Nestled at the foot of the hills in Silverlake and laced into a sleepy little neighborhood, Spaceland was a disco in its Eighties heyday. These days, it features Latino Lesbian Night on Sundays and some of the savvier indie performances in town during the rest of the week. My friend Calvin and I arrive 10:00-ish with little fanfare out front. Slipping past the mirrored foyer and into the single open room which spreads out toward the back, accommodates pool tables and curves right toward the stage, Calvin and I went right to the bar and ordered hamburgers. They serve food, but it takes a fuck of a long time to get it.

11:30 PM PST

The crowd was fully fleshed out by the time opening band Rex finished an excellent set. And with lights up, the milling of suede-jacket-backpack-hair-dyed lovelies and unkempt, polyester-blended lads became the dance of the insular crowd. It's a conspicuous scene, always, but it's good. There's time to shoot some pool as the Grifters began setting up on stage.

12:00 AM PST

After a half hour, the Grifters, dressed in t's and jeans, made vague overtures toward the start of their set. Clustering up attentively before the stage, the crowd heard the first intimations of a performance almost imperceptibly taking shape -- a slightly phased guitar strummed along by itself for several minutes, picked-up in time by a high-hat; a minute or so later, the bass entered the fold. It had a mood. And then singer/guitarist Dave Shouse offered, "As you watch us, thinking 'what the fuck is going on,' please keep in mind we're not a major label band." With this, the lingering parts wove themselves together with an intuitive sensibility that ultimately turned into their opener, "Bummer."

12:09 AM PST

To the lingering rhythm of the same phasing guitar, Shouse, slightly annoyed, says in a slow sing-song voice, "This is like fucking NASA. We've been having some technical problems up here. But everything's working out. We'll have a cloudless starry night. Everyone will have a good time, no one will get hurt on the way home. We'll all wake up tomorrow and say, OK!" And then they slip into "10,000" with Scott Taylor on vocals.

12:25 AM PST

Past the tech troubles and now fully focused, the Grifters break into "Covered With Flies." Their disjointed, blues-inflected sound and staccato rhythm section stand in relief to the song's hallucinatory riff -- loud and more than a little eerie.

12:35 AM PST

Before the otherwise unlit stage and black dropcloth, two green lights refract up from the floor, making the scene almost solemn when Shouse's Casio sounds out like a cathedral organ as Scott sings the loving-lament, "Show Day."

12:40 AM PST

The bad apple: a chunky guy, teetering and swaying, belts out, "How 'bout 'Fuck You.'" To the disruption, Shouse, untrammeled, responds, "Hey, that's serious."

12:41 AM PST

Overtaken by a fat, grueling bass line, the Grifters slug their way through "Radio City Suicide" (a reference to Memphis' own Chris Bell of the legendary Big Star?) which sobers into a focused Flying Nun-minded guitar-bass grind. Then "Boho/Alt," with "Oh to be the sunshine on your ass" in two part harmonized rounds -- a beautiful thing.

12:55 AM PST

Pounding out the stuttered and fractured "Last Man Alive," the Grifters invited Rex drummer Mark up to play a couple of songs. All smiles, he smacked away at a tight-skinned, high-pitched bongo, stage right. Ear piercing. We all feel a freejam coming on but thankfully none materializes.

1:00 AM PST

Rex singer-guitarist Doug joins them on bazouki for "Banjo" -- a huge-sounding piece, cresting into long-form cacophony. It had certain Grateful Dead stylings, helped along by the full-blown vertigo-strobing array of Spaceland's disco-era light show. It was really very cool. Still, the crowd is beginning to get pooped out and has wound itself down to the committed.

1:08 AM PST

In the lingering aftermath of the previous song, and with Rex gone, the Grifters offer "Tat" off their first record. After an extended musical introduction, slow and thoughtful, Scott begins crooning the last song in a thin, pained voice.

1:15 AM PST

With lights up, everyone seems pleasantly dazed. It was a loving grudge match with the Grifters. And with Grifters guitars ringing in our heads, we slip out the door dreaming of what Sunday might bring for our Latino Lesbian sisters.

John Hughes is a free-lance writer based in Los Angeles.