First Smithwick’s.

You walk in the tavern and the music takes you. It’s a man by the door with a flannel shirt and an electric-acoustic guitar belting out covers to songs. The place—an intimate affair packed to the gills with startup geeks alternatively hawking their social, geolocated wishlists for the hashtag enabled crowd; trying to impress the three girls in attendance; or sitting by the sides, staring into space—is cast in stark sepia and hard shadows from the ceiling lights.

But the guitar player preserves. The Fresh Prince of Bell Aire and the Beatles alike make spirited appearances to the half-dozen paying attention to the music.

One once-pop song after another leaves a few, myself included, singing along, our mouths making words that disappear into the din. I love it. It’s life. Cold beer; techno dreams; and hard, acoustic reality; mixing into one at this time and in this space.

Second Smithwick’s.

Dreadlocks and a song flute. More traditional music in the basement of the Stag Tavern on Dame Lane. The song stops and Dreadlocks switches to a mandolin. Whiskey in the Jar starts. The sound echoes on itself before it’s diminished in the stone-walled space so that the lyrics are dashed to smithereenes.

The Indians in the corner are amused. The Irish red-head by the bar is bouncing along in time. And the only reason you can follow it all is that you already know the words by heart.

Songs come and go.

You Can Call Me Al returns. A duet this time. Different hands and different mouths.

The same spirit.

Third Smithwick’s.

I’m in a tavern with a German, a French woman, and an Austrian. The band is from Portland. On a stage with blue lights. It’s fantastic. Everyone is dancing. Rock makes the world go round.

The drum has a reflective cover. It shimmers every time they hit it.

There’s no room for your thoughts here, only bass.

Bodies on the dance floor.

The end of the night.

A cab back to Ballsbridge.

Bob Marley on the radio.

Rain on the windshield.