The rock 'n' roll show in Williamsburg is exactly where it's supposed to be: in an industrial district far away from the apartment buildings and houses so they can really turn up, surrounded by shuttered mechanics and furniture manufacturing warehouses. The door isn't even marked, and I just hang around with the smokers out in front of the address until I see enough people going in to one of two doors covered in stickers to figure out where I should enter.
The crowd is exactly the way I remember them from when I went to shows like this - young, slightly awkward, happy just to be out on a Monday night, ready to rock, super horny, and probably the most attractive they will ever be.
My friend climbs on the stage with his band and suddenly I'm twenty years old again, whole, healthy, strong, but the ache of longing I used to walk around with like a gaping chest wound is completely absent, replaced by a gentle fondness for everything I see, without nostalgia, like I was never gone.
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