The crowd, meditative, quiet and soundless, listened attentively as the sluggish soundscapes of ten-minute songs like “the kidnapper bell” shattered speakers and melted hearts. Slinky-haired and jittery, the four musicians (three dudes and a stoic, well-dressed female bassist) translated their beautiful jagged language for a group of respectful, like-minded youngsters. Wearing a t-shirt that read “ready steady go” the soft-spoken lead guitarist (whose name escapes me) displayed his skillful Thurston Moore-like characteristics towards the end of their set, finishing with a timeless noisy sludge of sound. With eyes closed, we all listened, not only for the screeching serenity of Mono’s exemplary compositions, but amidst the noise, our heartbeats, nodding our head to the formless rhythm that let us know we were alive. Smoke-filled lungs let out the few words I spoke all evening to a friend standing next to me: sometimes its good to be alive.