First of all, I'm a sucker for that early '90s Amphetamine Reptile Records sound, so two songs into the Exterminating Angels' set at Notsuoh Friday night I was thinking, "No fugging way this band sounds like Hammerhead's 'Into the Vortex' married to Helios Creed's 'The Last Laugh?!'" But then again, Shaun Kelly (bass, vocals) has been in numerous loud outfits I've liked (Rotten Piece, Sad Pygmy) and Scott Ayers is, really, a local guitar legend (Pain Teens, Walking Timebombs) so it wasn't surprising the band was good, it just made me a little giddy that they were SO damn good, catchy and hard and to the point in a way that I like so much.

Photo by Eric Springer: Psychic Ills at Notsuoh.

After they finished I had to approach Shaun and tell him what a good set it was and how much I enjoyed it. Not into too much scene cocksucking but, again, they were just THAT GOOD. They have a full-length recording out that I have to go find now as well as hosting a weekly BBQ at the re-located Super Happy Funland I still haven't been to. Have to rectify that.

Future Blondes hit the stage next and took it in a different direction, sort of their modus operandi, but the way they headed was weird entertainment indeed: throbbing sounds, pulsing lights, all-star cast (Jerry Crust, Ralf Dead Roses) and a large crowd buttressing the stage, taking the whole strange affair in like the cliched deer-paralyzed-by-the-headlights. I couldn't get anywhere near the stage to take a picture, so I took a seat at the end of the bar and just watched from afar when off the stage jumped Ralf (his saxophone still droning via a delay pedal) and the crowd split in front of me as he came to the bar to get a drink.

"Nice set!" I yelled at him. He simply smiled and got his drink and then watched the band play on to the looping sax drone he'd just created. If this really was the LAST Future Blondes show, then it was a hell of a way to go out.

Psychic Ills played the third astonishing set of the night. Psych songs with some improv drumming and the occasional odd instrumentation thrown in, we were more than a little entranced by the bass player/singer Elizabeth who at one point came down into the crowd and nearly had her hair lit on fire by people holding up lighters around her. After their show I wanted to go tell them what a good set they played, too, sort of keep the streak going, but thought better of it until Elizabeth appeared before me, not doing anything, not talking to anyone, no one else around her. Fuck it, I thought, and stepped up to her.

"Hey, that was a really good set," I told her. What a stupid thing to say, I know. I promise I will never say it again. But then, there, in front of this exotic looking, tall, long black-haired New York psych-rock chick I couldn't come up with anything else. At least I was sincere. And to my surprise, she talked with me! Not just talked, but LISTENED (not that I had anything to say) and it seemed like I could talk to her all night.

It was nearing two o'clock in the morning and Indian Jewelry hadn't even started yet. A large crowd was still there and I was talking to the finest woman in the house. I said, "Hey, gotta go. Nice talking to you," smiled and left. Outside I thought to myself, "what a perfect evening," when the unmistakable sound of Indian Jewelry started up from inside and people began to rush back in.

This is where the worm turns. This is the point in the evening where you've pushed the good times too far. It's after hours, you have no way to get home and the band you came to see probably wont finish until after 3 a.m. unless the cops come. I let out a big sigh, turned and walked back in. Inside, to my complete befuddlement, it looked like some cracked-out cirque de soleil nightmare. People were CROWD SURFING, at an Indian Jewelry show (!) and it looked violent, one guy kept kicking at people while being held up, people were falling down left and right and the people that tried to help them up were being pushed down too.

Photo by Eric Springer: Indian Jewelry at Notsuoh.

At the front of the stage was a row of shirtless dudes banging their head to a voodoo satanic beat laid down by Tex, Erika, Rich and, foremost, Mary Sharpe banging like hell on a stand up kit. All the while a seizure-inducing strobe flicked through the cloud of smoke from the omnipresent smoke machine. Sweaty, shirtless dudes slamming, people smoking, trying to hide their drinks, throbbing music, broken glass, people falling down. It's a miracle no one got hurt. When the show was over I found myself walking away from the stage in a daze, my shirt tied around my waist. And although all of the idiot-lights had went off, not one bad thing went down. I wanted to tell the members of Indian Jewelry what "a good set" it had been. But, instead, I found a ride home with some members of Rusted Shut, slept for 17 hours and then ran into them at a cookout on Sunday where I finally got to tell them, "Ey, you guys kinda sucked Friday night -- what happened?"