Another Bucket-List Night: Alex Skolnick Trio

Today I got to check another musical act off my bucket list, but this time it wasn’t just about the music. This wasn’t my typical rock or metal concert—it was my first time seeing a jazz band live. And this jazz band mattered to me more than most, because it was Alex Skolnick’s jazz band. This night carried weight, personal, emotional, and deeply needed.

The morning started slow. I sat with my coffee, staring at my closet, reminding myself to shower and trying to talk my brain into letting me enjoy the day. But everything felt heavier than usual. Maybe it’s because this month I had a birthday that hit harder than I expected. Something about this one shook me mentally. Maybe it’s the losses I’ve had to carry, the weight of time passing, or the fears that come with getting older.

And losing a friend recently, someone who felt more like the father I don’t have anymore, cut deeper than I can put into words. That kind of loss sits in your bones. It makes everything more tender. It made tonight matter even more, because I needed something to lift me. I needed a night away from the sadness, the anxiety, the nonstop worrying.

As the day went on, the frustration started early: my clothes. I haven’t bought new clothes in years, and it showed. Nothing fit right. Nothing made me feel good. It made me sadder than it should have. Eventually, I found something halfway decent to wear, but the whole process just added another layer of stress to an already heavy day.

And then there was my anxiety about leaving my dogs, my elderly beagles who are truly my heart. One of them struggles when I’m not home. Even knowing Skylar and Roo were there to watch them didn’t fully quiet my mind. Add to that my constant worry about my kids, especially my youngest who’s been struggling with health and anxiety issues… it’s no wonder my nerves were all over the place. That protective instinct is stronger now than ever, especially after losing so many people over the years. It changes you.

The drive to The Token Lounge was 3 hours and 22 minutes. Somewhere along the way, everything caught up to me. I stopped at a rest area to put on my makeup, hoping I’d look in the mirror and see excitement in my eyes, but instead, I saw someone who was tired, sad, and trying her best to push through. Even the music Damien was playing felt depressing, sinking deeper into my mood instead of lifting it.

Traffic didn’t help. But eventually… I pulled into The Token Lounge parking lot. True to form, I did what I do best—chaos. I changed my clothes right there in the car, because why not? I pre-gamed a little too (much cheaper than inside), letting the cold air and the buzz settle me while I gathered my nerves and got ready for the night ahead.

I also have to give huge appreciation to Damien. He drove me there and back, and he even bought me my ticket for my birthday. He knows Alex has been my favorite guitarist since I was 18 or 19 years old, and he wanted to make sure I got to have this experience. Nights like this don’t just happen, they take planning, generosity, and care. Knowing he went out of his way to make it possible made the whole adventure even more meaningful.

But before we even went inside, the night already had one of those random, hilarious, perfectly “my life” moments—a parking-lot clothing drop. My cousin Tammy showed up briefly to bring me bags of clothes she’d gathered for me. Only I would be standing outside The Token Lounge before a jazz show, getting a mini wardrobe delivery in the dark. It cracked me up and honestly helped lighten the nerves I’d been carrying all day.

A little while after Tammy left, Jason arrived—my friend from over 30 years ago. The metalhead himself. Having him there meant more than he probably realizes. It’s rare to share nights like this with someone who’s known you through so many versions of yourself. After all the worry, the anxiety, and the heaviness that’s been sitting on my shoulders lately, seeing Jason pull up reminded me I’m still surrounded by people who care, even when my mind tries to say otherwise.

Inside, the night began with Brad Russell opening and he was phenomenal. His energy, his playing, his presence elevated the entire room. He didn’t just warm up the crowd; he commanded it.

After Brad Russell’s set, we stepped outside to hit our vapes and breathe for a moment. Out there, surrounded by fellow fans, we reminisced about the concerts we survived back in the ’80s and early ’90s, those wild nights of sweat, distortion, pits, and pure adrenaline. There’s something grounding about talking with people who lived through that era. It felt nostalgic and familiar, like slipping into an old leather jacket that’s worn in all the right places.

And then… I heard it.

Just one strum, one unmistakable tone and I knew it was Alex. It cut through the conversation, through the cold night air, through everything. Instinct kicked in. I rushed back inside without hesitation. And of course, my seat was right up front on Alex's side —exactly where I needed to be to witness every detail of his playing.

One thing that hit me hard tonight, though, was the crowd or really, the lack of one. There were maybe 30 people there. As someone who has thrown shows before, that number is gut-wrenching. It breaks my heart for musicians, especially ones as talented as Brad Russell and the Alex Skolnick Trio. I get it—it was a Wednesday, people work, and this was a jazz show, not a typical metal or rock crowd. And honestly, The Token Lounge didn’t help; the marquee still had Lynch Mob on it from a month ago. No updated signage, nothing to let people know these world-class musicians were even performing.

I know how discouraging that can feel from the stage. I’ve seen it. I’ve felt it. That empty space between the crowd and the lights can weigh on a musician’s heart. But here’s the thing—the people who did show up? We made sure they knew how appreciated they were. We listened. We watched. We applauded with real love for the craft. And I hope Brad and Alex felt that, even in such a small room. Sometimes 30 real fans mean more than 300 casual ones.

And then the Trio began—and I cannot describe what it was like watching Alex perform. He is the god of guitar. His precision, emotion, and technical mastery—flawless. Watching him play jazz, seeing a different side of him compared to Testament, was breathtaking. It didn’t feel real. I kept thinking, I’m here. I’m witnessing greatness.

Sharing that moment with Jason made it even better. After over 30 years of friendship, standing there together, absorbing that level of talent—it felt right. It felt grounding.

Meeting Alex afterward was a whole experience in itself. For most musicians, I never get nervous. I’m always the one reminding people that famous or not, they’re just humans—talk to them like you’d talk to anyone else. But this was different. This was Alex Skolnick, my favorite guitarist, someone I’ve admired for decades.

I’ve seen him countless times with Testament, front row, rocking out, feeling that energy pulse from stage to me. He’s handed me his guitar pick, shared my Instagram stories when I’ve tagged him, and even talked to me on Zoom. In all those moments, I wasn’t giddy like a schoolgirl meeting her idol. Face to face, however, it was completely different, so much different. I’ve met so many famous musicians over the years and never once stumbled on words or got nervous. But with Alex, it was different. I was nervous, excited, and completely in awe all at once. My hands were shaking. My heart was racing. And even though my brain kept trying to act normal, my heart refused to cooperate.

When I went to buy a shirt, the merch guy told me they only took cash or Venmo. I turned to Alex and said, “You need to do Cash App too.” And he goes, “I do have Cash App.”

That kicked off this funny little moment where we were both scrolling through our phones, comparing our Cash App names. My Cash App said Mick, and Alex said Michelle, then paused and said Mick again, looking confused. I explained, “I go by Mickey—Michelle is my real name.” For a moment, it seemed like he realized he’d seen that name before, and the whole thing turned into this adorable, humanizing little interaction that broke the tension and made the moment even more memorable.

After we took the picture and I sent the money, I thanked him and said goodbye. He looked over, gave a small smile, and said, “Goodnight, Michelle.” Hearing someone call me by my government name—especially someone I’ve admired musically for so long—was surreal. I’ve gone by Mickey my whole life. It felt strange, intimate, and unforgettable in its own way.

But even with all the nerves and emotional chaos, the night meant everything.

I got to see him. I got to witness music that touched my soul. And I got to spend the night with people who matter deeply to me.

Tonight wasn’t perfect. It was messy, emotional, stressful, and beautiful all at once. But it mattered. It reminded me that even when life feels heavy—when birthdays sting, when grief settles in, when anxiety follows you everywhere—there are still moments that pull you back into the world. Moments that remind you you’re still alive.

Tonight was one of those moments.

Until next time,

Peace, Love and Loud Music,

Mickey

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-s0NFPpq2Hc

Alex Skolnick Trio playing Detroit Rock City