The Magic Stick is a spacious upstairs bar just outside of Detroit’s main downtown sector. It isn’t posh: the few tables scattered around the dance floor wobble; all drinks are served in ribbed plastic cups; and more than one handlebar moustache was spotted. Nevertheless, The ‘Stick’s quintessential formula of two parts faded concert hall to one part seedy bar presents the perfect setting for small-time troubadours and troupes to get the lead out and put down some serious musical shit, in a manner of speaking.

The Magic Stick being located north of the border, and me being born post-1984, I myself was not allowed to indulge in any alcoholic beverages. Normally, this wouldn’t be a problem, but a drink or two (or five or seven) would have made the opening two sets of the evening infinitely more enjoyable.

The first opener was Dante Decaro. The now ex-guitarist of the sexually ambivalent BC quartet Hot Hot Heat, Decaro had seemingly come to Detroit to explain why the recognizably afro’d Steve Bays had always handled the vocals. Enter my need for a strong G&T. Decaro washed the borderline-catchy instrumentation in his irritatingly shrill and off-key voice. Dressed in a short-sleeved plaid button up, and making like a poor man’s Josh Ritter, he strummed his duct-taped electro-acoustic with a self-concious fervour that generally went unappreciated. A harmonica and a banjo were dredged up at respective intervals, the clearest indication of his Dylan-esque aspirations, but Decaro had obviously missed S.S. Folk Revolution, which set sail some forty years ago. The overall result was the sort of music you’d want to turn on when you’re plastered: it was lively, non-threatening, and even the most inebriated of singers could likely outshine Decaro in the vocal department. Ludwik eloquently summed up the experience: “We wanted Iron and Wine. We got warm beer.”

Déjà vu prevailed as the Organ took the stage (see my September 20th review of their stint at the Avalon) – same set, same attitude, and same blank expressions coating the faces of the bandmates. The ‘Stick offered them better acoustics and a larger crowd, but the Organ didn’t bother to capitalize on the improvements in setting. Their bass-driven sound was tight as always, but the performance lacked any edge. If I’d been smashed, at least someone in the room would’ve been having a good time.

It was only when Wolf Parade marched into view that the need for a drink dissipated. They came together for their first show two-and-a half years ago as an impromptu opener for their friends The Arcade Fire. That little bit of trivia, combined with their crowd-commanding stage presence and otherworldly, atmospheric sound, makes their immediate influences entirely obvious. They sound like the lovechild of Modest Mouse and the Stokes, if that child were to be sent on a one-man mission to communicate with the spiders of Mars. The fact that Isaac Brock of Modest Mouse helped out on their latest record, the ridiculously acclaimed Apologies to the Queen Mary, may or may not have anything to do with this.

Wolf Parade’s set was an insane fusion of musical elements typically kept separate in tamer music. No instrument was left on autopilot: the guitar, keyboards, drums all fought to be at the fore. It eventually became a grand game of “how many instruments can we layer on top of each other before the roof caves in?” The answer, my friends, was “many.”

Lead vocals were traded back and forth between clear-throated keyboardist Spencer King, and guitarist Dan Boekner, whose shapeshifter voice put an individual brand on every song it touched. From high-pitched yelps to husky growls and throaty roars, the two Montrealians ran the gamut of animalistic sounds.

Halfway through the set, nature rang up Boekner, who abandoned the stage to answer. This was gleefully pointed out by his bandmates, who passed the time by haphazardly noodling away on their respective instruments. Cheers erupted upon Boekner’s return. When they launched into “This Heart is On Fire,” pounding out the rhythm and shouting out the vocals, visions of Black Francis danced in my head.

Wolf Parade displayed their affection for extreme alternative percussion by brandishing about oversized chimes and an unidentified cowbell contraption. Hadji Bakara is personally responsible for the some of the weirdest sounds ever to come out of a keyboard, which he occasionally hoisted over his head while in the grips of an ecstatic spiritual seizure. The crowd loved it.

They closed with a visceral version of “I’ll Believe in Anything,” which disintegrated into a gorgeously mad thrash about the stage. It wasn’t cold in the Magic Stick, but when that tsunami of sound hit my ears, I was covered in goosebumps. Wolf Parade came back afterwards for a two-song encore, but it was hardly necessary. Their closer had been the song of the night.

As the guitars simmered down to a slow boil, Boekner proved that, Quebec separatism and worldwide tour dates be damned, you just can’t take the Canada out of a Canadian. His closing words reeked of a bashful politesse: “You guys have been super nice,…and, ya know…goodnight.”

Merch-wise, the Organ had stickers and t-shirts, and both Wolf Parade and The Organ had their latest CDs for the purchasing.

-Heather Burnett