Brian Jonestown Massacre takes the stage. All nine, ten or eleven of them. It's loud. Heavenly, but loud nonetheless. Three guitarists are bound to make them ears ring. Somehow, it's hard to make sense of everything happening on the stage. Gill-stuffed with musicians, slumped, draped and/or crouched over their instruments with varying levels of concentration etched into their faces—it's like some otherwordly ritual we're interrupting.