By Dave Schilling

On a cloudy September day in San Francisco recently, I had the pleasure of making a lap around the hot music spots in the city; Café du Nord, the Independent, Slims, etc.

The City By The Bay boasts a prodigious number of world-class concert venues, and it’s hard to see every show worth seeing.

I had an appointment to score some mushrooms off of an old college professor that evening, but seeing as he had to cancel in order to curate an orgy at his sister’s house, I was given a rare free evening to sample some of the lesser-known bands in the local indie “scene.”  Being a successful journalist, it’s easy for me to get free tickets to shows like this.



I had my assistant snag me the best seat in the house

I squeezed into my flannel shirt, threw on my Ray Bans, popped the top on a frosty Pabst, shoved a particularly squirmy gerbil up my ass and made my way to a little hole-in-the-wall called Edinburgh Castle.  Edinburgh Castle is a local watering hole frequented by San Frannys (my own little nickname for people out here) who like the finer things in life, such as indie music, a cold beer, stimulating conversations about important topics, f*cking, Bret Easton Ellis novels, and being unable to hold down a job that doesn’t include standing at a register or carrying a mop of some kind.  I was certainly in a pubeless, intellectually stimulating form of heaven. 

At the “Castle” (as drunk local people call it, to prevent themselves from slurring too many syllables), I saw a band that pulsated with the energy previously found only within a classic band like The Pixies, the philosophical teachings of Kant or an aching, throbbing phallus.  They called themselves Endroit.  I don’t speak anything but American, but I was told “Endroit” is French for “White Power.”



Little known fact about these young lads: their lead singer is Don Johnson’s youngest son.  Can you tell which one is him?

I didn’t hear much of their set, as I was in the bathroom doing blow, but I heard from a guy who doesn’t like the band at all that their set consisted of 5 songs, most of them about a gentleman who operates a neighborhood confectionary automobile.  My favorite of their tracks is called “Don’t Touch Me There, Ice Cream Man.”  Hauntingly beautiful, reminiscent of Bruce Springsteen on acid; with splendiferous use of the bass guitar, Moog synth, and the xylophone.  Another track, “Ice Cream Man, Stay Away,” made me once again appreciate judicious smatterings of accordion in indie power pop.   I admit almost crying during their grand finale, a solo piano tune called “When You Hear Truck, You Must Run.”  I had finally made it out of the bathroom and was touched by what I heard.