I walk out of the Troubadour on Friday night with the sound of horns still ringing in my ears, vibrant and unshakeable as my new-held belief that Dan Bejar is most certainly not a chill dude.
On the side of the Troubadour overlooking the stage is a small room. This is where Dan Bejar et al hang out during the opening act. The curtains in the room are pulled shut, but inside you can catch little flickers of action– a sleeve of somebody important, maybe; their half-finished drink on the windowsill. The spectacle is surprisingly tantalizing. Most people keep one eye trained on the sill throughout the pre-show shuffle: (“Hey, is that the sax guy”) while mushing themselves between the elbows of strangers. Tonight’s crowd is noticeably old. The guy next to me is sipping whiskey while rapidly balding. It strikes me that I’ve never seen so much chest hair in Los Angeles before.