Sign up for our free newsletter

Free D.C. news, delivered to your inbox daily.

I am taking notes, as I’m reviewing the show for the Post. The definitely not thirsty lady next to me starts jostling me during the last song, “Man on the Moon,” and at one point tries to grab my hand and force me to finger-dance alongside her during the “yeah yeah yeah yeah” parts. Politely indicate that I’m working.

She then escalates the bumping-into-me campaign and, during the feedbacky end of the song, shouts, “I HOPE YOU’RE WRITING THIS DOWN BECAUSE THEY’RE FUCKING AWESOME.” I am, in fact, writing down observations about the show. “MY FRIEND WANTS TO TELL YOU SOMETHING,” she shouts. She shoves her friend in front of me and repeats that her friend wants to tell me something. “Yes?” I ask.

“WHOOOOOOOOOOOO!” shouts her friend.

“HE DOESN’T CARE!” the first woman shouts. “HE WORKS FOR A NEWSPAPER!”

Photo from last night’s show by S1acker