CONTROL are burlap sacks filled with dub and surf and punk and a million sharp shale pieces. A girl runs to the front of the stage and turns the dilettantes’ eyes to jelly. The others keep their heads going up and down in time, shaking the sacks. The music of it’s hard and delicate and softly purposeful. It cuts and heals. Riots break out: Drums, bass, guitar, a voice sometimes searing the surface. The girl’s got her shirt up now and the dilettantes all leave to get her a drink. The songs becomes a watery noose and the stage goes empty because the stage has always been empty. Everyone covers their heads in burlap, drawing in raw, sustaining air and excavating their own private darknesses. They shake. And they try to predict what will come next.