Nothing broke up the monotony of the summer coffee-serving job I was beginning to loathe… Nothing broke up the monotony of the summer coffee-serving job I was beginning to loathe better than the shows at the Mr. Roboto Project, a local music venue in Wilkinsburg.

One Saturday evening in July, I traveled east with two friends to see a benefit show for the fledgling chapter of the Pittsburgh Independent Media Center, of which my friends and I were each a part.

We arrived early to set up a card table piled with IMC information, while equipment and band members drifted through the open door, and diminishing sunlight shone on the duct-taped carpet. A motley crowd of about 50 gathered in the stageless, rectangular room. At about 7 p.m., the chatting ceased when all the lights went off, leaving a single track light above two girls. One played a bass guitar and the other sat behind a drum set. Someone shut the door.

Everyone focused on The Accident as the duo played several raw, punchy tunes. Much cheering and dancing ensued, forcing everyone outside for slightly less dank air.

Stilyagi played next, literally surrounding the crowd with saxophone noise and swaggering Stooges-esque guitar, along with urgent, screamed vocals. The row of people standing directly in front of the band backed up gingerly as two horn players staggered around, backing into people and toppling mic stands.

Later, kids shouted along with H.T.M.L.’s passionate lyrics, sometimes sharing the microphones with the singers, in an ironic doo-wop twist. The band appeared to exhaust themselves and the audience, falling on the floor and into each other, sometimes producing melody and sometimes not. I nodded along in approval and to the beat, finding it remarkable that the flailing band members never knocked anyone over, though they were only inches from the audience. The band expressed its often politically motivated thoughts between songs, but even more so than usual since this was one of the guitarists’ last shows before leaving for New York City.

Jumpiness increased in the already sweltering room as people intently watched Io set up. The dim light cast an ominous glow as amplifiers taller than the band members towered at the front of the room. “You see those?” someone said excitedly about the amps. “They’re going to use those!” Roboto’s two box fans were rendered useless as Io launched into a feverishly energetic set. The band’s grinding instruments were so loud that the frantic lyrics were almost inaudible. After the final brrrang of electric guitars, I turned to my friends with a post-concert smile on my face as the lights came back on and we wandered around the room and eventually out into the sweet night air.

There was nowhere else I would have rather been at the time than that show. I almost always go home from Roboto nicely tired out and happily deaf for varying amounts of time, causing customers to repeat their latte orders, much to my devious delight, all for a mere $5 admission. This summer, I found Roboto not just to be an everyday diversion, but a place where those seeking smoke-, bouncer-, bureaucracy- and pretension-free live music along with other perks, could converge.