The Temple Bar

            
             From the outside, the Temple Bar is a 17th century European castle; its appearance hinting that there might be a dungeon somewhere in its bowels. It is black and accented with brick red speckled paint. The hundreds of young music lovers anxiously waiting to get inside obscure the entrance. A few dance out of line, checking the door, as if they can will the line to move. Some talk-exaggerated crap like, "what's up with the damn doorman?- Or, "what's taking that mofo so long?- Others are animated about the band, their current gods. Or they swap the latest trashy trivia about the band members. And a few are just chilling, knowing that the Temple Bar is about more than the music, it's about seeing and - more important - being seen in this happening place. They are lithe and sleek and animal healthy, posturing in the latest fashions. .
             It seems odd that anyone pays ten dollars to sweat it out in this cramped, crowded building for a couple of hours. But these people do it with joy. They see it as a wonderful investment in their musical subculture; a mindless, feeling adventure that will carry them through the week, until the next event. Security opens the doors and the crowd stampedes toward the front of the line. They want to be first to a favored spot near the stage. The people already inside were on the guest list. They are the real fans. They know someone who knows someone, or at least who to pay off. The throbbing of the drums surges up the nerve endings. A smooth base permeates one's being upon entering the front door. Ah, yes, this is what we come for.
             Down the long, dimly lit hallway, intoxicated voices chant with the music. Some yell the artists name while others are screaming or singing along with the music. The club has a primal atmosphere of uninhibited freedom. The floor appears and feels as if it has not been finished. It is very rough, like sand paper and is black with gray streaks mixed in.