When:Thurs Nov 10
Where: Central District
"Uncle!" shouts the drunk man on the ground after a vicious arm twisting. His friends laugh and let him up, leaving us to wonder exactly how screaming a noun that describes your father's brother came to mean "I surrender." But there's no time for etymology—this smallish basement, with cheap foam padding lining the walls, is about to become a rock club. There's something exciting going on with the Trashies, the first band on the bill—a bawdy sideways bump-and-grind transforms their sound from Ramones-style punk into something nastier. The room soon becomes a sauna full of slam-dancing punks, and one pogoer jumps a little too high, punching out the single hanging light bulb.
Between the Trashies and the next band, the energetic Ergs, tons of partiers, lit on cheap beer, fall down the stairs and pretty much everywhere else, too. ("Girl! You're on the sidewalk!" one partygoer informs an unconscious lady.) A woman screams, in the midst of an argument, "You were busy eating scrambled eggs off whores in the living room!" A part-time producer explains to an interested partier, "I want to make porn that my kids will want to see." Suddenly, the throbbing guitars of the Clorox Girls are cut short: The Law is outside, shining flashlights into the darkened house. Our host steps out to make peace and, after a minute, the cops leave, and he comes back in. "Fuck it, we're gonna turn it back on," he smiles, and goddamn if rock doesn't sound cooler with a little genuine in-your-face behind it.
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