August 25, 2003. The Long Winters' promo tour had reached the Blue Shell in Köln, Germany. As the low-ceilinged, narrow-walled room filled up, so did the air. It was Europe. Everybody smoked constantly. After our set, I tried to watch our tourmate Will Johnson play his, but I couldn't breathe or see through the smoke. I put out my rich Belgian cigarette, but I was still smoking, because the air was suffused. I had to go outside.

That's when it hit me: One day, when I'm old and wheezing, some child will ask me: "Is it true people used to stand in crowded, unventilated rooms and blow poisonous gas at each other for fun?"

"Yes," I'd say. "But that was a long time ago."

Of all the arguments against the smoking ban—25-foot rule (unfortunate), detrimental to business (untrue), nascent fascism (unbelievably stupid)—none come close to refuting, or even addressing, the essential, empirical truth that air unpolluted by cigarette smoke is more pleasant to breathe. Fact. When you smoke indoors, you're imposing noxious air on people around you. Fact. Now you have to go outside. If you can't understand why that's fair, you need to take an elementary-school civics class.

Arguing that cars emit fumes, too, or that cell phones create sound pollution makes you sound like a petulant teenager. The aesthetic argument—that smoking, drinking, and music are inseparable—is even more specious. They said the same about smoking in movie theaters. We're talking about public space and public air. Smoking actively kills you; that's fine if you're you, but the rest of us aren't. The health issue is secondary, however. It's really about respect. As for the idea that a smoking ban reflects a suburban mentality... well, tell that to backwaters like Los Angeles, San Francisco, New York, Vancouver, Dublin. More specifically, tell their nightclubs, which are as lively and crowded as ever.

Even more specifically: Tell the people who work in them.

No one who cares about music needs to be reminded that live performance is the only dependable source of income for working musicians. As record sales wane, the nightclub is more important than ever, for emerging artists and headliners alike. And while it's true that lots of musicians smoke (it still looks cool), nonsmoking clubs afford them the option not to smoke all night, every night. If they're on tour—where laundry is a rare privilege—it spares their clothes the lingering stench of last night's air. And without getting too precious, some people sing, a practice that favors oxygen over carbon monoxide, hydrogen cyanide, or any of the 4,000 chemicals in exhaled smoke.

I've played countless shows in smoking-prohibited cities, as both a smoker and a nonsmoker, and guess what: It's just better. That's why I voted for Washington's imperfect smoking ban; it's not entirely fair, but it's more fair to more people than the alternative. Logic and common sense demand that the burden should be on smokers to find ways to smoke, not on nonsmokers to tolerate smoking. That's not calculus; it's 2+2. Without smoke, club air doesn't stain your eyes, nose, lungs, hair, and clothes. And when you wake up the next day, you don't hawk up some atrocious tar and mucous reminder of what you had to suffer to see your friend's band play—or to play yourself.

Speaking of which...

Last Wednesday, the night before the ban took effect, I went to the half-full Sunset Tavern to see Will Johnson's first Seattle show since 2004. The air was thicker than usual because everyone was smoking double-time to beat the clock. Four different people loudly asked me why I wasn't smoking. Each one helped ruin Will's set. He was drowned out by smokers yelling about smoking. It was a typically Seattle form of protest against the new law that's supposed to be so detrimental to local nightlife.

The following night, I played a sold-out, all-ages show at the Showbox. The crowd was a great mix of kids, grown-ups, drunks, abstainers, rowdies, arm-folders, reluctant hipsters, and eager squares. Though it was crowded, loud, and hot, everyone could breathe. You could stand in the back and see the stage without peering through a smoggy haze—and vice-versa. No one got ashed on or exhaled at, no clothes got singed, no one had to hold his breath to walk to the bar.

And for once, only the smokers had to go outside.

Indoor smoking is the past. Here's to the future.