I see bands at germy, jam-packed clubs for a living. I never realized how lucky I was
LOS ANGELES - Going to see a band called the Rapture, I finally decided, felt just a little too much like tempting fate.
A week ago - you remember, back when we had basketball games and elementary school and grocery stores with toilet paper on the shelf - I'd been looking forward to catching a show at the El Rey by the recently reactivated disco-punk group that goes by that rather foreboding name. It would've been one of several gigs I took in last week as part of my work as The Times' pop critic - a job that requires experiencing as much music as possible in as many different circumstances as possible: listening to records, watching TikTok videos, standing shoulder-to-shoulder
