Suffering as payment

It was too late to go out; I knew that. We were both tired, yet we went anyway. Someone we've known for several years, an excellent stand-up and electric bass player, had a gig within walking distance of our home. We hadn't seen him for a while, and one of us, however pie-eyed, was dying to go out and hear music. It was fun; the little restaurant-cum-dive was dimly lit, and full of odd little side rooms into which you couldn't really see without peering intrusively. The little group - bass, keyboard, trumpet, drums and vocalist - energetically hopped into their "dirty funk" performance. Never have I heard Jim Morrison "funked up." No doubt the Lizard King was squirming in whatever dimension his messed-up essence resides, as last night's singer sent funkily distorted strains of "Break on Through" off into the night air. The guy flung out whatever sounds he'd been influenced by, from Sly Stone to Hendrix, with a raft of current hip hop themes in the mix. At the end of their first set, the drummer mellifluously "went to church" at the end of a number.
A very joyful young woman bopped into the tiny dance space next to the band, took one look at us and pulled us up to join her. She was quite the party facilitator. We may have been grooving around to a funkified rendition of "Foxy Lady." Blessed, blessed dim lighting...
Fun, but I got to sleep too late, slept too badly, and probably shouldn't have had that second beverage. it's taken all day for the ice pick to disappear from the side of my head; but I'd do it over, and I'll do it again someday.