The night was already slipping sideways when American Hole Wizard took the stage of The Angry Irishmen. A duo, just two men—but Christ, they played like a backwoods delta demon had crawled into their souls and started plucking at their nerves like busted guitar strings. Nasty blues, raw and unfiltered, with a jazz swagger that made the walls sweat.
By this point, I was drunk as a weasel on payday. The bar had a mighty Guinness on nitro, and I had been making sure it didn’t go to waste. The world spun in heavy rhythms, the bassline of my own reckless indulgence merging with the growling, greasy riffs spilling from the stage.
And then—impact. The crowd ignited like a powder keg. A mosh pit roared to life, a swirling storm of sweat and violence, boots stomping, bodies colliding in some primal, beautiful dance of destruction. The music was gasoline, and the audience was aflame.
American Hole Wizzard didn’t just play—they conjured, they summoned, they let loose something old and angry and stomping drunk on the blues. And the people loved it.
The night was far from over, but the damage had begun… 
