A single, naked bulb illuminates the tiny basement room where Galder ready their instruments. One of the band's members tears an empty beer can and places it over the bulb, creating a makeshift lamp shade. The crowd is more restrained than I've seen at most metal shows, especially one this loud. Between the full audience, the amps, and the musicians, this is the tightest concert space I've seen in a year, but the close quarters don't hamper the band's efforts. The singer growls fiercely into the microphone, spinning tension between the closely packed bodies. The slow and thick guitar sounds span the distance between heavy metal and the coming of a mythical apocalypse.

Outside, a grizzly looking punk wearing a cap that says "What would GG Allin do?" smiles and passes his drink around the fire. The flames cast long shadows against the concrete walls of the nearby warehouse. It occurs to me that every object in the backyard was rescued from the garbage: Chapel pews and vinyl car seats make up the seating area, a storage shed doubles as a guesthouse, and even the clothing is composed of patchwork fabric and denim bits. The punk hosts for tonight's show survive on the discarded bits of consumer culture. Somewhere, a director is missing out on the next installment of the Mad Max series. This is my idea of what the end of the world looks like; it's a Friday night in the friendly punk community of Georgetown.

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