Last night I went to go see Ray's band, Truman Sparks. They were supposed to play at Millcreek, a West Philly venue that Emily and I had been to before. We'd gone to see the final show by Bear Attack, a now-defunct punk band known for dressing up as an owl, bear and hunter and performing a catalog of songs solely concerned with bears and their sundry activities. Sadly, the band wasn't in costume for their final show (I'm told that costume-related disputes are the reason they broke up), and it soon became apparent that their foremost and perhaps only non-ursine distinguishing characteristic was volume.

Millcreek was a weird venue. Picture a personality-free "fitness center" from a timeshare condo development, then imagine using it to serve alcohol — that covers the physical structure, at least. The bartender eyed us suspiciously, distributing Miller Lite while silently assessing our allegiance to Philadelphia's sports teams. A steady progression of black, middle-aged couples arrived and immediately went upstairs and past a second bouncer, not paying any attention to the show or bar — it's still unclear whether their destination was a poker club, a swinger's club, or both. Outside, a West Philly club kid took drags from a cigarette and earnestly told us a story about entering into a sham green-card marriage with a guy she met on the road; each of them assumed the marriage was interracial until they stopped traveling and showered.

The venue was teetering on the edge of civilization in what I'm assured is a distinctly West Philadelphian way. Ray & co. showed up to play Milcreek and found it was closed. The only option left was left was to tumble right over that edge.

So instead we ended up heading to The Philadelphia Institute For Advanced Study, the online hilarity of which probably can't be appreciated unless you've set foot in the place. Located in Fishtown's warehouse-and-murder district, the building is actually a former sheet metal storage facility that's been taken over (by UVA alums, according to Ray) and converted into artists' studios. It was freezing cold, full of broken electronic slot machines, and in a wholly deserted neighborhood. After doing some superficial equipment unloading Emily and I set out in search of beer, but found only rotting industrial carcasses. The traffic consisted solely of very occasional ricers tearing down the wide, empty boulevards at 80 mph, killing time until the next Fast and the Furious movie is released.

Somehow we managed to get back to the warehouse without being robbed or murdered. The band had acquired some PBR tallboys in the meantime, which made the earnest Minneapolitan openers' set considerably easier to take. After their triumphant acoustic-guitar-and-clarinet alt country finale, the crowd retired to the more rock-capable photography department, where Truman Sparks made good on their promise to melt our faces off amidst scattered photochemicals. At some point a threatening-looking guy in gold chains and an orange blazer showed up wearing airport-style ear protection. But he didn't end up trying to murder us, either, which was strangely disappointing.

But the show wasn't. I'm sure the band would've preferred to be somewhere with heat, comped beers and a functioning PA, but I don't really feel any need to revisit Mill Creek until I'm a graying African-American professional looking to spice up his marriage. PIFAS was rock and roll, goddammit, and I had a great time.