The night began like all proper nights should—scrambling in a loose pack toward the promise of chaos, old friends of Mrs. Jubelschuppen in tow, a ragtag caravan of veteran miscreants making its way to The Angry Irishmen. A place of sin and savagery, tucked into the belly of university-town Ames, where four bands were set to take the dive bar stage and shake the bones of the feeble and unprepared.
The first act, Wade St—Midwest Emo Grunge from the dark corners of Des Moines—stepped up, three young lads armed with the fire of a thousand garage-born aspirations. Youthful, yes, but not to be underestimated. They played like men possessed, the frontman howling into the void, guitars wailing like alley cats in heat, drums kicking like an amphetamine-fueled racehorse. A damn fine opening salvo.
The beer flowed, the sweat rose, the air thickened with the unmistakable stench of cheap whiskey, cigarette ghosts, and the musk of bodies vibrating at high frequency. This was the start of something dangerous, something good. Wade St had set the tone, cracked open the night’s skull, and poured in the gasoline.
And this was only the beginning… 😎✊🍻