The Cold Truth About Frijid Pink

by

Gary Ray Thompson
(Frijid Pink’s original guitarist)

            What can I say? Well after carrying a pink toilet seat around my neck for years and living through the most jaw-dropping musical misadventure of my life, I can say this: Frijid Pink, my band, wasn’t just a fluke—it was the cosmic equivalent of a drunken dart throw hitting the bullseye in Detroit’s musical history. No dazzling talent, no grand vision, no industry clout, just a one-in-a-million shot that somehow lit up the world. Picture 1968: Woodstock’s brewing, astronauts are eyeing the moon, the gold standard’s crumbling, gas pumps are dry, students are dying on campuses, Vietnam protests are roaring, and a tiny elite of rock gods rule the airwaves. Payola’s dead, so you had to claw your way up or get crushed. Detroit? It was carving out its own legend. Motown was packing its bags, but if you were from Ann Arbor or one of the big four—haunting the Grande Ballroom, snagging a local label, and earning the scene’s nod, you were untouchable. Raw energy, outrageous stage antics, a bandleader barking, “Hit this riff four times, then eight,” a pinch of hype, and some radio love—that was the Detroit rock recipe. No shade; that was the game.  Frijid Pink? We sidestepped the whole damn playbook. Barely a blip on the local radar, we still scored slots at every major gig in and around, our name often buried in fine print like an afterthought.

            Back then, two joints could land you four years in the slammer, and our manager—an ex-cop, older than dirt—strode into venues like a crystal skull parting a sea of hippies. Harmless? Sure. But his vibe screamed “outsider,” killing any chance of bonding with the click (word travels fast in Motown). Still, this guy had guts. At some sweaty Detroit gig, he sweet-talked a London Records bigwig into signing us—bam! Suddenly, we’re the only Detroit rock act inked to a global powerhouse. We cut a couple of original singles that flopped, then slapped together an album with one-take tracks and a throwaway cover we barely cared about: “House of the Rising Sun.” The band voted it least likely to succeed. Guess what? That “filler” tune exploded, rocketing to the top of the charts in the US and UK, a bluesy, heavy-as-hell middle finger to our doubters. Overnight, we’re signed by Willard Alexander, the titan of talent agencies, and handed a gold record. We’re on fire, but drowning in the deep end.

            The whirlwind hit like a freight train: relentless tours, a second album, and a string of singles that couldn’t touch “Rising Sun’s” magic. Management’s genius plan? “Write a Christmas jingle!” or “Make a stadium anthem!” As if that was the ticket. To me, it was pocket change for the soul. The pressure, the missteps, the chaos—it tore us apart faster than we rose. That line of thinking, and many other things contributed to the disbandment. And after the remaining members tried to regroup and hit the road, without even preparing a statement to the record company or anyone, Billboard slapped them with a headline screaming “Frijid Pink Promotes Bogus Tour!” Done, right? Nope. The band somehow limped on, signing with other major labels, churning out singles and albums that never found their spark. No direction, no edge to stand out—just noise in a crowded scene. I hear some version of Frijid Pink still haunts the scene today. There’s so much more to the story, but that’s it in a nutshell. Perhaps more another time? Cheers!