I need a name.” That is all I could discern. My consciousness found me at a strange ticket booth that Berchie (soon thereafter) branded the Cannery Ballroom ticket counter.

I traveled my eyes upwards, to meet the Ticketmaster’s jetted marbles which most would consider windows to the soul. I surmised that this boiling shape had no soul, and let him know my name: “Zim?” I hesitate, ever and anon. “Zim.. DuPitri,” he scribbled one’s name using his darkest ink, slid the works into a clear sheath and knighted my shoulders.

The weekend press pass (which belonged to a man named Zim, no less) fell against my chest, as an inexplicable inkle scurried across my scattered brainbox to milk this show for all the sounds which could be heard.

With Berchie beneath my shoulder, I was able to mumble a most formal good-bye to the circus head. It was time to see the show.

The street dwellers found wonder in the trail of smoke I puffed out and above the sidewalk grid, and followed us to the swinging bar doors. “Excuse me,” said the unruffled raccoon, gripping my right shoulder before I could get inside, “but I need two more dollars to ride the bus..” his eyes were glued shut by the needles and the hay. I met his gaze, and some seconds later he swept away (there are tricks to those things).

I made my modest introduction into The End and shuffled for the barmaid, ordered a drink, and pointed my toes for the nearest corner. Within seconds, the primordial band “Arizona” kick-started a tune in unison.

It was here that I made eye-contact with Jerry Garcia’s Caucasian incarnation. Was I hallucinating? I watched an apparition of Rivers Cuomo rain dance behind the bassist, who was also rain-dancing himself.

Imagine that The Turtles had an affair with Born Ruffians, and sparked a side-project thieving the name of an American state. I will not deny that these cats dramatized a grand performance, by any means; they finished the set with a guest guitarist who called himself ‘‘Woody Wood.’‘ I would not trust that to be his birth name, but I should disclose that I haven’t heard licks like those since I bought my first Eric Clapton cut.

Woody soon disappeared into the shadowy thicket while the remaining hums of Arizona diminished, and I did not spot him again. The rest of the band soon stumbled and chattered off the stage, with mottled applause. I must say that one cannot compare Arizona’s live shows to their albums— one will find that the studio sounds more mellifluent through any stationary speaker, and that Arizona needs to drink alcohol after they leave the stage.

I shuffled to the bar and bought myself another drink, to act as my convalescence (for what had been eating at my ears for thirty minutes previous, mind you). I was surely in need of something fresh…

Before I could finish deploring, I caught a flash of multicolored fog out the corner of my eye, and turned my ears into a pulchritudinous crest of musical sound waves: The Futurebirds.

I was forced onto an allegorical grassy field, and I swayed on the greenest half of that piebald fence line. I salaciously gallivanted with the musical licks of a honky-tonk David Bowie; one band mate played love songs with his banjo, as another struck the blues on guitar.

Then I felt a tickle in my left hemisphere— the bony fingertips of a steel guitar wiggled their route into my head. It was here that I had fallen in love (for the ninth time). Payton Bradford (drummer) was not too thick, nor too thin— he knew when to unleash stifling rage, and when to remember the missing shards of his heart, carefully caressing the cymbals and drums as if they were the pieces themselves.

If my wasted words have not done these hepcats any justice, I suggest that you take advantage of their free ep.

Anyways, a time had come to travel towards The Basement and witness what had become of a band named “Colour Revolt.” I made my appearance with a sullied opinion of these cats, due to faces and history, but felt it dire to show a kindly countenance.

“I’ll have a Jack and Coke” I said to the barkeep. After I finished chewing the cud aloud, we, in a slow-gaited traverse, directed our way towards the stage and sat our hinder hills on a front-row table, just as the Revolt’s drum introduction began.

Two concurring guitars then began a battle of repetition until Sean Kirkpatrick broke the run-ons with a whisky-tainted larynx. This is when I peeled my ears to pay the most attention.

Kirkpatrick’s traveling voice drove the well-established and sluggish rock and roll for the ceiling— it was grand. For some outlandish reason, the Revolt had started to grow on me by the end of two songs.

There were touches of Fugazi in the forms of both guitar and drum, and, relentlessly, Sean Kirkpatrick kept the entire performance afloat during times of musical drowning and melodic tresses..