THE RECORDS: Not Made To Be Broken
When I pulled into the Standard gas station, I hopped out and asked the attendant if I could pump my own. “I’ve got to see a band that’s playing around the corner,” I explained, “and I’m kind of late.” The attendant shrugged, and pointed to the rows of empty parking spaces.
THE RECORDS: Not Made To Be Broken
J. Kordosh
When I pulled into the Standard gas station, I hopped out and asked the attendant if I could pump my own. “I’ve got to see a band that’s playing around the corner,” I explained, “and I’m kind of late.”
The attendant shrugged, and pointed to the rows of empty parking spaces. “Not many people there tonight,” he said. “Usually we’ve got people parked all over the place.”
Going into the concert hall nee theatre— an east side Detroit venue with notoriously bad acoustics—I decided the attendant was right. The place looked about as full as it should be for your average sound check. An employee of the joint said that 200 or 300 people had paid toget in; being somewhat more objective, I mentally adjusted the attendance to about 150.