Last night's Glasvegas show was both more smoke machine- and dude-heavy than we were expecting. As to the former, the sickly-sweet smell of fake fog was evident as soon as we walked in the door. "It's been running since 4 p.m.," the bouncer sighed. As to the latter, we generally expect there to be more men at rock shows than women--that's just how it is--but it was the varying types of dudes that surprised us. Your dad was there, along with a backward-hatted brah, some MBAs straight from the tool factory, and a few Scottish hooligans to cheer their fellow countrymen on. The caveman to our right was way into the show, torso spasming and fists pumping wildly, until he got angry over seemingly nothing about two-thirds through and stomped off in a huff. We were thankful for the douchebag in front of us (for once), because when Glasvegas' strobe lights started to sear our retinas, we could cower behind him and protect our eyes. Help us, Sportcoat Kenobi, you and your meaty head are our only hope! more ›