A friend of a friend’s sister’s cousin told you about an after party that you just have to go to. That cute guy you’ve seen around at shows will definitely be there. He knows this band that’s coming through town and will playing at this house after their gig at the corner venue. “God I hate afterhours house parties,” you think to yourself, “They’re always so lame and I only end up staying for ten minutes after I’ve gotten bored watching everyone talk to each other in dark corners.”
But you think, it’s only a few blocks from your apartment, and really, what the hell else do you have to do at 2am? Fine. So you leave the bar at closing time and make your way back home. “I’ll just drive by and see what’s up.” Droves of people are scattered all around the house and you can hear the music from the streets. The band must be here. The big white van with a trailer is the dead give away.
Even from you car, the music is pulling you with it’s tractor beam. Screw the crush, who the hell is this band? Half parking in someone’s driveway (they don’t need to get out right now anyway), you almost run up to the source of your new obsession.
People are everyone and thoroughly tanked. For whatever reason, the five beers you had earlier are a distant memory and your senses are amazingly acute. It’s as if every pore of your body is connect to their amps, and the feeling only gets stronger as you plow your way through waves of arms and blurred faces, finally arriving in the living room.
A heavy bassline holds a tendon line on the electric instrumental they’ve fallen into, and then flips over to another song punching you in the stomach with a precision rhythm tirade, “I’ve got a question for you girl/Not long before your life unfurls.” Crush guy is on the couch making out with some chick. You pull him off long enough to scream into his ear, “Who are these guys???!!!”
Looking a bit shocked, he answers like a robot, “Seven Storey Mountain.”
That’s it. Your new crush. Song after song, the power hooks, Lance Lammer’s razor sharp screams, the bullet-beat drums and driving guitars fondle you up and down. You haven’t felt this kind of a dopamine rush since you first heard Seaweed, Fugazi, The Hardship Post, or early Filter. You make sure to grab a copy of At The Poles from the band while they load their gear back into the van.
The sun’s coming up as you make your way back to the car, smiling. “My ears are going to ring for days. What else is new?” you think as you drive your car the whole two blocks towards home, making a mental note to thank you friend tomorrow, er, today.