Liberty Hall is an impressive Beaux-Arts building built in 1912. For a century it's been a Lawrence, Kansas landmark, living different lives as a majestic movie theatre, a world-class live music venue, an opulent disco, an extensive warehouse and more. Under its grand auditorium there's a sprawling labyrinth of mirrored dressing rooms dotted with incandescent bulbs, stone-walled storage areas, and dark alcoves. Each holds memories and mysteries. This is where the show would happen. The entrance to this subterranean otherworld is on the side of the theater at the bottom of an unassuming staircase. Behind that door, all those lives and all that history collide with the present.

The first part of this night takes place in a high plains of Kansas. It's night but the temperature hasn't dropped. A late '70s sedan rushes down a lonely highway. Inside are three thirty-something men. They're hip but rough around the edges. A cassette plays Bob Dylan, The Velvet Underground, and Lee Hazlewood songs on a loop. It's a hazy, musky, and psychotropic mix. A moment later, the three passengers are on stage under blue lights. Blanky. Cunard has a laconic croon that's unadorned and direct. His National guitar is distorted just past chaos, and his frequent use of tremolo only further unbalances the act's indie rock compositions. Behind him, bassist Edward Madill and drummer Jacob E.chord keep a psychedelic groove going – one that could last until the sun came up without ever trying.

The next piece takes place on an early spring day somewhere in North Texas. Slowly the camera cuts through a field of dewy bluebonnets as the sound of Go Sailor gets louder. When the wildflowers finally part, we discover the source of the music is a Hello Kitty boombox covered in stickers. Beside it are four twentysomethings sitting on a quilt. One is braiding the hair of another. One is drawing on her shoes. Another lies on his back squinting at the sun. Or was it a spotlight? Yes, a spotlight, and the four picnickers are suddenly on stage. Paper Jam. Natalie Winkler is bouncing emphatically behind her microphone. She's playing a pink guitar shaped like a daisy. Bassist Cecilia Case Hernandez is more reserved. Her harmonies are lost in the horrible sound. Guitarist Luke Shivers quietly wonders if they should turn down, but drummer Taylor Rivers kicks off another number, unconcerned. Their set is bright, simple, and gloriously lo-fi twee.

The final part takes place in late summer in the Texas Hill Country. The late afternoon sun casts deep shadows on four different kids gathered at the edge of a river. A dangling foot splashes in time to a Heavenly song. When the tune stops abruptly, the camera shifts to someone scrolling on an iPod. A Byrds song begins playing through a small speaker. Satisfied, he sets down his beer, grabs a rope hanging from a pecan tree and swings into the water. When he steps out of the water, he lands not on the riverbank, but on a stage where all four members are now headlining a DIY punk show. Touch Girl Apple Blossom. John Morales is drunk, happy, and his lead guitar is noisy. Dustin Pilkington pogoes while playing bass, only stopping when called upon to deliver backing vocals. Olivia Garner dances while she sings. Her rhythm guitar provides jangle, but it's overshadowed by Morales. Charles Powell concentrates, playing snappy rhythms with plenty of fills. Together they make dangerously fun indie pop.

After a grand finale, everything fades to black. The musicians vanish and two dozen patrons ascend the staircase back to the surface and the present. The next day they'll be wondering if it was all a dream. I'm here to report that it was.