The woman on the stage is haunted. I see it the moment she walks out, but no one else in the audience seems to have noticed—they’re all still laughing and joking as if nothing’s wrong. For a second, I forget that my career rests in this woman’s hands. I’m rooted to the floor, mesmerized by how protectively she wears her aloofness, how obvious the vulnerability she’s trying to mask.

I can understand why she wouldn’t want to be here on this worn-out stage at the Hideout, playing a venue well past its prime in a California beach town too far north of Los Angeles to count as relevant. But this is also the only place she knows how to be—under a spotlight, her baby-blue Jazzmaster guitar strapped to her chest, living or dying by what the sound of her voice and the power of her words can do to a bunch of strangers.

It took effort to land in the same room as her. I’d had to cancel my meetings and fly cross-country into LAX, rent a car, and drive two hours north up the 101. But the truth is, it’s nice to be out of the office and back in the scene. The stale beer sticking to my shoes and herbal scent of old weed remind me of the shows I used to crash as a teenager in my own shitty dive bar back in Virginia.

The crowd here skews young, and they’re dressed like the band: baggy pants and hoodies, too warm and oversize for California. They have slender tattoos on their fingers and septum piercings and hair dyed pastel colors. West Coast hipsters: more sun bleached and skateboard friendly than the ones I’m familiar with. There are about fifty people total, which is less than you’d want for a band six years into their career on a major label. But the energy in the room—the low thrum of excitement—reminds me of my glory days, back when I was still only a fan, with a nose for bands that had yet to be discovered. Even though the crowd is small, they’re passionate.