I should schedule a sit down with Max to hear about all the changes he has planned for Farewell. I've heard exciting rumors of a new stage, a relocated bar, and a kitchen, but even if none of that happens, the recent excavation of a second room that is now populated with couches and tables has been a huge improvement. No one would call the space cozy, but Farewell has never had boho chic on its vision board – it's a rough-hewn clubhouse to escape to, a DIY space for building community, a dive bar that provides good stories to people in Chiefs and Royals gear who mistakenly stop in due to its proximity to the stadiums, and a music venue to see underground bands play alongside twenty-three other like-minded individuals. They're all vital services.

It was nearly 8:30 when 2w33dy (pronounced like "Tweety") took the stage. I understand that the project has had other names, varying line-ups, and embraced different styles in the past, but on this night the band applied its DIY filter to songs that spanned country and indie rock. I suspect fans of Blanky or Blue Horses of Madness were likely to find comfort in the act's genre-bending and sincerity. 2w33dy has always been led by the vocals and guitar of Kenia Lizet Balquier. Her voice was gauzy, natural, and just a bit pitchy in a very honest and relatable way. Sometimes her fingers tumbled over the strings in pleasant rolls, sometimes they strummed, providing more rhythm than intrigue. There wasn't much room left for lead guitarist Diyana (of Genre and others), but she wasn't shy about layering aggressive leads with lots of quick hammers over top of Balquier. The juxtaposition was unsettling and entirely intentional. Behind them was drummer Bradford Highnam. He played a small, mismatched kit offering lines that were airy but punctuated with tight snare fills. For "River Song" he began the track on lap steel before setting it aside to pick up his sticks. Balquier's banter was conversational, covering both the minutiae and the majora. First, she noted that the band's bassist (Kennedy Spencer) was unavailable, meaning the group was playing shorthanded. Second, she empathized with the crowd about the dark political times. Somehow her point that the world is messed up now, but it always has been, was reassuring. 2w33dy's music is like that too – somehow comforting and still entirely messed up.

Austin's Little Mazarn was up next. Maybe someone in the crowd knew what was coming, but no one I talked to had a clue. That's always fun. Lindsey Verrill fronted the duo playing banjo and providing vocals. Jeff Johnston either provided a sonic base with a pump organ (aka hand harmonium) or melodic accompaniment with his singing saw. The twosome's music was exceptionally slow and open. Verrill picked her instrument so sparsely as to only provide guiding notes. A suggestion of a tune. Only "Texas River Song" worked up to a slow limp, so forget about a three-finger roll. Her voice was spot-on, even when it roamed into a high falsetto. The strength of her drawl varied throughout the forty-minute set. Johnston opened on the pump organ, providing more respiration than melody. His saw, however, added a second vocal line that could harmonize or blend with Verrill. The relationship was collaborative. The room was silent for the twosome's performance. Silent. As a result, Mazarn said some nice things about the room and the Kansas City audience. She also noted that while this was the act's first gig in Missouri, she had often visited Lebanon, Missouri, as a child as part of the cult-like religious sect in which she was raised. A few in the audience nodded knowingly, evidently aware of the particularly strict "one-cup" version of the Church of Christ that calls Lebanon its spiritual home. Little Mazarn's eight-song set was filled with ghosts – maybe that's where they come from.

Farewell is an insular place. I have many friends who are frequent patrons of live music that have never been there. Sure, it's physically out of the way, in an abandoned part of town that has nearly forgotten its own name. But mostly it serves a different type of clientele than the other bars in town that host live music. It's not going to impress most people's coworkers or their Tinder dates. Actually, it might scare them. Finally, it specializes in a different sort of music. I've seen all genres of music at Farewell, so that's not what I'm talking about. It's an approach. It platforms artists that make music for community and ones that have no idea what else they'd do. Typically, that means artists with low profiles and bigger dreams than industry know-how. The headliner on this night, however, would buck that trend. As a result, a third of the room had never been to the club before. For a venue that's usually full of regulars, that's a big shift. That's a headliner with loyal fans. Welcome to Farewell.

Advance Base is the work of Owen Ashworth of Chicago. The project, like Ashworth himself, is soft-spoken and literate. At ten o'clock Ashworth started with three songs from his catalog. Advance Base has nothing resembling hits, and even fan favorites may be a stretch, but these were ones I was happy to hear. Afterward, he introduced himself to the audience, explained that he released an album last month called Horrible Occurrences full of stories he made up about horrible things happening to people in an equally made-up town, and then launched into the opener "The Year I Lived in Richmond." That would be the first of eight songs he'd play from the album.

For fifty minutes Ashworth stood behind a road case that rested on a keyboard stand. It was loaded with his keyboard, a mixer, a few pedals, and an Omnichord. His nondescript electronic piano tone didn't change from number to number and the pedals didn't come into play much – maybe they added a little echo in a couple of songs, or maybe they were used to trigger a beat in a song or three. There wasn't much fussing. Unlike past performances, the Omnichord was used sparingly to add some scratchy, guitar-like accent bits. His vocals were spoken, often in a deep monotone. A few moments were sung, but they weren't lyrics as much as plaintive howls. There were melodic elements – the tune of "How You Got Your Picture on the Wall" is sublime – but they're never developed. So, what's the fuss all about? It's the lyrics. The new album recalls Masters' Spoon River Anthology and lives just as vividly as anything John Darnielle or Craig Finn has ever written. The album is full of stories – small ones about young couples, bigger ones about broken lives that never healed, and others of unexplained (and unwanted) wonder. In the short "Tooth Fairy" a father slips out in the middle of the night to break a twenty for pillow money, but when he returns, he finds his child's bed empty. In "The One About the Rabbit in the Snow," a midwestern blizzard (and they're all Midwestern stories) sets a romantic tragedy in motion. The members of Little Mazarn joined Ashworth on stage for that one. Before starting, he asked if he needed to do anything differently. The duo (on flute and saw) told him to play it straight and they'd chime in where they could. They played it well, and afterwards Ashworth seemed chuffed that the experiment went so well.

To end the night, Ashworth reached back into the middle of the record for "Brian's Golden Hour" – the rest of the set had followed the album in order, magically hitting all my favorite songs/stories along the way. When it was done, Advance Base was done. Calls for an encore were ignored while Ashworth turned to pack up his case.

Epilogue: As I packed my own gear, I watched a new fan rush to the stage. She was trying to place Ashworth into some other context but couldn't come up with it. Ashworth sheepishly offered that he used to play as Casiotone for the Painfully Alone. Self-conscious not because the project wasn't just as brilliant, but because surely everyone at an Advance Base concert is aware of that fact. But this wasn't a fan who had come to Farewell to see him, but rather one of the venue regulars. She lit up at the mention of Casiotone and shouted, "You're kidding!" Taken aback, Ashworth replied, "That'd be a really strange thing to lie about," and then listened politely as his new fan wrapped her head around the news in the most exuberant language possible, exclaiming, "I wasn't supposed to even be here!"

But that's the thing about Farewell – I'm not sure who is supposed to be there. Admittedly, it's a lot: a lot of different things for a lot of different people, a lot to take in, a lot to deal with, a lot to love. And now it even has a lounge with couches. Talk about a vital service!