Enablers

Every song begins like a piece of crumpled newspaper - a page torn from a literary glimpse into a bigger picture, into a world of hopes and dreams dashed like so much beer spilt across a bar.

Seconds pass. Pete Simonelli jerks - left, right, far left again, off stage, on stage, to the bar, back again - as if on invisible elastic, its other end attached to Barden's low ceiling. Said ceiling is a coconspirator in the manufacturing of this atmosphere - the air is thick and heavy in the lungs, warm and rich in cigarette smoke. Its accomplice is Enablers, whose music engulfs those in attendance, Simonelli's stories of sex and drink and poetic license gone haywire beguiling all and sundry.

Minutes pass. The paper unfolds, slowly, its secrets kept close to its proverbial chest. Still this man, wiry of frame and fond of nicotine, twitches and tweaks from here to there, his backing trio, every individual a virtuoso, providing the dramatic rock music required when such graphic imagery is at hand. It is born of a punk heard before, but its delivery is such - so extreme and so precise - that all comparisons are off. Enablers don't have any peers residing in the epic spectrum of rock and roll; the closest comparison might be to a poet, or even to a rapper, telling tales on those he interacts with, however passively, from day to week to year.

An hour passes. The page, although still damaged by umpteen unnecessary folds, is now apparent. 'And Last Night?' is offered, a song of a depth not commonly welcome in punk circles. Its subject is personal, yet the insight those here are offered, invaluable. Simonelli spits faster: "Even the smoke from her cigarette disdains to avoid her; the ice in her drink melts quicker than everyone else's."

Our drinks are dry; our dreams enriched by tales of ones gone awry. We leave. The night air cools the burn born of the overuse of the word "visceral". Yet nothing else so simple truly sticks. One fears that no words can ever really do Enablers justice, and that appreciative silence stemming from minutes too many to count stood mesmirised is critical commendation enough.

The page is screwed once more into a ball and tossed aside, ripe for rediscovery by another. Years could pass; the profound effect, though, will remain as electric.