Matt quivers with excitement. With speed and efficiency, the worker-bee stagehands set to the task of deconstructing the arcane knobs and joists of the drum kit and instrument stands left behind by the excellent, but forgettable, opening act. Matt is on the main floor of the Black Cat, a decidedly grungy music venue and nightclub off the main drag in the District of Columbia’s stalwart U Street party neighborhood. The low-ceilings and can-lights of the venue offer no respite from the balmy air outside. The ink blot stamped on his hand by the ticket-takers at the front door is already starting to smudge and run in the damp heat.
“I picked a helluvah day to quit drinking”, he mutters, wiping his thumb at the deformed ideograph.