Along a highway flowing from downtown, still within the shadows of the city but just out of reach of sober business, there is an obscure cradle of a spot. By day it is a sleepy, dark and dusty place, hardly notable, but resilient. Pass by at night, however, and you will witness its glowing signs hinting at the happening within.
Come inside. Welcome to my favorite place, a funhouse. Meet the crowd of intoxicated animals, poisoned, perhaps dying. Hold the bottles in their hands and listen to them shouting at each others’ ears. You can always share a light, too. The vices seem essential.
The space is cramped, maybe insufficient, but necessary. The necessity is expressed in the collection of curious items hanging on the walls: stickers, boards, posters, photos, bottles, and many other things asserting a culture of free spirits. Make no mistake, this is a place for individuals who crave being present, individuals who love listening, engaging, and living.
Inside, it is hot and the air is hardly breathable, but the scene is more than alive, and it is sustained by something more wondrous than oxygen.
On the stage that is not a stage, there is the band. They are tightly surrounded by expectant people. As they meld with their imploring melodies, they cease being themselves. They are transformed; they become monsters, creatures of pure feelings. The crowd, tantalized by beats, partake in the rapture. There is no immediate cure for this affliction. In every song and through each anthem, the crowd squeezes out their deepest worries.
Music is a creature we feed with hearts.
Afterwards, when the show is done, you can hang around and watch men pick up empty bottles and wipe the tables and the floor. Outside, there is smoke and dying talk, and the crowd disperses into the night, hurrying to get home before the sunrise, returning to tedious slumber and the plainer rhythms of everyday life.
The house itself goes back into hiatus, awaiting the next crowd willing to submit themselves to the mercy of revelry.