There was a time when I was going to The Burlington all the time. It was winter, and the proximity to my home cut the navigation of iced-over pot-holes to a necessary minimum. The beer was cheap and the decent local punk bands played damn near every day.

Over time, though, it began wearing on me. The band I came to see would have three terrible openers, all suburban bands who’d invite their friends, screaming drunk college kids who would start inane conversations with me at the bar and leave before the headliner. Breaks between bands would drag to forty minutes. And, perhaps worst of all, the pitch black and damp of the backroom would breed a particular funky smell; the smell of your elementary school cafeteria on a rainy day, all moldering mackintosh coats and sweaty feet in rubber boots.

“Something smells like dirty Cheetos. I think it’s my feet,” the singer of Potty Mouth mused over the mic one night. “No, it always smells like that!” I called back, helpfully.

Sometimes, though, even the darkest, dirtiest dive surprises you. I saw a mind-blowing set by Meatbodies in the front bar a few months ago, a titanic explosion of thrash and squall. And sometimes the line-ups leave no room for error, like tonight’s stellar offerings.

My cute boyfriend, Tom from Dumpster Babies, did the artwork for the new Baby Magic record, so pick up some blood-red vinyl and pat him on the back on a job well done. Chill out with Patrick Cosmos DJ’ing vinyl in the front room. Get carried away on the overwhelming vocals of The Cellphones. Let Lil Tits rip your eardrums out, and lick your wounds to Swimsuit Addition’s darkwave pop. And buy me a beer.