The attending crowd was a young Boston, with the additional festering ganglion of New York City.
The location was dismal and outdated, worn under the barely adhered tiling, with the heavy footed art-mongerers making their figure eights from canvas to beer table.
Large windows beckoned a predictable accident while the floor was strewn with half inflated, half painted balloons stabbed by crumpled business cards, forgotten, and never to be followed up on.
I saw the stage.
The bands were to be expected; metal, noisy, pointless, banging on trashcans with drumsticks (the meat kind).
It was time for my exit, perhaps with a precisely timed stumble from the balcony, when I caught sight of the next act.
They were a band, a large band, of women and men, all dressed in black, and carrying classical instruments.
They had real instruments and sheet music. I decided to stick around.
They fit their multitude of musicians onto the small platform, which groaned with the splintering of its base boards.
The leader of them was scrappy and dashing, the kind of rock star that is born out of a tuna can.
With his slung guitar, he ordered a tuning.
They began with a murdering buzz, light on its heels with spots of color from the up-bow.
They built and my knees softened.
The wonted diva entered next.
She was a fragile blonde, off-kilter and poignant, but her voice boomed.
She ornamented the music with drops of Calexico fragrance, blipping the sonar high notes on a dime.
They played, hopping lofts of consensual classical ideas, with footnotes of their own sapor.
They swept the building, and captivated the disgruntled.
It ended, and I approached the Maestro.
The frenzied frontman spoke with a pinned grin as he orated their mission to bring a new setting of classical music to the masses.
I told him, with a mixture of jest and jealousy, I may be interested in auditioning for a spot.
He politely informed me I must attend the school to join the band.