Thursday was Brenna's birthday, and so we spent the beautiful afternoon walking the streets of Halifax, eating candy, and eventually ferrying our good selves over to Dirtmouse to visit the Village. It was a productive day, considering that very morning I had bussed to the terrible West End Mall and back to pay $14 for a brand new replacement I.D. so that I could make good on the evening's birthday plans I had with Brenna.

The Attic:
I made good. Mark Black, Kathy and I were looking forward to seeing Sebastien and Jesse belt out some rock. Looking forward that is, until we arrived at the Attic, to see the block long line of fresh and obnoxious looking college students, eager to get their drink and sweat on. That was a warning. Having already payed, we went in. We were wholly unprepared for what we experienced. This was not a rock show, friends, it was a pressure cooker. It was a meat locker. It was a fucking can of sardines, complete with all the smells you might associate with any one of those three. The sound was terrible largely due to the din and my positioning, and I had an excellent shifting view of alternately the backs of heads, and a large cream coloured pillar. From what we could tell, DFA held their own, and played solid. Sebastien tried to pick a fight with a bottle-throwing meathead. That part I saw. That part, I enjoyed.

So the next night, Friday night, Mark and I decided against our better judgment to walk down to the Pavilion to check out the all-ages lineup, and consider going in. Your editor was hoping for a second chance, a camera-toting do-over. That, and we both just wanted to actually hear or see something, and we figured we could strongarm some 15 year olds easier than an Attic full of Dal dudes.

The Pavilion:
The line was almost more staggering than at the Attic. It looked something like 300 or more kids, and the Pavilion has a capacity of something like 150. I think. I'm going to admit something that I'm not proud of, readers: We cut. We cut, and we (Mark Black and I) used our persuasive presence to get in when there was no in to be gotten. Mark, it turns out, was on the list. I was not, but it turns out that I can pull some rank when I like. I would like to publicly apologize to all the kids who didn't get in, only so that I could walk right through just by waving a camera. Sorry. Really. I'm sorry.

At any rate, it was a good idea, going to the Pavilion. The show was infinitely more satisfying. Sure, there were still hundreds of sweaty, smelly people (largely under 16, which is almost more unnerving.) and sure, the walls were melting and the mosh (from what I could see) was silly and void of regard. But at least we could both hear and see the damn bands. We missed Uncut, and I would be lying if I said I was sore over it. Controller.Controller played a solid set, and there was a lot of dancing going on. Death From Above's set was great. That show entirely justified our lackluster experience the night before. The sound was much better, the band had way more energy, and it was awesome. And the kids, oh the kids. There was a homemade shirt, with "PUSH IN" sharpie'd across the front. There was a sea of freshly bought tour-shirts. There was mosh. (Oh lord, there was highschool mosh. Pushing, jumping, and waving at it's finest.) And there was screaming.

Jesse, Sebastien, do you guys realize that these kids think you're the fucking Beatles?

Go look at some photos here.