Once the amps are plugged all eyes are on the scene. The energy of the singer of Sutrah and her deadpan sense of humour diffuses into the bar, she skips and plays into the mic while his friends tune their instruments. The first tracks are played as soon as the glasses are emptying, inveterate fans dance like devils, those who discover beat the rhythms on the counter. Rock vibrates in the hair of the lead guitarist who is but one with his Fender, while his sidekick on rhythm guitar simply got one's kick . Here comes the favorite moment of the regulars of Friday night: the new songs of the group. Virola surprises with his incisive words in hoarse accents. Wanna, written the day before the concert, is absolutely mind-blowing. The bass riff is those who remain screwed into the skull. After a seismic recall with a few showers of beer, Sutrah, who did all his repertoire, concludes with an improvisation. The drummer, so far in the shadow of his comrades mounted in springs explodes in devilish bearings. The neighbors can now sleep when they leave their makeshift stage, and young people is scattered, the corners of the mouth hung their ears ringing.