I suppose it’s my own naivete and my own fault, but I’ve never really seen any pictures of the band Clinic, so I had no idea what to expect visually. I can tell you that what I imagined (tall skinny lads in skinnier jeans and messy hair) is not at all what came walking out on stage last night. What came out on stage was, in fact, Tommy Bahama and the Sunshine Gang, as all four band members ambled out in fully patterned Hawaiian shirts, crew cuts, and…whaaa? Medical masks. Ok. I guess it’s part of their schtick, but seriously…Hawaiian shirts?

But unlike my experience at the Tommy Bahama restaurant, I wasn’t judging Clinic based on appearances alone, because I am familiar with their music and fully expected them to deliver. And they did. But I never fully got over the visual incongruence.

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You know, every time I think I have this concert thing down to a finely tuned art, something or someone goes and throws a wrench in my perfectly laid plans. Sometimes it’s the venue; other times it’s the parking, or accidentally getting tossed (as James brilliantly pointed out yesterday), or, I guess, actually getting tossed out of the show (which has never happened to me, but heck, I can imagine. Sucks to be THAT guy).

Last night, Jess and I roused ourselves from our 8 p.m. naps and declared that we are STILL. YOUNG. DAGNABBIT. And headed to the Troubadour to check out Destroyer (Dan Bejar of The New Pornographers’ side project). Bejar’s elliptical yelps and swooning guitar drive his latest album, Trouble in Dreams, and it was precisely the hope of some comparatively driving live performance that caused us to plunk down our pennies as well as our first born to Ticketmaster and drive all the way out to the Westside (more or less) at 10 p.m. on a Monday night. A snagged spot on Robertson and a whiskey sour later, we wedged ourselves in the back, near the bar (a mistake I vow not to make again, if only for the annoyance of having to shuffle to the side every time a sweaty hipster nursing a hef needs to use the loo). While pushing through the crowds, I was halted by a traffic jam (and since no one really makes eye contact at these gigs, you sort of just wait until someone shoves through and proceed on your merry way). Caught between a post and a paunch, the owner of said 45-year-old gut grinned and slurred, “You can schtand neshxt to me all you want.”

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