Sometimes a quick write-up is warranted because the show was similarly short – no need to write a novel about a poem. Sometimes it's necessary when a show goes late – tired minds miss details and blend bands and songs together. This show was a long one.

Harrisonics started the night with an ample set. Power-pop in a style that draws both from the '90s revival and the Raspberries' heyday but skips the energetic skinny-tie era in between. Lots of covers from different corners of the world (Wire, Richard Thompson, Yo La Tengo, The Beatles) and some (but not all) of my favorites from the band's own Love Songs for All Occasions. That album came out five years ago. Maybe it's time for another album. There was a new song, and it was a winner, so I'm saying there's hope. Everyone sang lead on at least one song and, on the rest, added impressive backing vocals. There's something loose and fluid about the band. The stakes may be low for the middle-aged trio, but the quality is high. I never miss a gig.

A pair of St. Louis acts followed. Was this by happenstance or design? I'll never know. Jeffy & the Sunken Heads were in the middle slot. This foursome features a trombone and delivers as much comedy as punk. And as much rock as punk too. When Gerry Lundquist's horn hit a la Rocket from the Crypt, it was dynamite. Most songs were more memorable for their subject matter than composition: Jerks who crowd you when you're flipping through vinyl at the record store, bad drivers, classic metal, vintage Atari games, and wrestling – just the core things that a man of a certain age must concern himself with on a daily basis. The banter of Jeff Hess had the crowd going. And despite their self-professed cranial deformities, the rhythm section kept the party moving. Silly, but endearing.

I don't know who The Bitter Ends are. Without a backstory, I merely saw four dudes from St. Louis making Detroit-styled proto-punk. That was enough to keep my eyes glued to the stage. As the long set unfolded, every song was fuzzed out and most were delivered with '60s garage vim. The long grey hair of the Rickenbacker-toting bass player suggested he was a survivor. Turns out everyone in the group is. Each of them has been in a dozen bands over the last 35 years. Many of them recombining in The Bitter Ends for their second or third go-around together. A history of Midwest garage, pop-punk, and power-pop projects stretching back as far as the ear can hear. This assemblage's set stretched into the morning, and the room thinned accordingly. The quartet soldiered on undaunted, dripping with sweat. I found myself fading during the meandering numbers and dancing during the tight ones. My night became a rollercoaster. The room was hot, it was late, and, sure, the Advil kept me vertical, but when the music ended, I was happy to rush out the door, focused on my bed. When I laid my head down on the pillow, ears still ringing, I wondered if I should have bought a copy of the act's self-titled CD. Next time. Now sleep.