The Battle of Detroit
or, The Ballad of Reckless Ray (feat. Rage Against The Machine)
I met Ray at the Most Precious Blood Parish youth group. We were both extroverted, awkward teenagers. Ray was a year older than me but, in many ways, he seemed much younger.
Ray and I first bonded over acting. Acting in plays, acting silly to impress girls, acting like we were wiser than we were. I was opinionated and spoke with confidence; Ray lacked those traits. I’d express a strong opinion about an album or book or film, and a few days later, I’d hear Ray spouting the same opinion, verbatim, to others.
Ray and I wanted to fit in, but we didn’t always know how or where. Our high school, St. Joseph’s, was known for having strong sports teams. The “jocks” were the kings of our school – tall, broad-shouldered, bearded ice hockey players. (Some of them looked older, and were more muscular, than our fathers.) It was the late nineties, so all the jocks bleached their hair blonde to emulate the popular boy bands of the time. Ray and I hated that music, but we figured the girls at our school liked that hair style, so we bleached ours, too. All teenagers are impressionable.
Ray had a tough home life. The few times I went over to his house, we’d go straight to his bedroom to listen to music. His dad would inevitably barge in, smelling like beer, and make a wisecrack about us being gay. Ray’s mom was sweet, she clearly loved him, but she didn't say anything about the bullying. I suspect Ray’s dad was a lot meaner when outsiders like me weren't around.
One summer, we became obsessed with Pink Floyd's The Wall, both the 1979 album and the 1982 film. We’d stay up late re-watching the film on VHS, enthralled by the epic music and dystopian story. In the film, the lead character, Pink, is driven mad by the pressures of fame and shaves his eyebrows off. At one point that summer, Ray showed up at my house without any eyebrows. Ray was impulsive, often misguided, like that. I imagine his dad didn't respond positively to his new look.
I can clearly remember driving around town in his white two-door, a pathetic little car called a Sprint or a Rabbit or something. We’d listen to rock bands and hatch our escape plans. Ray would make vague, hopeful pronouncements about the ‘big break’ that would get him out of our sheltered, mid-sized Canadian city. He had a goal, but no idea how to achieve it. I was sceptical but supportive. Mostly, I was just happy to go along for the ride. Literally. I didn’t have my own wheels.
Ray would drive us over the border to see gigs in Michigan. The most memorable gig we attended was exactly 25 years ago this week. It was less of a concert and more of a prison riot.
November 27, 1999. The Palace of Auburn Hills, a suburb outside of Detroit.
Rage Against The Machine on The Battle of Los Angeles tour.
Ray and I arrive early. Our seats are on the right side of the lower bowl, next to the aisle, ten rows up from the floor.
The venue is barely half full but already the air is electrified, like the tight and tense atmosphere before a thunderstorm. The arena floor, directly in front of us, contains a few hundred people, all men, many with shaven heads and visible tattoos.
Lights go down for the first act. A group of guys flies down the aisle next to us. A few dozen men jump over the low barricades to crash the floor. The stage lights come up as the opening band enters. The arena was dark for only a few seconds, but the gate-crashers have already blended into the crowd.
At The Drive-in bound onstage. Four dudes wearing black leather jackets, skin-tight black jeans, big afros. An Afro-Mexican punk band, fronted by a high-voiced singer we can’t understand, opening for Rage Against The Machine? Ray and I don’t get it.
After their short set, the house lights come back on, and we see that the floor is filling up with more burly men. The stage is changed over from a band setup to a single DJ riser in the middle of the stage. Anticipation builds. The lights go down again, signifying Act Two. A longer line of bodies shoot past us down the aisle. Dozens of dudes launch themselves over the barrier and into the crowd. There are a couple of security guards along the barriers and they’re powerless to the onslaught, and probably petrified.
The vibe completely changes as hip-hop duo Gang Starr take the stage. Big beats and strong words courtesy of DJ Premier and Guru. Ray and I stay seated, focusing less on the stage and more on the packed floor, watching the crowd push and pull, heave and sway, like a single two-hundred-ton, testosterone-fuelled organism. I am sixteen, I weigh 120 pounds. I’m so glad we’re not down there.
Gang Starr wrap. The arena is full now, all 23,000 of us are pumped, ready for Rage. The men on the floor are packed like sardines. I can smell their sweat from ten rows up.
The moment arrives. A spotlight on the back wall of the stage. A grey banner is unfurled from the ceiling. It’s the cover of The Battle of Los Angeles album, but with the words “Los Angeles” crossed out with black spray paint. The banner is proclaiming tonight The Battle of Detroit. The crowd responds with guttural roars, fists raised.
Final dim of the house lights. A third wave of men, more than the previous two groups combined, jam the aisle and dive over. I look across the arena and see hundreds of copycats dashing down every aisle and onto the floor.
Ray flashes me a grin and runs into the melee. I see the back of his bleached-blonde head for a split second, then he’s gone. Disappeared into the mass of men. Like the crowd swallowed him.
Tom Morello’s guitar harmonics herald the opening of “Testify.” We are here to bear witness, but this ain’t a church service or a political rally. This is war. Singer Zack de la Rocha launches his rocket assault with an “Uh!” and we’re on, like a bomb.
The floor erupts. A massive mosh pit. Colliding chests, flying fists, elbows jabbing, skulls breaking. Zack bellows the chorus, “Testify! It’s right outside your door. Now testify!” The crowd complies with escalating aggression. I swear, guys are getting knocked out and taken down, their bones trampled underfoot and quickly reduced to dust, right then and there.
I frequently scan the crowd; Ray is nowhere to be seen. I figure he’ll come back to our seats eventually, probably scarred and bloodied, but with a good tale to tell, no doubt.
I have never seen a band so tight produce such an unhinged, violent reaction in an audience. I am safe in my seat, head-banging to the heavy hitting of drummer Brad Wilk and bassist Tim Commerford on “People of the Sun” and “Bulls on Parade.” Tom Morello showcases his sonic wizardry on “Sleep Now in the Fire” and “No Shelter.” Eloquent anger flows from Zack de la Rocha on every song. On the set closer, “Killing In The Name”, the audience drowns out de la Rocha, shouting “Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me” sixteen times.
Fourteen songs, no encore. The band leaves stage, the arena lights come up. I’m shocked to see people on the floor mobilising towards the exits. I expected a mass grave of broken men.
I make it to the parking lot and locate Ray’s shitty ride. He’s sitting in the driver’s seat, his forehead leaning on the wheel. His white t-shirt is torn at the shoulders. Is he injured?
I hop in the passenger seat and discharge my pent-up energy, having not spoken to anyone for the last two hours. “Holy shit, man! What a show, right? They were on fire. And that floor was wild, I saw people getting punched. I can’t believe you jumped into the crowd. You’re insane! How the hell did you get here so fast?”
Ray peels his head off the wheel. Tears in his eyes. “I missed the entire show.”
“What?” Ray’s a joker, but this one’s lost on me.
“I left you and jumped in the crowd, right? During the first song I crowd-surfed and got carried all the way to the stage. I was so close to the band, it was amazing. The security guards grabbed me, pulled me over the barricade. They saw I didn’t have a wristband, so they knew I snuck on the floor, and they kicked me out. I’ve been sitting here, waiting for you, for like two hours!”
That was Reckless Ray for you. Poor guy.
Remarkably, I found a bootleg audio recording of the show:
The sound quality isn’t great, but I love that a document exists of the wildest, roughest concert I’ve ever attended. The YouTube comments support my claims about the rowdy crowd:
In commemoration, here are 10 of my favourite tunes by Rage Against The Machine, all of which were performed that night, 25 years ago, in Auburn Hills, Michigan.