dont ask me what songs were played. none of that matters. what went down was a street fight. it was straightforward and hard and sweaty and quick. buisness took place. an order was written down, put in a spinny thing and soon someone slapped a bell and there was a plate of steaming hot eggs for your ass, dumbass, not mine. they were preaching to the choir. i knew the words. i knew the breaks. even the new songs were old to me. old friends with toupees. old hangouts with fancy facades. old dog pulling new tricks. tsar has no business existing in a time where this music can stagnate in a vaccum. they have no peers. you cant stop them, all you can do is get off your ass and go down to the show and experience the majesty your majesty. and only in hell a could tsar rock and get ignored by their local paper. but thankfully, not their local hotties who represented and cheered and floated home and told all their friends. and their friends said well we saw the matrix and the hotties said what.