I returned to Michigan for the first time since the 1970’s this week. Michigan is sleeping outside on screened porches during hot summers and Vernor’s Ginger Ale from my grandparent’s basement. I love plenty of places, but I’m sure Michigan is special. I was wandering a rental car parking lot helplessly, and a shuttle driver stopped a gigantic bus, rolled down a window and offered to help me. He wouldn’t rest until I found G17.
I was leaving the parking lot, and the gate guard asked if he could help give me directions to guide me on my way. Smiles were offered freely everywhere. Unfortunately, I’m much more used to places where people wouldn’t slow down a bus to throw trash on me.
Not in Michigan.
I visited The Motown Museum and Hitsville Studio A, which was a transforming experience. I’m not overstating the effect — to think that so much music came straight from this unassuming fortress of groove was impossible to comprehend. It was inspiring in a way that too few things are these days. The control room is the size of a closet, yet nothing could contain it.