Chvrches was incredible, full of heavy-hitting beats and electro-pop jams. For only three bodies on stage, they made some serious noise and everyone at the sold out show was moving and grooving.

Melodic perfection played with that much physical intensity WILL hypnotize a man (I think it might induce heart attacks in people susceptible to coronary disease, too).

The Beets played as the headlining act at teen friendly punk-rock venue The Smell, alongside local lo-fi songstress Colleen Green, teen dreams Cherry Glazerr, fuzzed out Corners, and the Danish band Ocean View.

The crowd went apeshit as Mick Jagger strutted and bawled through “It’s Only Rock ‘n’ Roll” and “Paint It Black,” his ancient hellfire snarl fully intact as cameras zoomed in on Keith Richard’s knobby hands, elegant Ron Wood carrying the brunt of guitar chores and the great Charlie Watts blandly ticking away on the riser, the drummer’s chalky skull-like face looking in repose like some senior vice president in charge of soul acquisition.

The room listened in soft stillness. Blakeslee could have been taking me straight to the gates of hell. I’d have been fine with it. I‘m blessed to have witnessed his performance in Pehrspace’s intimacy.

“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.

It was shockingly sexy, an all-encompassing sensation that me want to grind my groin into anything, maybe even a jar of pot butter.