So I had my first One-Night Stand for The Stranger last week, and thankfully, unlike my first "non-work-sanctioned" one-nighter years ago, this time I didn't wake up with a grinding headache (and minus a pair of nice panties) as I slunk back to my parents' place in Portland. No, last Thursday left me with few regrets, thanks to the excellent combination of rowdy punk-rock 'n' roll, a bar the size of a bathroom stall, and Budweisers that just kept ending up in my grip.

Fate was definitely on my side when my random club selection landed me at Industrial Coffee in Georgetown. The place felt more like a house party than a fancypants club show, and I'm definitely down with the intimate sweatboxes. Fuck that mandatory separation between the band and me, I wanna get crushed into all the other punk perverts. Industrial Coffee's just the right size to literally grab your band's rock by the balls--a few booths, a counter full of regulars, and a "stage" that's nothing more than mapped-out floor space next to the bathrooms. And the sound is fucking loud. Just excellent.

Tacoma's Mexican Blackbirds were the night's opener, and I've gotta say--even though they took so long to play I thought I'd been time-warped to Sunday--they know how to give good show. Chris Trashcan (vocals), Mekko Pillbox (guitar), Jill Trueblood (drums/backing vocals), Corey Knafelz (guitar), and Marty Sparks (bass) were a fun little five-piece, revving through messy garage punk with brash geetar noise and race-car rhythms. Although I dug the intensity of Trashcan's gruff, growling delivery, my one criticism of the band is that I couldn't understand a word the dude was saying. It'd be easier to decode Ozzy-speak than pick up one line from a Blackbirds song, and this is the kinda music that makes the kids wanna scream along.

But ah well. Trueblood did my screaming for me, as she countered Trashcan's rough style with high-pitched, Exene Cervenka-style wails. The call-and-response trade-off was kinda cool, and in the end, the Blackbirds sounded like a band that'll be ironing out its kinks faster than you can figure out where they are anyway.