They still pile in. Within days of their eighteenth birthday they drive themselves there, id’s in sweaty-palmed hand, and present themselves to be allowed. Into the heat and the smoke and the sweat and the guitars. Where men with skinny limbs and tattoos serve them cokes with looks of bemusement. Old enough to listen but not enough to imbibe. Here for the music only. They’re all the more passionate for it. Once the clock ticks over to twenty-one they’re over it, and they might go somewhere else. But for those years between eighteen and twenty-one they’re allowed into a place where the microphones squeak and the soundboard fizzes and pops and sometimes you can hear really good music. Sometimes.