I need your advice. Suppose you noticed an upcoming gig on a night that you had free, but you had never heard of any of the three acts playing. Now imagine a cursory click revealed that one of the touring acts was the reincarnation of a band that you remembered liking 27 years ago. Would that be enough for you to make the hour drive each way? To sit in a noisy club for three hours? What if the show was a Replay Lounge matinee, does that change the math? For me it does. I figured that the worse that could happen is I would spend a pleasant summer evening reading my book on the patio while bands I wasn't enthralled with for did their thing lit by the setting sun. Plus, I'd still be home in time to catch Perry Mason on MeTV. I decided that was enough for me, but reader, am I making good choices?

At 5:30 the club's usual entrance on 10th Street was still closed. Curious. When I opened the normally barred front door to peek inside, I was immediately met by a chipper agent who asked for $5 while explaining that it was too hot for an outside show. Bother. Seeing that the first band was just beginning to set up on the small indoor stage in the empty room, and now smitten with the idea of reading in the shade, I slipped out to the empty patio and claimed a booth. At 6pm I walked back into the club and found it bustling and foreign. The audience was old. I saw no friends and spotted no regulars. Oh no, what had I done?

Opening the night was Pool Boy Party. The group pitched themselves as four "cool moms" accompanied by their barely legal pool boy bassist who brings them their drinks. Wait, is this a sex thing? No, we were equivocally assured – after all, the pool boy's mother was one of the guitarists. The first incarnation of Pool Boy Party was put together by the mentors at River City Rock Camp – a sort of School of Rock for kids and adults where musicians are assembled, assigned cover songs, coached through practices, and are provided a showcase at a local venue. Years after that baptism the band is still going. The quintet started with a cover of "Dreams" (The Cranberries) and followed with "Teenage Dirtbag" (Wheatus) before sliding in one of their own. The rest of the ten-song set bounced between covers and originals allowing each of the moms a turn on lead vocals and a go at presenting their own songs. Despite the range of voices, musicianship, and song craft, the set hung close to mid-tempo alt rock throughout. There were several moments of sweet harmony, and several bum notes. Despite the high spirits, none of the musicians played with much energy, though there were plenty of smiles across the front of the stage from Beth Romano (keys), Marie Treichel & Rebecca McAnnula (guitars), and Tanner Treichel (bass). Drummer Amber Watts Hall was mostly obscured, though she still managed to provide much of the banter between songs. Or maybe Romano spoke more. Actually, they were all pretty chatty. "This one is about superheroes," one said. "...in LUV!" another added. The audience was a mix of friends and relatives that spanned multiple generations. The oldest of which sat in the back at the room discussing tractors while the band worked through its set. After taking only a handful of pics I hid as well – this wasn't so much a gig I should photograph as it was a private party that I had crashed. Oops. The festivities ended with an enjoyable high-octane cover of The Dollyrots' "Because I'm Awesome." It seemed that 50 minutes in and Pool Boy Party was just getting started.

Between sets I retreated to the patio again where I found a kindred spirit deep in a book of his own. Thirty minutes later I returned to the club with replenished vitamin D levels and ready for the next band. As I feared, the room had nearly emptied. Pool Boy Party's friends and family had chosen to return to their lives.

Guidon Bear are from Olympia, Washington. Like every lifer I've ever met from that town, both Mary Water (vocals, guitar) and Pat Maley (electronic drums, triggers) were exceptionally friendly, sincere, empathetic, and odd. This duo has been making music together for decades, including the 1997 album I referenced earlier when the twosome performed as Little Red Car Wreck. White Guidon Bear is a linear progression from that earlier band, I'm told the new name has a better energy. Change is good. Along for this tour was Water's daughter, Francis Sharp who provided vocals and an occasional train whistle. Water introduced her daughter, then pivoted, noting, "I'm not related to him," referencing Maley. Sharp quickly chimed in "He's not my dad." And that is the most teenage thing I've ever heard.

The band's set focused predominately on songs from the just-released Internal Systems. It's a curious album that ranges from folk to synth-pop to indie pop. The album's lyrics dig deep into Water's psyche as she works through trauma, how to appreciate family, and a too-connected life. Kimya Dawson might be a good touchstone for someone stretching to imagine that intersection. Live the songs were presented differently. The music was wilder and more lo-fi. Water's worn and comforting voice still sat at the forefront, but on stage she was usually doubled by Sharp. There were no blood harmonies or attempts at blending from the women. Instead, two voices delivered the same lyrics each with their own choices on inflection, and occasionally, cadence. On this night Water's voice was also propped up by Halls as she battled a cold. The trio are tent camping across the country on this tour, and the night before the band experienced a proper Midwestern thunderstorm. Everyone and everything got wet. Water's acoustic guitar wouldn't work so her electric had to make do. Another electric crackled ominously. Still, she strummed and picked through songs while Maley triggered samples ranging from keyboard lines to pre-built rhythms. Occasionally he played his beats live. Most songs were somber and slow while a few bounced. The joyful Spanish-language "Pagasarri" had the small audience dancing to the whistles, computerized beeps, and percussive melody from what could have been a sampled marimba. Like most songs, Water prefaced that one with a long introduction where she recalled the beautiful hike in Spain's Basque region that the song references. Before playing single "Lifting," Water explained the song is about riding her e-bike to the school where she teaches sixth grade. That song is evidently the only one of her songs that they'll tolerate. Someone from Pool Boy Party offered that the audience were mentally sixth graders so everything should work out. And it did. The band closed its 35-minute set with the delightfully twee "Workaholic" from that now oft-mentioned 1997 album. I may have begged them for that. I regret nothing.

After buying a still rain-soaked shirt, I again vanished to the patio. The only problem with smoking patios is that people smoke on them. Still night had fallen, and it was good to be outside. Also, I relished the thought of returning to find the room dramatically changed as it had the previous two times I'd left. What would I find this time? When I opened the club door at 8:30 I was disappointed to find precisely nothing had changed. It's possible that the magenta, yellow, and green spotlights shone brighter on the headliner in the darker room, but the Replay remained empty save for the opening bands that lined the bar and walls and a couple of friends that sat in the back. I missed the room full of old men talking about tractors.

The evening's headliner and last combo standing was Crown Cassette. They're from the other side of the tracks – the side that rock bands inhabit. The side that includes bands that can pack Vivo or Voodoo Lounge and are championed by DJs on commercial rock stations. The side that I seldom encounter and that I am always befuddled by. Crown Cassette lines up as Sabrena Jo (vocals), Thad Reist (guitar), Billy Skorupski (bass), and Kori Staab (drums). All names that were new to me and remain unknown to Discogs. The foursome opened with its de facto single "Don’t Let It Show." It's defined by guitar leads and driving rhythms, and packs a startling punch – especially when compared to the tender set that preceded it. Jo anticipated this and stated the obvious, "We're a rock band." She said it in a tone that was somehow both conciliatory and defiant. Sorry not sorry. Jo fronts the band. She's got a strong, straight-down-the-center rock voice and lots of energy. The side-to-side steps and hand work suggested backup singer, the kicks and effortless banter said frontwoman. The vibraslap and tambourine could go either way. While Jo drives the stage show, Reist defines the act's songs. Big riffs, loads of leads, and solos in most songs. All revealed his love of hard rock. For one song he switched to a B-Bender. Buck Owens would have been confused. Skorupski may come from a more alternative rock world. His soundcheck included a Janes Addiction bassline (and it wasn't even "Mountain Song"). He's an active finger player and in more than one song, ostentatiously so. Stabb is a superb pocket drummer playing with light sticks, a love for holey quick-decay cymbals, and a click track in her ears. While this assemblage could easily fall into the post-grunge, way-too-serious category, the foursome generally kept it light during its 45-minute set. There was just as much '80s party in the set as there was '90s intensity. A cover of The Pixies "Gigantic" got the members of Guidon Bear dancing. Crown Cassette closed its nine-song set with "Love Song." It features a Randy Rhodes-esque riff, lyrics about a supernatural love shared by two werewolves, and Jo pounding a cowbell. And to think you tried to talk me out of coming to this show. Who makes bad decisions now?