Five years ago (or so,) I stumbled into the 40watt to see this band I'd been sweet on--these combat babies; some vespa driving fools--to see what they could do with a room full of gritty Southern rock history looking 'em straight in the teeth. Oh, you deliciously loud, hedonistic messengers from above (Toronto, is it?) --you damned near blew the bloody roof off of sweet Velena's house of the holy rocking kind. And we really fucking liked it. A notoriously difficult crowd to please. Not halfway into the first song of set one and you were making converts of us faster than sweat could roll. By night's end, not a dry pair of panties was left in the joint.

This past Sunday night, I made a pointed effort to plant myself in the midst of an elbow-ridden pit of 17 year old screams--rock and roll first loves abound in that mess of wide eyes and wild hair. What a sad, sorry shame that "first" only happens once. What a revelation when the second time around proves to be just as gratifying. The beer was overpriced, watered down, served in asylum-safe plastic cups; the acoustics in the venue were ideal for a fight to the death; and let's all thank the maple leafs in heaven that the only fire in the place was coming from Jimmy's fingertips as anything greater would've certainly made Monday headlines. But damnit all, Metric, I'd do it again. And again, and again.

This ain't no one-night stand.

Love,
Erin