White Lightening and Thunders
Michigan Palace, New York Dolls with Dr. Bop – December 31st, 1973 New Years Eve
(Excerpt from the upcoming book “RIDE THE SKY” by Michele Saint Thomas – 2025)
Having a birthday around the holidays is unique; my dear mother’s is on Christmas Day, and mine is three days after, which makes it smack in the middle before New Year’s Eve.
I did experience some mocking from friends and others who had the luxury of two days with gift celebrations, being as how their birthdays occurred some distance away from the Yuletide season. Some even bragged about their multitude of presents. But let that not afford you, dear reader, the wrong impression. Yes, I did receive the solo Christmas / birthday combo gift, and some would question, “Don’t ya’ feel cheated?” Nope, not at all; I never felt sulky in any manner whatsoever.
Here’s why: the season seemed to be a festival that geared itself towards me and life itself, in a spiritual way. It wasn’t the presents that I was into. To me that belittled the beauty of the ambience, cuz’, as I mentioned, the atmosphere was electrifying. As soon as the December winds blew in, the magic began, lasting into the beginning days of the next year—uncomplicated time-travel for certain. A simple jump from one year to the next.
It was all lights, cameras, and action. Surprises in life everywhere, such as the magic of the white snow at night against the backdrop of the barren black trees turning the landscape into a reverse negative of a winter scene. Everyone celebrating good friends, good times, good food, good music. I was truly riding the sky, and on a festival high. And this is where our festivities begin….
*****
White Lightning LSD
We were moving in unison, stealing softly through the snow. Formations of glittering white powder clung to our boots. As we crossed Grande River, I began to perceive a vibrating sound tingling in my ear. I looked around, puzzled. Where was the sound 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 wide. Perhaps it was just the cold, for it most certainly was frosty; but strangely, it suddenly seemed milder than it ever had before in Decembers past.
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 trees, in their own mid-winter despair, leafless and barren, had come alive with enormous plumes of reds and yellows, some blending into other colours nearby to create figures of warm circular passions.
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 streetlights encased us as an echo of sound from a force that resonated from the top of the Penobscot Building itself. Others walked by us, 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 was soon evaporating in a mist of warm steam. Still, the letters were indecipherable as it disappeared into the air. What did this all 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 and danced 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 and radiates within you. As we hit the lounge for a quick freshen 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 an 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 Edwardian 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, and our host escorted us to his seating area. When the cocaine was offered moments after 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-style rockers Dr. Bop, as they blasted out their roaring version of Be-Bop-A-Lula lounge music. In the height of ’50s fashion they appeared, with matching low-lapel red suits, and a brass section swingin’ and shining like beacons. A cornucopia of blaring notes echoed and bounced upon the heads of the crowd, generating colours that had an indescribable aroma of sound. I felt as if the timeless magic of 1950s rock and roll had materialized into our present. Astounding! It was like this band still existed in the ’50s, and time traveled into the 1970s as they belted out a beauty from Detroit rock and roll pioneer Bill Haley and his Comets, “Shake, Rattle and Roll.”*
My God, my mind was dripping in such a wonderment of delight. Wow! Talk about a rockin’ blast from the past, and all this was coming at us from the historical cosmos through a dimension of a past time and space. Damn, how I just loved being from the Motor City! This 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, which still reverberated throughout the Palace even after the final harmony of their encore had subsided.
We departed from our host and newfound 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 conveying the thoughts of their owners’ eyes, spun in a semblance of curvy linked lines that beamed like lasers. A submissive male knelt 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 an evil vulture.
The New York Dolls
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 alcohol entered my mouth, the MC appeared and cried out, “Detroit! Are you ready to ring in the New Year’s Eve with the New York Dolls?”
Everyone in attendance stood, cigarettes on lips, hands clapping; a joyous roar filled the air. Another raucous cheer and the Dolls crashed out their first song, the Motor City fav, “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 he stood, provocative in leather pants and swastika armband, slamming feverishly on the strings of his guitar. Chords crashed like 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.
Suddenly, my attention was pulled to the sound of a pounding tribal drumbeat, capped with full bass lines, as the entire band began mimicking shouts of jungle animals. What in freekin’ blazes was going on? Then, like getting hit by a bolt of lightning, I realized what it was. Oh yes! This night just kept getting better and better. The Dolls were manically performing “Back in the Jungle,”** another retro favorite that took me back to the ’50s, but with ’70’s stylings, a weird and timeless vibe. The song showcased Sylvain’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. W-i-z-z-z!
We made our way closer to the front. Every row of the theatre was a party unto itself: bottles of champagne, wine, beer, and coke; complete and total mayhem but in a suave, sophisticated manner—a contradiction in terms for sure, but a visual treat every second. We were 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 flamboyant 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 note, scale and slide of his guitar as he energetically rattled off “Chatterbox.” Yeah, his guitar smoked a lot, and my baby gave me some lip.
The time was right, midnight straight up, and David opened a bottle of champagne that overflowed onto the stage to toast in the New Year. Moments later, a rhythmic attack of “Trash,” “Bad Girl,” and “Pills” rang out in quick succession, all to the pleasure of the crowd. Much as privileged time travelers thundering on an acid trip, we departed one year and rocked into the next.
On our way out of the Palace lobby, Julie and I overheard 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 Ashton brothers. We turned to each other with glimmering eyes that spoke: “We’ll be both there and here!”
* Bill Haley and his Comets (Detroit originals). One of rock’s first bands to reach million-selling status, giving rock its first anthem with the hit “Rock Around the Clock.”
Written by: Michele Dawn SaintThomas
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