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I Really did my best to focus on the band, Shuttle, because they sounded cool (even though the sound guy didn’t bother to show up). The crowd eventually got drunk enough to dance (which I always advocate), but there was a pervasive sense of seediness I couldn’t quite place. Maybe it was the strip club furnishings, or the cardboard poster of the half-naked cheerleader that fell off the wall and knocked me in the head. Or maybe I am biased to the energy that once inhabited this building and the memories I hold dear to my fleeting ideal of what sets Dallas music apart from the rest of the world. It’s not like that music is gone (I saw Bernard three days ago at Sandaga) — or even that the music that night was any less impressive, I really dig the cerebral intelligence of Shuttle’s electronic funk and Justin Barbee’s impressive simultaneous use of trumpet, keys, and distortion. But I would rather haul my cookies out to Fort Worth to see Shuttle, and that’s exactly what I’ll be doing.

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