While Poizen Ivy was playing hooky in L.A., I took over as the official reporter on the scene. By the way, if we don't watch out, the hypnotic siren call of the hipsters in Silverlake might permanently lure our very own Ivy into the 24-hour traffic jam that is the City of Angels.

I was sent to the Cooler on Friday night in an attempt to judge whether Bottom was the heir apparent to Betty Blowtorch. Of course, it's been a while since I've ventured out to one of these things on my own. The entire gang from Sin City Sounds was unavailable. Feeling a little vulnerable, I resorted to calling my ex-girl friend.

I guess the old cardinal rule about things not starting until 10 PM in this town has been amended by a constitutional convention or executive decree to 11pm. I showed up at 9:30pm (of course, this wasn't early enough to avoid the cover at the door)!

9:30pm on a Friday is a strange time at the Cooler. It's kind of like those old Celtic legends where mundane humans journey into the land of fairies. The Cooler is as schizophrenic as Russell Crowe in "A Beautiful Mind". About half the time, it's your normal bar located in a half-deserted strip mall. The other half, it serves as one of the few punk venues in this town that books out-of-town talent. Around 9:30pm on a Friday is one of those times when the bar undergoes this magical change. One minute, I'm sitting at the bar listening to the cowboy poet to my right telling gay owl jokes and singing along with Shania Twain. The next minute, the transformation begins.

Tina, the drummer from San Francisco's Lost Goat, walks in through the door. She looks as out of place as a panther in a petting zoo. You can tell from her body language that she doesn't know what to make of the sparse local crowd and their choice of music. Soon, however, Fuzz is firing up the stereo with enough punk anthems to fuel the transformation. As the bands set up, the Shania Twain fans drift away and are replaced by a small crowd of people more accustomed to moshing than line dancing.

The crowd was sparse, and it made me wonder whether there was any point in covering this thing. You would think that in a town of a million and a half there would be a better turn-out. Some of these bands have journeyed across the country. The least you could do is travel across town to see them. But my morose thoughts soon disappeared. The first band took the stage. They must have been Dirty Sanchez, but I'll be damned if they had enough stage presence to make themselves known to the crowd. The songs struck me as catchy, but not catchy enough to be labeled pop punk. Frankly, I was failing miserably at my new assignment. Between the alcohol, catching up with the ex, and the two free of packs cigarettes (just like in prison, although I don't recall prisoners having to join the Joe Camel mailing list to get theirs), I was not paying enough attention to give a qualified opinion. Then Lost Goat ripped through their set like they had somewhere they would rather be.

Ryan from Big Lizard Records showed up and seemed to bring the crowd with him. Bottom started a thunderous set at around 12:30 am. It was like standing to close to Niagara Falls. A cascade of sound poured off of the stage. I was struck dumb by the deafening sound and the Jack and Cokes. It was as if they had created an edifice of sound to rival any of Seven Wonders of the ancient world, but in the end they didn't have the raw audacity and stage presence that marked the Betty Blowtorch show last year. As my ex and I parted ways, I wondered to myself if maybe the crowd, including myself, was to blame. If an artist feeds off of the audience, then Vegas didn't give them much of a meal.