Sometimes going to a show feels a little like trespassing. While music is truly a universal language, its performance is often regulated. The 21+ bars categorically separate young fans from the music they love. I once watched an entire Buzzcocks show through a crack in a venue loading dock. I was literally trespassing that night. Other times the regulation is the result of a carefully curated DIY space. Most cater to an all-ages crowd. Here "all-ages" isn't to be taken too literally. Some are created specifically for women. Others are by and for the queer and trans communities. In Chicago I was once brought cautiously to a DIY venue for Latinx punks. I've never been told explicitly that I'm not invited to a show, but there are some places that a middle-aged, white, straight, cis-gender, man just isn't welcome. Especially when he's wielding a camera. I try to balance my honest intentions to document the bands in these important scenes with the humility to know when my presence is problematic. I hoped I was making the right choice as I drove to Waldo for a gig at Goofball Sk8boards.

After parking, I immediately bumped into three friends representing three of the bands playing the gig. After hugs and small talk, I slipped into the building. The skate park itself was a small approachable room with a half dozen ramps and obstacles – none of them immense or gnarly. The shop at the front door was inviting. First-timers should feel comfortable shopping there, while the hardcore will find the necessities they need. There are other rooms in the warehouse, but I wasn't sure what was public. When I noticed a worn couch in a bright alcove stacked with band gear, I decided to hole up there with my laptop and began developing photos from the previous night's gig. So inconspicuous. So discreet.

Puddle Noir began promptly at 8pm. This is the project of Brandon Roberts. Although he's young, he has been making music for years under various guises and in various genres. Puddle Noir lives at the intersection of a few of those, blending emo with shoegaze and EBM. Through his four-song set, I tried to find the nuance in his compositions and to parse each song's component parts. I failed. Ultimately, I determined that his art lies in the maximalist layering of it all. In each piece, a synth triggered beats that often tumbled and broke, while an electric guitar roiled under a dozen effects pedals, further abstracted by the constant use of a woozy whammy bar. Unintelligible vocals were either buried as part of the monolithic and noisy mix, or delivered above it, high and with a tuneless cold wave disinterest. In both cases, the resulting sound was thick, loud, and bold. And certainly, more experimental than any of the sampled genres might offer separately. Roberts has recorded dozens of digital singles you can find on Bandcamp. Because most of them offer more order and restraint than Puddle Noir's live show, I suggest experiencing the project both ways to get the full picture.

Between acts I ran into a friend who lives in the neighborhood. His mind raced as he imagined booking all-ages shows at the shop, already visualizing the path the cords could snake toward his monitors and soundboard. I imagined it too, and then wondered if his shows could continue to build on the inclusive space owners Harper and Joan Rose have created. Monitors would be nice, but the existing PA provided enough connections for the vocals, keyboards, and backing tracks needed throughout the night. I watched as the next performers began reconfiguring it for their set.

Thong Gag is an ever-shifting project. I could write paragraphs on the permutations that I've seen the band go through, but instead let's focus on this show, because this was the best Thong Gag has ever been. At Goofball, the act was a duo led by the guitar of Olive Cooke and the vocals of Maret Cissner. A laptop provided the beats and loops. Cooke pushed the boundaries of the "stage," moving ever closer to the audience. Her disjointed riffs and wonky no wave guitar work often give audiences false impressions of her skills, but there was no confusion on this night. She delivered rock guitar heroics throughout and stepped into heady fusion territory as well. Somewhere there's a musician with some odd headless six-string bass that would love Cooke's help. Cissner played it coy. Her vocals ranged from nearly rapped to elongated vocal lines. Each was delivered with a cool sarcasm, not a primal scream. She hung from her microphone stand, collapsed to the floor, wandered the stage area, and bewitched the crowd with the band's sardonic feministic lyrics. The result was a focused version of Thong Gag that everyone should see. The project has only shared one recording ("Lithe Psychiatrist") thus far, so find the duo live and hope this version of Thong Gag lasts.

Unlike the show I'd seen at Studio Skate the previous week, there were no skaters hurling themselves over ramps while bands played or even skating between them. No music blared between sets. It was quiet and still. Antiseptic really. I took the time to roam further into the warehouse where I found the peaceful Neither/nor Zine Distro. This is just another way Goofball embraces its scene. I sat in a comfy chair and continued my editing until I heard the next act stir.

The noise was coming from Portland, Oregon's The Names of our Friends. The self-described "gay girl tranny band" features Kansas City emigree Kim Conyers on bass as well as vocalist Claire Heinzerling, guitarist Hellena Christensen, and drummer Luna Rain Ascenzo. And they hit the stage like a ton of bricks. The act is screamo, favoring the most chaotic version of the genre that peaked in the early 2000s. Orchid is a touchpoint the group is comfortable with. The Locust must be as well. Some songs were slower ("Stained Glass Eyelids" featured a lovely indie rock riff from Christensen), while some songs were absolute blasts of Ascenzo's double bass, Christensen's chugging hardcore guitar, and Heinzerling's suddenly blackened screeches. Thirty years ago, the band would have played with Behead the Prophet No Lord Shall Live, and each would have delighted at bringing death metal to queercore or vice versa. But, of course, few in the audience were alive then. One member of the audience seized the opportunity, thrashing about, stomping and convulsing to the hardcore. But that person was in the minority. There were no creepy crawlers with their side-to-side action. No tumblers rolling across the smooth concrete floor. At another venue the band's amazing energy would have set the room on fire, but this crowd remained subdued. The audience was happy to watch from a respectable distance, some of them seated politely on the ramps. Most of the set drew from the quartet's just-released cassette Should We Know Better Than to Wonder?, so if you missed this gig, you can head to Bandcamp and get caught up.

Headliners Dreamist set up quickly. Maybe Goofball has a curfew, or maybe the band is just a well-oiled machine. After all, most of Dreamist has been playing together for a decade. The current foursome lines up as Kole Waters (vocals/guitar), Elisha Ruhman (guitar), Jacob Kingsley (bass/synth), and Mitri McCawley (drums). Each player is accomplished and singular, and each of their songs is exquisitely crafted and flawlessly executed. The half-hour set began with two new songs from upcoming album, Shouldn't Be. Current single "Abyss" was especially transcendent. The group has determined that it is post-rock, but emo plays just as big of a part – it's just a controlled version of the genre without histrionics or off-key vocals. Each of the four songs played set a mood, planted a seed, and flourished to something bigger. There were mighty crescendos and the prerequisite corresponding quiet introspective parts. McCawley conducted these shifts from their throne at the back of the room. The quartet was well-rehearsed. Throughout the set Ruhman sculpted feedback like a master artisan. Sometimes he also erupted like a volcano – lunging forward, thrashing with his guitar, and playing it above his head. Kingsley's energy was nearly as high during the pinnacles, and the bits he added from his DAW added nuance and depth. Waters' vocals were astonishingly solid. Despite a lack of stage monitors (or a stage, for that matter), every note was sung perfectly. Or maybe the biggest excitement came from the portable light rig that projected swirling polka dots of every color onto the band (and all the night's bands). It may not have been the perfect visualization for the gig, but it added interest. And anticipating the patterns to capture just the right photo turned out to be a fun game for me.

Most of the audience stuck around outside after the show. As I ope'd past them under the streetlights I noted that there weren't many familiar faces. These aren't the people I see at Hillsiders or Minibar or even at Farewell every week. I don't know who they are, and I'm sure they don't know who I am. However, I do hope they invite me back to enjoy their scene and to experience the music that we all love. I don't want to be a trespasser.