I can see it now, the opening frame is a shoddy bar, where the chongo is piss-warm and the bartender is missing a fistful of teeth. Here, the Gypsies swagger in, slow motion, of course. They look like leather-clad outlaw trash, fresh off the sunset strip, surrounded by the perplexed stares of the locals. They jump up onstage and run through a quick sound check, while spitting back spanglish insults at the threatening patrons. The amps and microphones spark and pop from the frayed wiring, not many rock bands play here.

The Gypsy’s open with a straight punk number laced with a funky flamenco drum and bass line called Close As You'll Ever Be. The set is furious and hard edged, and some of the vatos at the bar grab at their ears and scowl toward the stage. By the end of the set, there’s a dead silence from the audience who don’t quite understand what they just heard. Then, an uproar of flying beer bottles and whoops of approval, even a discharged pistol here and there.
The locals like what they hear.

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