I don't often write about music...and I don't go to many live shows any more...the first because this is, predominantly, a fashion blog...the second because, as pathetic as it may be, I actually like to sit down at a show (as opposed to standing around for a few hours or being shoved back and forth like a lemming about to go over the edge). I like comfort with my music...there, I've said it, let the "you're missing out on the full experience unless you're standing next to a cockroach or perched on top of a trashcan" music gods rain down on me.

Having said that, Mr. Heb and I actually dragged ourselves out last night for a little entertainment, courtesy of Pegboy and Screeching Weasel (performing under the umbrella of 'Riot Fest'...though, to be honest, the event organizer should realize that by the time they've subjected the men to what is essentially a full-body search...and rather genteelly asked the ladies to submit to a handbag frisk...a lot of the potential for riot is gone...perhaps they should just call it 'Mildly Upset With the Potential to Have an Argument Fest' and have done with it).

Regardless of which...there’s something infinitely satisfying about a wall of sound hitting you...so loud that your heart seems to beat in time to the music and your ears ring for a sustained period of time after you leave the show...and if it's vintage punk that causes this sensation, all the better.