There’s a circle-pit, with borderline aggressive
push-moshing a few yards ahead and the sweaty shirtless guy that keeps spilling
his tall boy all over my right arm is now lurching back and forth, taking a
respite from the maddening clip to pseudo-headbang with his curve-billed
trucker hat.
The band has changed it up, again, and the soggy teenagers
are looking around sheepishly, having no racing pulse to high-knee skip along
to for the time being. Then the goddamn bass-line kicks in and they go hog
wild. This is the heaviest and most diverse I’ve ever head pop-punk get and I
guess I’ll stick around to the end and see if they don’t toss in a 70’s
hair-metal cover for shits and giggles.
and/or
-
- Jacob An Kittenplan
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