Scanning the Bullfinch Bar & Grill midweek, like that ancient kids’ TV show our parents told us about where a woman held a mirror and called roll…

Smallest first. There’s little Millie. Her cute crushes on scenesters are legendary. So is what she does for the scene as a promoter, radio DJ, zine editor, band leader and foremost fan. Her heart’s really in this. Look, she’s glowing.

Next, the oldest: Eustace, aka Useless (a self-deprecation he himself coined for one of his albums), aka Yoost, a guy who had records out when records were records, when labels were labels, when the drinking age was three years lower. Important because he not only continues to make money off of music, he still goes out to see other people make it.

There’s Sonny Blitt of the blats. Bad business decisions (and weak bass playing) have shaken a good band—and we’re talking stuff that would be nickel and dime in another industry but can cause chaos and starvation in thus one. (Did we just call this scene an industry? Shoot us)

Now we spot three former bandmates, in separate corners of the room, eying each other warily. All have new acts debuting as soon add they can find drummers. Amusing, since two of these folks used to be drummers.

There’s W.G. Harvest, the acoustic folksinger. He’ll tell people he’s here to scout talent for his Open Mic, but he’s really hanging around waiting for a bus, like he does every Wednesday night after choir practice at his church.

Look, there’s an entire band sitting together. That’s a rarer phenomenon than you think. For a lot of locals, rehearsing is all the socializing they need.

Us, we’re just watching. Any minute now, an awkward moment or a fight will break out.

Stay tuned. Off each other.