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(This was the third song.) Someone asked for Jackson, did he have a bass drum handy? And then went up and helped rejigger things, while the bass and guitar started poking around on a little cow-punk interplay trot to keep the kids moving.

Here’s the thing-these bands are not plugging a sandwich board of pedals into a stack of synths into an IT department of Mac Book Pros.

When even those bands fell away, the city was left with just sparkly jangle-pop and lunkheaded first-generation hardcore retreads to recommend it.

But by the middle of the 00s, there were rumblings.

These were a group of punks that had no compunctions against smoking, drinking and fucking, thank you very much.

No one would ever expect these gutbucket bruisers rising up from the primordial ooze in some hairy southern backwater or the glittery dirt of the Sunset Strip or the backwoods of the Pacific Northwest or the Lower East Side of Manhattan or an otherwise unassuming little college town in the Midwest or a ghost town in the Southwest, on labels called Sympathy For The Record Industry and Crypt, blazing a trail of beer and gasoline-filled water balloons across the U. and Europe, to ever halt a show until the moshing stopped, as Fugazi was famous for. While the scuzz punks would eventually be distributed by bigger players like Matador and Sub Pop and be credited with the success of bands like the Jon Spencer Blues Explosion and the White Stripes, by the end of the century most of them had either shambled off into obscurity or oblivion.

In DC, the sound would be flattened and polished until we had the Dismemberment Plan yelping about falling asleep drunk and alone on New Year’s listening to Gladys Knight over a calculus equation-or Q and Not U’s abstraction of the post-hardcore formula until it became some ineffable Platonic form.

Mainly, they are plugging a guitar into an amp, maybe running one pedal. The very next set was from Josh Johnson, with but his guitar, a kick drum, a snare sitting on its side in front of a kick pedal, his bright red shirt and his mop of hair. (Pun intended, obviously.) At that table, he was all broad smiles and hearty handshakes, slinging records and t-shirts like a carnival huckster. The Two Tears 45 is a tour de force, and the Cheniers one contains not only the best single of 2010 you’ve never heard, “Here Comes Trouble,” but also the sublimely shrugging melancholy of “Sad City” on the b-side.

They are setting up a kick, snare, tom, a couple of cymbals. He grinded out mathematically simple but harmonically interesting blues licks while howling overtop lyrics of questionable, possibly legally actionable taste. Up next, The Two Tears pulled a similar gag, making you forgiven for thinking an AC/DC or a Shellac were not the efficient killing machines you thought but instead a couple of lumbering brutes loaded down with excess, sputtering to a not early enough grave. YOU AIN’T HERE.” “Never Trust My Heart” farted to a stop and Travis bolted out of his chair and back to the merch table yelling, “R. Jackson seems proud, and to be doing a good job, trying to prove that D. is more than just evil little men in ill-fitting Brooks Brothers bent on destroying the world and also more than just Ian Mac Kaye reminding you that war is never, ever the answer (correct as he may be).