Detroit Rock Sh!tty

Tits, Lucy Liu, pipe bombs, and a small town music festival.

I didn't care whether or not Detroit had a music scene when I moved there in 2016. After enduring years in LA, playing music and rubbing shoulders with half-baked wannabes whose idea of "networking" was doing coke at The Chateau with so-and-so, I had reached my limit. I wasn't seeking another scene to assimilate into—I craved peace, a quieter life far removed from the perpetual anxiety of Hollywood’s rat race, the desperate name-dropping, the bumper-to-bumper purgatory of the 405, and the ever-present ticking of an invisible clock reminding you that you're running out of time to find your big break.

By comparison, Detroit felt like a ghost town. But as months passed, the initially comforting silence started to gnaw at me. I became restless, stuck between record cycles with no tour dates on the horizon for the first time in years. So, when the booker for the Hamtramck Music Festival (HMF for those in the local know) asked me to play, I figured, why not? It could be fun to play a small, local gig.

Let me paint you a picture of HMF. It's a weekend-long festival where every bar in Detroit's enclave of Hamtramck turns into a venue hosting multiple bands per night. The best part? Everything's walking distance, so you can stumble between shows while getting blackout drunk—the city's most beloved pastime. My understanding of HMF, from what others said, was that every band in town plays it. This means it's not a big deal to get asked to play, but it's a big deal if you're not asked to play. That's how they justify paying bands peanuts because, hey, being included is payment enough. I was set to headline a bar called Paycheck's. Yes, Paychecks, as in what you won't receive after the show. Still, I was excited because I love me a low-key, gritty dive bar performance.

But things took a turn after I was announced in the lineup. Suddenly, my band's Facebook page was inundated with repeated posts of a link to a blog featuring a topless picture of me, accompanied by an unhinged diatribe. This manifesto, penned by some basement-dwelling bloggers, focused entirely on shredding my personal life and appearance. They graciously called me a "talentless cum dumpster" (how charming) and claimed I "slept my way to the top"—their idea of "the top" was clearly skewed. They fabricated tales about my life as if they had insider knowledge and, bizarrely, accused me of not watering my lawn as proof that I didn't actually live in Detroit. Yep, they knew my address. They accused me of still living in LA and faking "being Detroit." Is that a thing? Does anyone want to be in Detroit so badly that they fake it? They also outed themselves as the masterminds behind the recent eggings of my house.

What really astounded me, though, was the racism they brazenly tossed into the mix. After an extended critique of my body, one of them quipped, "I'd still pound her Lucy Liu sideways pussy." It took me a minute to process why my vagina was being racialized. Being predominately "white-passing," most of the anti-Asian sentiments I'd encountered in life had been veiled in humor and generally aimed at my mother or grandparents. But, these gentlemen were very proud of their innovative slur, using it ad nauseam in case the reader didn't "get it" the first time.

one of the many profound comments left on my FB page

The topless photo in question wasn't some salacious leak; it was from an editorial shoot I had done with a photographer friend nearly ten years prior. But these trolls treated it like a smoking gun--as if a picture of tits was a scandal. And here's the kicker—they didn't even try to hide behind anonymity. They proudly signed their names, as if doxing me was something to brag about.

It turned out they were another local band playing HMF, and they were clearly unhappy with sharing a bill with Queen Kwong. I brushed it off as jealousy-fueled nonsense…until it escalated. Every time I deleted their posts or blocked their accounts, new ones would pop up with that same topless photo as the profile picture. They started relentlessly sharing the same image on the Facebook pages of other local bands playing at the festival.

It spread like wildfire. Everyone in the small music scene saw it and started to weigh in. Rather than rally behind me, the community doubled down. The pile-on continued, with people joining the chorus of harassment. I began to feel like I'd wandered into some warped episode of Dawson's Creek, where the new girl in town is treated like a pariah. It all seemed so juvenile and absurd, but at a certain point, I had enough.

I pulled out of the festival, saying I refused to share a bill with a band so hellbent on tormenting me. And that's when the real shitstorm hit. Jimmy, the festival's president, responded by kicking the band off the lineup and asking me to reconsider. That move only exacerbated the situation. Cue the performative outrage! Facebook became a battleground of people accusing me of manipulating the festival, calling me a "crybaby" for pulling out. Even after two years of living in Detroit, people insisted I was just an "LA act" with no right to play their local event. Ah, yes—the classic hometown loyalty card.

After Jimmy banned the offending band from the festival, they posted threats, saying they would "PB" my show—PB being shorthand for "pipe bomb." Later, they dismissed it as a "bad joke." Hilarious. Jimmy was urged to call a "board" meeting to vote on whether I should still be allowed to play. Yes, you read that right. I was asked to attend to plead my case as if I were on trial. At this point, I didn't want to play the festival anyway, but given how annoyingly stubborn I was (and still am), I couldn't let them "win" without putting up a fight. So, I decided to show up—if I was going to be crucified, I was entitled to my last words.

The meeting was held at a bar on a gloomy Saturday afternoon, the air inside stagnant with the stench of stale beer. My shoes stuck to the floor with every step. They had set up chairs in a circle, already mostly occupied by men who looked like they were crew guys for some butt-rock band that peaked in the late 90s. I sat sandwiched between two red-faced mouth-breathers who didn't make eye contact or bother to acknowledge my existence.

Jimmy stood at the center like a giddy ringmaster, grinning as he welcomed the surprisingly large crowd. A crowd that included journalists because, I guess, Detroit was desperate for news that week.

"Wow, we've never had this many people show up before!" he exclaimed, thrilled at the turnout as if the numbers legitimized the festival. "Who wants to start things off?" 

"Maybe Carrie should say something," a rockabilly grandpa suggested.

"Good idea," Jimmy responded, looking at me. "Tell us, um…your side of things."

The men seated around me started sighing as if they were already irritated with what I hadn't yet said. 

"Well, I'm sure everyone has seen the blog posts from the other band. They've incessantly harassed me, they've doxed me, and now they're threatening me. So, the bottom line is that I don't want to play a festival with them on the bill," I said, "and my name is Carré, not Carrie."

"So you're giving us an ultimatum?" snapped a fat man who looked like a metalhead Santa Claus. 

"I’m just saying I’d rather not play if the other band is going to be included. I don’t want to share a stage with dudes who have threatened me."

"Seems like an ultimatum," Mrs. Claus said, rolling her eyes.

You can't reason with stupid. Yet, as the masochist I am, I continue to try.

Does Substack require censorship of boobs? Not sure. But here’s the “scandalous” picture of me, taken by Ward Robinson

They went around the room one by one, voicing their opinions on what I should or should not do, as though I wasn't sitting in their presence. I wanted to tell them all to fuck off, but I held back, knowing that would only give them more fodder for ridicule. I've learned that, as a woman, standing up for yourself will likely add fuel to the fire. Defending yourself often makes you a bitch. It only angers and threatens people more, especially when you're right. So, I've had to remind myself that some battles simply aren't worth fighting. That's not being a bad feminist; it's being a practical one.

"It's a matter of freedom of speech, isn't it? Who are we to punish people for speaking their minds?" A punk rocker asked. He sported a Black Flag tattoo on his arm —not predictable at all. 

Another chimed in, "If you're gonna be in the music biz, you gotta learn to let this stuff roll off your back, Carrie. You can't be so thin-skinned."

As the only person in the room actually in the music industry, my blood began to boil. But I managed to keep my cool. I didn't need to prove my credentials to a room full of bitter burnouts whose trademark brag was "Jack White used to open for me."

"I'm used to trolls. I can handle excessive shit-talking and insults,” I explained, “but these guys leveled up when they started talking about bringing pipe bombs to my show. No legitimate festival would tolerate that behavior. It's a liability." 

I felt like I had made a small victory by making a concise, unemotional, rational point, but that feeling passed when a young woman looked at me with confusion.

"But…how exactly did the topless picture end up online in the first place?"

Womp-womp. Never mind.​ I threw​ up​ my hands.​ I was​ sо tired. Tired​ оf explaining why​ I didn't owe anyone​ a goddamn explanation. Tired​ оf being surrounded​ by charlatans who acted like they were entitled​ tо​ my gratitude. Most​ оf all,​ I was tired​ оf the never-ending lesson that being​ a woman​ іn music means every battle​ іs uphill, with dudes​ at the top and onlookers​ оn the sidelines shouting, "Not fast/young/hot/worthy enough!"

Ultimately, they took a vote right in front of me. Hands went up or stayed down, deciding whether or not I deserved a coveted place in the little festival. More people were in favor of me than not, but not Santa, not the two men I was sandwiched between, and, most disappointingly, not many of the women. The whole charade left me exhausted and frustrated.

The other band posted more about me leading up to the festival, but I never read anything else. I didn't have to, though. I heard all about it from anyone and everyone in Detroit. The picture kept circulating, and people around me kept whispering as if I didn't know it existed or if I should've been embarrassed by it. It was hard to believe that a topless picture of a woman could still be that controversial, especially in a community of people who claimed to be so "rock'n'roll."

In the end,​ I played the show and sold t-shirts with the infamous picture​ оn the front. The proceeds went​ tо​ a local women's shelter because​ іf there's one thing​ I know, it's how​ tо turn​ an insult into​ a win. And after that,​ I withdrew from Detroit's so-called music scene for good. Because sometimes, it's not about playing the game—it's about knowing when the game​ іs rigged and deciding​ tо walk away.

yeah, yeah, whatevvvver

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Q & A:

You have one more week to submit questions to me via DM or in the comments for my monthly Q&A video post. Nothing is off limits, as long as it’s not rude or abusive.

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this week’s featured archived post:

Last weekend was the anniversary of the death of one of my best friends. Read about him, how he introduced me to my biggest musical influences, and my childhood in a hotel:

While you’re at it, you might as well read Pt. 1 and hear the first song I ever recorded:

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c u next tuesday.

XX CARRÉ

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