“I want to do my best Adam Green impression,” he announces, launching into a lanky and shambolic kind of rap that is by far the best-received song so far. Solo material is worked into the set—’Cigarette Burns Forever,’ ‘Friends of Mine,’ ‘Dance with Me’—and sometimes it’s not the inherent thrilling chill of a song that brings you pleasure but instead how you associate it with another person. The love another person imbues with the music has a tendency to rub off on you, making you love it for reasons that are not entirely your own and this is why, as with being in love, you see everything in a new light.

One of the things I love about Dub Club—besides the amazing acts they’re able to book—is that it gets such a diverse mix people from different scenes across the social spectrum. You’ll see dreadlocked hippies, liberty-spiked punks, mods, traditional skins, hipsters, club kids and hip-hop heads all mixing it up, and everyone gets along with each other. It speaks to the caliber of performers that people of taste come out from every corner of L.A. to dig the vibes and party.

It was St. Patty’s Day, ya dig, over a month ago, and I’m only sobering up enough now to talk about it.

Seeking a night full of blistering white noise for my ears to hemorrhage, I ventured to the METZ show at the Troubadour in West Hollywood.

The bar chatted over his gentle plucking and he pulled the guitar up to the mic, still picking and looked over and told them to “Shut the fuck up! Look at me!”

Medeski Martin & Wood perform two sets tonight: acoustic and electric. This means that John Medeski is presently hammering away at the piano in his forthright way, while Chris Wood mans his upright bass and Billy Martin stands over his percussion set like a doctor exploring surgery. His sticks are scalpels now as cymbals crash and turn into writhing guts animated by the swath of those sticks. The people who did not make it inside in time are shunted up to the balcony. The sight lines, apparently, are incredible.

When it comes to art of a particular time – and artists of a particular age – people are keen to think in terms of “second acts.” As though the stage is a cage and there are but a few ways to pace its confines. The great thing about OMD is that their songs are timeless, their energy is boundless and their music is currently heading to the outer reaches of the galaxy, riding radio waves to places where there is no vanity, no fear and not the slightest photon of criticism whatsoever.

The cure to set the wicked sun takes fuzz,
Nostalgic wah-wah collapsing my lung,
Distorted more than any sober man
Who’d retread Vibrators with sour tongue.

The Lord’s Day started out in Satan’s hands,
Black gloved and, God knows, drenched in Swedish sweat,
I’ve seen twelve year olds form more evil bands,
I thought Hanni to be the surer bet.