Fuck your camera phones,” he urged the crowd at Cinespace four nights earlier. “You can’t party through a screen. Put your phones away!
Every single person, it seems like, is dancing. There are clusters of pals in the back making their own dance floor, pairs of girls tucked away by the bar not even looking at the stage, and, of course, guys scrunching their eyes shut and going it alone. One guy’s wearing a Whiskeytown shirt and I am too shocked to not talk to him: “You like Ryan Adams’ pensive, gorgeous, pre-solo country band and Skrillex?!” He’s either too drunk or too bored with what I’m saying to respond. Later, I realize his shirt is in fact advertising the Whiskeytown bar on East Third Street.
