If The Fillmore were a woman, she'd wear expensive, stylish clothes, but have a voice like Dr. Girlfriend and reek of bong water from across the room.

This time I managed to mostly avoid the great jetting plumes of pot smoke that went off twice a minute like a school of whales breaching, but mostly my reaction to the show was, "I think there might be a band playing beneath this molar-rattling bass hum." How do you manage to make the bass howl like that when the band has no bass or drums? Jesus.

But I'll count the 25 minute, $16 quesadilla that tasted like a $2 grilled cheese sandwich as "my own damned fault". There was a time when the food at Fillmore was actually pretty good, but I keep forgetting that that time was, like, more than ten years ago.