The streets are quiet in this part of town. Sandwiched between the buzz of Williamson and the rushing roar of East Wash, Main Street has the feel of a dark back alley you shouldn't enter alone. But I'm alone this night, passing power lines and smokestacks, factories and offices that are shuttered and dark. My boots are too loud on the silent street, and I'm trying to look alert.
The Old Sugar Distillery's cavernous space on East Main -- beautiful copper still, banged-up old piano, low pendant barn-lights, walls painted a green that would not be out of place in a public school, soft indie rock, muted voices -- feels a bit like the site of a potentially awkward chemistry class lock-in. In a good way.