Here's a situation that I wish everyone could experience at least once: It's a sunny day in Richmond, Virginia, and the heat is unrelenting. You're walking down the street in a heavily gentrified neighborhood full of nice restaurants and apartments that you probably couldn't afford. You come across a relatively large and clean and well-appointed nightclub -- the place where I took my daughter to see Beach Bunny last year, the place where the Mountain Goats will play the next time they're in town. It's got real air conditioning and sleek concrete floors and an impressive array of beers on tap, and it's not usually open this time of day. You walk in, and you're immediately greeted by the sound of Protocol, a Tallahassee band that seems to exist mostly to play in grimy, mildewy punk-house basements. It's disorienting to see a band like that on an actual stage, with lights that flash different colors and everything. This club is not Protocol's natural habitat. For just this one day, though, they're at home, and so are you.