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• Birdy's

Exit Clov on stage at Birdy's. (Neal Taflinger for The Star)

Lauren Eison, 24, at Birdy's Bar & Grill. (Neal Taflinger for The Star)

Clint Walker, 30, Adam Kerr and Michael Guimont, 30 at Birdy's. (Neal Taflinger for The Star)

St. Exit Clov plays at Birdy's. (Neal Taflinger for The Star)

10:13 p.m.

I run into a crowd just inside the men's room door. "The soap dispenser in the men's room was empty," says a blond woman to singer Noah Hewett-Ball and me. She and the guy I assume is her boyfriend grin. I burst their "caught being naughty" bubble and assure them I don't care what they are doing as long as they get out of my way. I have business to attend to.

10:20 p.m.

I'm looking down on the crowd -- literally, not figuratively. A balcony overlooks Birdy's cavernous main room, and while it offers an additional bar, billiards table, and seating, it's not much of an escape. The sound follows you, so you might as well watch the show. All of local weirdo rock band Everthus the Deadbeats is dancing with friends to Exit Clov of Washington, D.C. Singers and multi-instrumentalists Susan and Emily Hsu evoke Belly and the Cranberries, pulling off harmonies otherwise possible only in the studio for vocalists who don't have identical twins.

10:50 p.m.

Lauren Eison, 24, is a Muncie resident, but never crossed paths with the Deadbeats before their exodus to Indianapolis. "I never go to shows in Muncie," the Ball State University student said. "I haven't seen (Everthus the Deadbeats) yet." But she does her partying in Indy and knows members of the band now and wanted to see the band and show support tonight.

The amount of support Indianapolis is showing tonight is encouraging. I've booked, played, and attended too many shows over the years that featured amazing musicians from Central Indiana and points beyond, but were abject disasters. For too long, no one could be bothered to take a chance on a band or get off the couch to see a good show. I was afraid that would be the case tonight, but the bar filled in after the first band's set.

11 p.m.

Clint Walker stands out in a crowd. Between his gauged ears, loud shirt, broad grin, and the fact that he is a mountain of a man, the 30-year-old is not going anywhere unnoticed. Walker, Michael Guimont, also 30, and I shoot the breeze for a couple of minutes about Lord of the Yum Yum, the vocal performance artist headlining tonight's show. Turns out that the Lord was intermission entertainment at the only roller derby bout that I missed last year, and Walker has been a fan ever since.

Adam Kerr hovers on the edge of our conversation before leaning toward me and saying, "I hope you broke your hand punching somebody for buying 'Growing Pains' DVDs." I look at my splinted right hand, laugh and ask him what he has against the cheesy 1980s vintage family sitcom. "Alan Thicke is a douche kabob," he says before turning around and walking away. Walker, Guimont, and I share a laugh born partly from amusement and partly from confusion.

12:10 a.m.

Lord of the Yum Yum has taken the stage, creating loops of beats and sounds made with his mouth. References to the A-Team and "Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom" have me doubled over with laughter. I'm amused. I'm also confused. I could have stayed in tonight, but I decided to take a chance. Not all gambles pay off, but tonight's score makes up for a lot of nights that didn't turn out so well.