates standing in a line of defense at the theater’s entrance. We were still a good 12 feet away when one of them announced loudly in our direction: “Five minutes.”

We looked at each other.

“Let’s walk around,” I suggested, and we turned and headed toward the casino itself. We walked through a smelly but well-lighted tunnel with glowing aqua walls to another wing of the building from which noise and lights emanated. Yet another associate stood at the gate of this area.

“IDs,” he commanded blandly.

Stavros and I looked at each other again. This was just too much hassle.

“No, thanks,” we said, and started to turn away.

“You gotta show ID to get in the casino,” he said.

“That’s okay; we’re just killing time till the theater opens,” we said, and left, thwarting his attempts to boss us around.

By the time we got back to Soundboard five minutes had passed. We were required to present our IDs and my handbag for a thorough scouring. I actually had to pass it through a metal detector before spreading it open in all its pantyliner/lip gloss indignity before the glassy eyes of a becornrowed guard.

We strode immediately to the bar just inside the gates to wait for the theater doors to open. The bartender approached us at once and asked to see ID.

“Again?!?” we cried, reaching into our wallets.

“Sorry,” he replied, “What can I getcha?”

“Do you have Stella?” Stavros asked with a challenge in his voice.

“Nope,” said the bartender, with what I felt was a certain pride, “Nothin’ fancy. Bud, Bud Light, Miller, MGD, Corona.”

“Corona,” grumbled Stavros, swiveling toward me on his stool. “It just pisses me off,” he hissed, as the bartender poured his beer into a plastic cup.

“What, baby?” I asked.

“This…beer situation,” he whispered, then: “Can’t I have it in the bottle?” he said in an irritated voice to the bartender.

“Nope!” said the bartender, with the same smugness as before. “What can I get you?” he asked me.

“Um, what kind of…white wine do you have?” I asked fearfully.

“White Zin, Chardonnay, Riesling,” he answered.

“Uh, the Chardonnay,” I said, turning to Stavros and putting my hand on his arm. “It’s okay, baby.”

“It’s going to be like twenty bucks!” he predicted, getting out his charge card.

The bartender returned with my wine. “Thirteen dollars,” he said.

Stavros smiled murderously and slid his card toward the man.

Around this time, people began arriving to the show. And by “people,” I mean men. Middle-aged men. Hippie men, hanging-out-on-the-boat men, lawyer men, all kinda men. Every now and then one of them had his woman along, but for the most part, it was a real sausage-fest.

“See what I mean?” said my Stavros, as he eyed the testosterone pouring past the guards.

We slugged down thirteen bucks’ worth of booze and entered the theater. We were instantly assailed by yet more associates who wanted to see our tickets. After presenting them, we were directed down a flight of stairs to the main floor. It was very dark and spotlights shone from all directions. An associate at the bottom of the stairs led us to our seats. There were bars on both sides of the stage which I thought was very convenient. As we settled into seats one and two in row F, section 150, Stavros noted the projection of Frank Zappa’s face that shone on the back wall of the stage.

“The aspect ratio’s off,” he declared. “Let’s get a drink.”

“May I see your IDs?” the bartender asked.

The show began promptly at 8 PM. The place was almost entirely filled, from what I could tell, with sausages and the occasional roll. One prim-looking woman sat on the main floor just below us with a paperback and a sweater draped over her shoulders. A lone man sat in the chair in front of hers and he excitedly chatted her up until his friends arrived and he was forced to slide down into the last chair in his row, crushed up against the wall. The prim lady’s husband arrived shortly thereafter and handed her a Little Caeser’s mini-pizza and two packages of wet naps. She looked very pleased, although the arrival of the ex-con looking hippie couple who took seats on her other side resulted in the discreet sliding of her own chair four or five inches to the left.

It was a long set, the final 45 minutes or so punctuated by the more or less continuous ear-splitting whistle of a beer-chugging blonde woman in front of us. Sax solo? THWEEEEEEEEEEEEEEET! Dweezil Zappa says anything at all? THWEEEEEEEEEEEEET! Xylophone magic? THWEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEET! There was literally nothing this woman wouldn’t blast her whistlehole over.

Another fun sidebar was the total incompetence of the A/V techs. Particularly whoever was manning the big-screen cameras. Shots abruptly cut from camera A to camera C to camera Z with no apparent logic.

The theater itself was a very good place to see a show once you get through the hundreds of security checkpoints. The sound was great and the seats were really good. It was a little expensive, $50 each, although my dear Stavros paid. It was a wonder that nearly the whole place was filled considering Detroit’s dreadful economic picture. I guess what remains of southeast Michigan’s well-heeled just about fits into a medium-sized auditorium.

As we left, Stavros pointed out that a door emptying out on the sidewalk led directly from the theater, and all the escalatoring and stair-climbing we’d done was just window dressing.

“What?” I said, too tired and Chardonnay-logged to compute.

On the Lodge freeway on the way home, we saw the worst drunk driver ever. He or she was swerving slowly from the slow lane to the passing lane, cruising occasionally in the middle lane for a while before edging into another. I wanted to call the police but Stavros said that we should just let that person die. Actually, he just got onto the Davison and we marveled about it for a minute then changed the subject and went home and went to sleep.