I walked into the ballroom of the historic Southgate House, not yet too smoky. The final opening band was on to their third song of the set, but it was difficult to determine where one ended and the next began – it was the kind of voiceless, heavy, undulating music that you imagine could be the score to a European psychological thriller.

At the bar I ordered two Rolling Rocks, one for me and one for my friend who picked up the charge at the door. Joining him and his wife at the back of the crowd, I toasted him and took a long pull off the distinctive green bottle.

It was good. And cold.

Already I could feel the sweat starting to bead between my shoulder blades. The room was loud and hot and energized, brimming with anticipation for what would happen next… Whatever it was. The wall of sound enveloped them all, occasionally forcing them to take a step back or shift their weight away from the emanations. The crowd was surprisingly large, a dedicated group – no scenesters here. Dotted throughout were the principals of the indie record shop industry and other local bandmembers, proof that this was the place to be on an oppressive August Wednesday in America.

The headliner was from Japan – Boris – and they rarely toured the states. To see them in a venue such as this was a special treat for the true believers – intimate, loud, overwhelmingly close to the band. Other acts had come through the city, played the ballroom, and made sure that regardless of how successful they became, would only play there whenever passing through town. It has the rightful reputation as an artists’ venue. First-timers would talk to fans after the show, in the crowd, telling the folks how lucky they were to have a place like this in their backyard. The audience always knows, here, what they’ve got. They appreciate it. This is not a place for trends or big labels, it is for the rising young stars from Earth.

This crowd demands authenticity. They lust for it. Posers will be destroyed.

I had only heard of them, never heard them, so they could have been from Madagascar or Kuala Lumpur for all I knew. The drummer was a madman, fit and trim – all muscle and mallets, sinew and sticks and bones. His upper body was marginally covered by a silver-sequined vest, vaguely Solid Gold-ish. He would occasionally point his right arm straight above his head, raising it like an antenna to heaven. The crowd would follow his lead with gusto, and at the end of the night, he would reward them with a stage dive.

I determined that drummers who perform with shirts on have no heart.

The lead guitarist stands stage left, looking like he’d be just as comfortable coding at a bank of computers or leading a meeting in a board room as thrashing an Epiphone – bespectacled, tidy, conservative. He is a mad six-string scientist, coercing otherworldly sounds from the guitar at impossible speeds.

He is a stark contrast to the Japanese girl on rhythm guitar and keys who sings what may or may not be English in a high voice, half-heartedly strumming along. It is on the slow songs that she lulls you into a false calm, only to be cut deeply by the yelps and screams of the animal-drummer. This is what they came for, the audience, to be taken out of their comfort zones of Midwest Americana by these visitors from the East.

Once again, the wall of sound crashes down on them like thunder from god. This is what they came for.