My band had a gig last night– just a fun show with some friends at an out-of-the way dive that seems to book a lot of live music. The venue resides in that area of Portland best known for used car lots, conveninence stores and budget motels, and as such, it doesn’t seem to draw much hipster posturing. My impression was, and still is, that it’s mostly a place where local bands play for a few friends.

Usually such a bar gig would mean a laid-back approach to hosting live music: a modest PA system serving vocals alone, a few tables pulled aside to make room for the equipment, and maybe, just maybe, someone paying attention to the soundboard (more often, it seems, bands themselves end up setting the levels). But this place, while still small, cheesy and under-attended, was something else.

The first thing I noticed was the sound engineer– and let’s call him that because he took himself so, so seriously– micro-managing everyone’s time. “You go on in five minutes,” he told the first band as they completed their sound check– an extensive, barked-order test for every one of the 10+ microphones he’d found fit to use on a lo-fi punk band. It was overkill for a room that couldn’t have been more than 20′x30′, but there was no explaining that to the exxxtreeeeeeeme professional. Noticing a couple band members slinking off to the bar for beers, he shouts: “three and a half minutes, guys.”

The band is painfully loud– but it’s not their fault. There’s a pair of Cerwin-Vega mains hung from the 10′ drop ceiling that dwarf the booths cowering underneath, and they’re cranked. The crowd, consisting of maybe twenty friends, moms and girlfriends, is slowly but surely repelled by the decibel level. It’s too loud for even my battered ears.

Finally, it’s our turn on stage. I offer the engineer use of the balanced output on my bass head and he informs me, matter-of-factly, that I don’t have one. Excuse me? “I checked and you don’t,” he barks. I kindly lead him to the clearly labeled array of XLR jacks on my amplifier and we’re rolling. “Five minutes, guys.”

He asks for levels on “the Tele”, but refers to our lead guitarist’s off-brand 335 copy as “the semi-hollowbody.” I’d like to think our shitty gear made him cringe. Hearing a few warm-up licks, he grabs the talkback mic and announces “Well, I hear playing, so you guys are on now.” He kills the house music. Our drummer’s in line for the bathroom. We stand around in silence tuning our guitars.