San Francisco's legendary Fillmore housed in a fairly nondescript brick building in one of those decidedly less upscale neighborhoods. From the outside, it's hardly glamorous, and the load-in through the fire escape doesn't exactly do wonders for the initial perception, either. However, as with many things in life, it's what inside that counts. This spacious and well-used but well cared-for dance hall (equipped with two rows of exquisite chandeliers) is home to a phenomenal gallery that sprawls over the walls of the hallways and the upstairs bar and lounge. Every Fillmore poster ever created has a place on the wall, and the posters are only part of the collection. Astonishing photographs of rock icons, taken at the Fillmore and elsewhere, are also present. The Fillmore may only be a dance hall, but the extraordinary events that have taken place here, been documented here, and been commemorated here, make this space different from all others. This is a place where history doesn't just come to life; it lives and thrives here, and it's made and remade again and again. Tonight, that proud tradition continues.

First up is Mike Watt, with his current bass/organ/drums trio, The Secondmen. Like Watt himself, organist Pete Mazich and drummer Jerry Trebotic hail from San Pedro, California. They've driven nine hours for this, the first of four shows that Watt (arguably the hardest-working man in the business) will play over the next thirty-six hours, and have to head home immediately after they play tonight. Brutal though the schedule is, they're excited to be here, and it's highly infectious; the moment the first strains of " Boilin' Blazes" erupt from the PA, the crowd fairly surges forward, drawn in by the incredible energy that has made Watt a veritable titan among his peers. Watt and the Secondmen roar through eight songs, ranging from the opening triplet of of new material to brief forays through Watt's substantial body of work to covers ranging from Roky Erickson to Madonna to Blue Öyster Cult, an eclectic yet effective combination delivered with honesty, passion, and sincerity that pulls the audience in and leaves them begging for more long after the all-too-brief set concludes.

Silkworm are up next. Pausing briefly to thank the audience for coming early enough to see them, they charge straight into their set. The scattered distraction that had developed in the wake of Watt's opening set is suddenly gone, replaced by a slightly bewildered mixture of rapt attention and stunned enjoyment as the oddly uptempo opener, "Treat the New Guy Right," gives way to the downer "Bourbon Beard," which then roars into the pounding drive of "The Third." The shifting tempos and moods continue through the set, with songs about everything from relationships to Alaska to observations and musings about life. There's something here for anyone who cares to listen, and tonight, there are a lot of people listening.

Although Tim Midgett insists he can hear one person booing, and Michael Dahlquist later announces that he's too depressed to play the next song, Silkworm are well received by the audience. Opening spots are seldom easy, and tonight is certainly no exception to that rule; however, the band take it all in stride and manage to win a few new fans, if not at least respect for Kadane's ability to play while passing a kidney stone (even if he did try to leave the stage before the last song; however, his bandmates made him, and the audience, stay for one more —hey, turnabout's fair play, sometimes).

And then...the moment everyone has been waiting for. The atmosphere is heavy with anticipation, and there's a growing air of electric excitement as everyone senses that something monumental is about to happen. A sense of awe suffuses both the audience and the stage; it's as if nobody can quite believe that this is happening here, even as the first strains of the opening " Red" burst from the PA. The reaction is immediate and primal as the intensity mounts with a headlong charge into " Peking Spring," which rolls straight into a scorching " Dumbells." The first set is a tremendous exercise raw power and fury (it's revealed later that Peter was furious over some technical problems during the first set—he thought it was a disaster but, as Burma historian Eric Van wrote in the September 2002 edition of The Noise, "What he doesn't realize is that he's taking his fury out on the drumkit and is playing as brilliantly and as powerfully as I've ever seen him.")

The second set gets off to a somewhat shaky start with the opening " Secrets" and " Dirt," which are delivered with enthusiasm, energy, and a slightly off-key guitar ("I thought something sounded weird!")—hey, nobody's perfect. Following a slight adjustment, the band slams into a blistering version of "This is Not a Photograph," which admirably sets the tone for the rest of the set. Although short of the four hours apiece jokingly promised (threatened?) by Peter Prescott (well, he did say he was lying), the two short sets are delivered with at least as much energy and spirit as some bands' whole careers. The set ends with an extended overture of noise that shreds the PA, and any and all eardrums in range, right before an unrelenting, furious " Fun World." This is flat-out annihilation, and it's a glorious way to go.

But we're not done yet...