The moon is high and bright in the sky—a hazy orange that warns of persisting heat in the days to come. Cars line up along the street, bumper to bumper, and I have no choice but to turn down what looks to be an alley running alongside the bar to park my bike. It smells like piss and garbage, but at least my baby will be safe.

The O’Leary’s Pub sign is lit up neon green, and the lamp above the door casts a warm glow over the brick siding. A few people linger outside, smoking and chatting, hardly sparing me a passing glance as I make my way toward the door. It’s mostly dark inside from what I can tell, but through the windows lined up across the front, I can see the shadows of bodies swaying, flickers of multicolored lights bending over their forms. Muffled rock music sounds from within, the vibrations causing the structure of the bar to pulse like a beating heart.

An onslaught of sight and sound greets me when I push my way inside the bar. The contrast to earlier is startling, in more ways than one.

Pausing with my hand gripped around the door, I wait for my eyes and ears to adjust.

Clapping and stomping make a familiar beat as Pop Evil’s “Deal with the Devil” draws to a powerful close. The cheering escalates as the steady drum beat picks up, closely followed by a screeching guitar riff that sends chills up my spine. A split-second break in the crowd allows me to spot Mason’s lit-up profile just as he leans in to belt the last line. Girls scream as he carries the final note well beyond the final beat—raw and guttural; it leaves me gaping in awe.

Well, hot damn. And to think I worried they’d be some cringey cover band I’d have to drink my weight in alcohol to get through. Yeah, Mason was all about playing piano as kids, but aspiring to be a hopeful concert pianist is one thing. Becoming a goddamn rock god is another.

This was about the last thing I expected for some divey bar in a small middle-of-nowhere town. The crowd alone rivals some of the venues I’ve been to back in Philly. Like Union Station, but on a far, far smaller scale. The vibe, though—the energy—is still the same, and it’s fucking addictive.

Someone bumps into me from behind, and I mumble an apology as I force my feet to move. It’s slow-going as I have to squeeze my way through the thick throng of bodies separating me from the bar. It’s hard to believe this is the same place I stood in hours earlier.

I can see now why they need someone to work security. It’s fucking insane.