The Black Angels play The Studio, Oh, Don’t Tell Mama’s come back! Thursday, June 20, a wind bearing rain & ice from India, spice ice

Ghost Wave supporting, I couldn’t like, didn’t in fact abide. Left. Drank vodka watching the predominance of beardy males – about two to one / m/f – entering the venue and the smokers going out.

Back inside the room filling – a drink-heavy crowd.

The awful discovery that moshing is now ironic. There was ‘moshing.’ But we danced around it, picking up off the floor the occasional fallen blonde. Watching out for nose-bone injury from the backs of ‘moshers” heads. Keeping at arm’s length the truly smelly ones and avoiding the fat drunk bastards. And that guy who kept having to go back for drinks and would then muscle his way through to the front making a point of looking dangerous. Surely the bearded man-boy with the aquiline nose in the short-sleeve white thermal was gay. Who was the mysterious woman who did the special wrists-crossed-above-my-head-to-show-off-my-lovely-arm-tats dance? Was it her who left alone in the faux fur?