it's my opinion, and mine alone, as opinions stand these days on hopped up surpluses of synaptic gap release, that the nine thirty club in dreary ole dc . . . is the new cbgb's of our kind. the old ones are dead and screaming while being carted off like evicted elderly, out of their beds and thrown into the kevorkian streets of safety pinned memories. the new blood rises from the foam to form painful acceptance through mental anarchy. (insert the sounds of orchestra strings blaring to jesus freak fanatics counting their doom). "make sure they hate each other . . . make sure they can't play nicely."
both venues have their privatized roots in punk, while each have hosted the various types of musical performances in a bar like, 'seedy, but trendy sleazy' air of "how 'ya doing mate; fancy meeting you here. down another pint of ale?"
the kids are alright, the dead have said goodnight . . . and nine thirty shines on as the new savior of what will escape music from it's blight. now, if they'll just learn to dance.
perhaps seth should change the name to "thunderdome." and tina could be the first act under the new name. yeah, baby!!
