I knew it was a bad idea to attend the Infected Mushroom concert at Vanguard with a broken pinkie toe. Sure, they play a heavy electroclash full of thunderous beats vibrating faster than a hummingbird on amphetamines, but how rowdy can a dance club get? One red flag was the doorman confiscating my pen. When I pleaded that I was reviewing the show and needed to take notes, even showing him my notebook, he replied, “Sorry, those pens can be used as knives in there.” Luckily, he only checked one pocket, so I still had my five backup pens. When I got inside at 11:30 p.m., the floor was busy but not intimidating. I was still malt-liquor buzzed from a sidewalk party at Sunset Junction that I stumbled across on the way to the club. Some DJ was pushing buttons and doing that finger-pointing DJ dance that says, “This is not music, so I can only point my finger!” I attempted to convince myself that if I waited for one or two songs, I could find a redeeming quality in the music – but the one song never ended. I was too broke to drink enough to not be too sore to dance or enjoy the DJ.  Luckily there were a bunch of drunken smokers on the patio, so I was able to bum an entire pack of Marlboros, Camels and American Spirits, without encountering a single menthol, while waiting for the headliners.

One thing I hate about bands playing at dance clubs is they often don’t go on until the hours when most indie rock clubs are shutting down. By the time Infected Mushroom hit the stage, it was already 1 a.m. and now the floor was PACKED with drunken, finger-pointing, foot stompers. I stood in the back of the floor area behind a tiny, tired-looking girl. I felt safe. For a band built around two DJs, Infected Mushroom is a full blown rocking outfit. They sound like Ministry—if they were healthy and happy. They also pointed fingers, but I was cool with it, because this band rocks HARD. The guitarist played fast, and the singer had complete control of the crowd. (One audience member actually told me Infected Mushroom changed his life, as he gave me a Camel Light.)

Then it happened. During the second song, when the beats went from one of those electronic hyper drum rolls leading into the pounding hook of the next verse, the little, tired girl leapt in the air and landed on my broken pinkie toe—HIGH HEEL FIRST! “OWWW!!” I screamed in agony, and she turned to me and yelled, “YAAAAHHH!, WEEE!” Over the course of the next two songs, I got my poor toe stepped on 4 more times, and I was ready to start stabbing people with my remaining Papermates. I retreated further back and hid my foot against the speaker cabinet. My toe vibrated with every beat, filling my body with a trippy warmth that I assume was medical shock. I would have exited for the emergency room, but I haven’t had medical insurance since the peak of Crunk. Besides, I was really digging this band. I figured, my toe was already mashed into a crimson paste, I may as well enjoy the show. After an hour and a half of an engrossingly powerful set, with a packed floor, I had to leave. It’s not that I’m getting too old for shows like this. I could really dig them at 11 p.m., and I would definitely catch them again after midnight, but only if I have ten good toes and 4 or 5 stiff drinks.

—Scott Schultz