DETROIT (by Nate Senge)

It had long been my desire to see the now infamous skeleton of Detroit. The hollowed out facades of abandoned skyscrapers, the peeling paint of unseen and outdated billboards, the endless circular chase of a lone taxi cab. What remains of Motor City did not disappoint.
I was instantly greeted by the towering edifice of the Detroit train depot, once the grand epicenter of the city's transportation network. What remained looked like a choice piece from the set of I Am Legend. A derelict, hulking mass whose peeling metal struck a worthy contrast to the corinythian ornaments of its summit. Razorwire rounded the perimeter, and a single sputtering streetlight gave the scene an effect that would have had Tim Burton swooning. Flanked by a used car lot and a flashing neon bar sign, an uninformed outsider would have guessed this to be the outcasted bowels of the city. Yet these environs were but a brisk, ten-minute jaunt from the banner-strewn promenade of downtown. The unconvincing spangles of the city's light display seemed only to embarrass the trolling urbanites, so aware were they of the legerdemain at hand.
The dusty interior of The Lager House captures it all. The first question put to the sound guy came back with, "no one tells me shit." My overly politely ordered burger was made by a Saw-esque diabolical looking man with an oversized cutting knife and a grease-stained apron in a makeshift barbeque pit out back. The bar was populated by an array of sledneck types, sipping their American Lager and fumbling their french fries in head-drooped silence. You can imagine my surprise when the usual cadre of skin-tight jean-clad and emaciated hipster frames started pouring through the back door. In seconds, The Lager House changed its clothes and the rock show was on.