The Monolators are America’s greatest midnight band, who always make it worth staying up all night. I look forward to their closing sets, because they play straight up, balls out garage-punk-pop better than anyone on the eastside OR the westside. I realized going into their set that there was a sixty-percent chance that my badly stubbed toe would be broken (it was) by the end of the night, with an even greater likelihood that one of the Monolators would destroy some equipment (they did). It’s a real shame that they can’t clone the Monolators seven or eight times so they can close every show (at least in the eastside clubs) every night of the week.

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I eventually did get out of the house by Thursday night, touring both floors of Amoeba Music prior to fading down Vine St. to 3 Clubs. Briefly fashionable after the 1997 movie Swingers, this venue I’ve long associated with dreadful music and gave the place up entirely after I quit martinis. Still, the Rumble’s night of indie-squawk sounded promising enough outside muffled through the walls. Both light and prospects were considerable dimmer inside, as French Miami- a trio of Bay Area collegians beloved of NME -was onstage thrashing around inside a math rock that was obviously failing to carry its twos and decimal points.

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