theater’s upstairs bar on a Thursday night. The pink- and blue-haired kids who packed the room were, no doubt, a generally timid, taciturn lot. Shoegazers. But something about the White Devils made them need to smash beer bottles against the walls. Something about us made them need to whip aluminum ashtrays at each other's heads. Something about us made them need to crawl on the floor, gnashing their teeth and tearing their Yo La Tengo T-shirts. Something about us made them need to scramble up on the stage and run in frantic circles, like mice, then tear our instruments from us so they could break them, break them, and throw them down to where others could break them more.
After our set we stood backstage, panting, hands on waists and knees. There, a hard-faced guy in his late thirties lurched through a fire door, sweating. “Who the fuck are you?” he wanted to know.
It was like he was angry at us.
