DISPATCH FROM EREBUS — PHILADELPHIA (COMPLETE EDITION)

Filed by: Philip Lounsbury II 

Series: Field Dispatches from Erebus 

Dates: October 23–25, 2025 

Location: Philadelphia, PA 

Tags: #OffTheStreetsProductions #DispatchFromErebus #IndependentMedia #TheFoundry #BlackPistolFire #Philadelphia 

Disclaimer: 

The following dispatch reflects personal experiences and opinions from the field. 

No ill will is held toward Live Nation, The Fillmore Philadelphia, Black Pistol Fire, The Thing, or any venue staff. 

What follows is observation, not accusation — a firsthand account from the road. 

ACT I — ARRIVAL 

Departed New Haven on Amtrak; Tesla parked safe in Milford. Talked trains with conductors in the café car — the kind of small talk that turns into a rant about how America traded high-speed rail for highways and air miles. 

By the time the train rolled into 30th Street Station, the light hit just right — that golden, industrial glow unique to Philly. Grit and grace. It burned a little, because it felt familiar even when it wasn’t. 

Checked into Room 908. The hotel was an old bank — vault in the basement now repurposed as a gym. The place hummed with ghosts of money and ambition. Perfect B-roll. 

Dinner was Cleavers — peppers, onions, and Whiz, because that’s how you do it here. Left the soda untouched, abandoned on the nightstand like a half-kept promise. 

Back in the room: Face/Off on TV, Ancient Aliens queued after. 

Pyramids glowing under moonlight — the theory that they were built by something ancient, maybe older than we can admit. 

In my head: We didn’t build those — they were already two thousand years old when Caesar arrived. 

By the time I killed the lights, the AC hum felt like train tracks. Sleep came in motion. 

From the quiet car to the city of brotherly love — we made it. And we’re just getting started. 

ACT II — THE FOUNDRY FIASCO 

Morning — Liberty Bell and Bureaucratic Irony 

The plan was simple: Liberty Bell, Independence Hall, Franklin’s print shop. Get some footage. Tie the nation’s roots to the present moment. 

Except everything was chained shut. 

The gates were closed — federal shutdown fallout. The flag still flying, tourists still circling, everyone trying to make sense of a locked symbol. 

I shot a couple from Arizona grinning through the glass, the Bell behind them like a hostage. Ended up explaining to teachers where exactly we were standing — Independence Hall to one side, the Bell in front of us, the birthplace of the country boxed up by red tape. 

Franklin’s Museum? Closed too. 

The original printer of rebellion — locked out of his own press. 

The rant from that moment’s up on YouTube. Off The Streets Productions. Shameless plug. 

Afternoon — Coffee and Calibration 

Dropped my gear back at the hotel, charged batteries, prepped for the night. Asked the front desk how far Fishtown was. 

The woman didn’t blink. 

“You’re not walking. You’re getting a Lyft.” 

I said, “It can’t be that bad.” 

She gave me that look — the one that says, You’ll see. 

Evening — The Foundry Fiasco 

This was supposed to be the night — Black Pistol Fire at The Foundry. My people. My payoff. 

I arrived early — three hours early, first in line. No fans yet, no photographers. 

The head of security, a woman clearly in charge, spotted me instantly. 

“Media, right?” 

Yeah. Media. Whatever that still means. 

Crowds began forming, but not for this show. They were here for Minus the Bear downstairs — sold out, shoulder to shoulder. 

Same building. Same structure. Three rooms: The Fillmore main hall, The Foundry upstairs, and one side event space. All connected. 

She caught the confusion on my face, smirked. 

“Don’t shoot the messenger,” she said, lighting a cigarette. 

I told her I’d driven up from North Carolina, booked the hotel, planned coverage. 

She said she’d see what she could do — maybe get me into Minus the Bear so the night wasn’t a waste. 

Ten minutes later, she came back with that look. 

“No go.” 

Then the news broke — quietly, internally, before public notice. 

The show was canceled. 

Not yet official. No announcement. 

Even The Thing’s photographer, who drove an hour from Jersey, didn’t believe it until he texted the tour manager himself. 

At 7:25 PM, twenty-five minutes before doors, the story dropped: 

“Hey Philly! Unfortunately, we have to cancel tonight’s show for reasons beyond our control.” 

Next morning, a DM finally came in: “Structural damage.” 

THE WALK BACK 

The head of security stopped me from taking a random cab. 

“Stick to the main street, sweetheart. Be careful out there.” 

That small act hit harder than any backstage pass. 

Theories and Aftermath 

Official explanation: “Fire marshal issue.” 

Unofficial consensus: “Something doesn’t add up.” 

A friend in venue ops told me flat out: 

“If that floor was really unsafe, they’d shut down the whole damn building.” 

He’s right — both rooms share load-bearing walls. You don’t close one and leave the other packed. 

Maybe ticket sales were low. Maybe it was logistics. Maybe someone made a call. 

Either way, silence tells its own story. 

You’re not part of the conversation anymore — you’re just the audience again. 

ACT III — THE HOUSE ALWAYS WINS 

By the time the refunds hit, Philly had already moved on. 

That’s the city — it shrugs, lights another cigarette, and keeps playing. 

No official statement beyond “structural issues.” 

Maybe true. Maybe not. 

But when a show under-performs, it’s easier to blame the building than the box office. 

No bitterness, just perspective. 

If the excuse were real, city fire and Live Nation would’ve been all over it. 

No record, no filings, no reports. 

Speculative, yes — but it begs consideration nonetheless. 

That’s the road: not art or chaos, but a poker table. Everyone bluffing to stay in the game. 

And the house always wins. 

But sometimes, you catch a clean hand — and that’s where stories live. 

So maybe the show never happened. 

But the dispatch did. 

The streets still spoke. 

And I still wrote it down. 

You can cancel a concert, but you can’t cancel the current. 

ACT IV — NEW YORK CITY: GHOSTS ON THE SOUTHBOUND LINE 

We drove to West Haven, parked Erebus, and took the Metro-North south. 

Somewhere between Bridgeport and Westport, the steel rhythm of the tracks dragged me backward in time. 

Last time I rode that line with purpose, it was with Roxy — the Gargantua Soul street-team days. 

We’d jump trains to hit Don Hill’s, chase chaos through the Village, live like ghosts on borrowed adrenaline. 

He’s gone now. But on that train, I swear I saw him reflected in the window — that same grin, same seat. 

“You did it, Tits,” he said. “You’re doing it.” 

It hit hard. He was the one who told me to start keeping a journal. 

The city felt different this time — smaller, slicker, gentrified beyond recognition. 

The Continental? Gone. Don Hill’s? Gone. CBGB? Museum piece. 

Even Astor Place feels corporate. Wegmans where K-Mart used to be. 

Only Vaudeville and Trash still hums — Jimmy Webb’s shop, the last outpost of the old New York. 

A friend once told me he met Ace Frehley there. Said Ace turned, deadpan: “Yeah, what’s it to ya?” 

Only in old New York could you bump into KISS and not care. 

Bowery Ballroom felt smaller too — but still electric. 

The bartender was solid, let me stash my gear behind the bar. Professional courtesy. 

Then came the text from the tour manager: 

“Hey man, no video tonight — venue rules.” 

Fine. We adapt. That’s fieldwork. 

You learn to roll with it — or get rolled over. 

But the energy was weird. 

The opener, The Thing, felt like the real draw — younger crowd, glossy PR, budget to burn. 

They had shooters on salary. 

By encore, it was just me and one other camera left standing. 

Denied stage access. Denied balcony access. 

Meanwhile, someone in street clothes drifted between both like he owned them. 

That’s the business: credentials mean less than connections. 

Outside, I overheard a kid on the phone: 

“I’m on my way to Bowery — not standing in line in the Village, though.” 

That line stuck. 

This city still lets you peek through the door — just long enough to smell the champagne before it slams. 

And here’s the truth: 

I’m done doing this for free. 

If you’re getting paid, I’m getting paid. 

Otherwise, enjoy your “friend-of-a-friend” shooter with a kit lens. 

I’ve earned my rate, my scars, and my story. 

No one cares what your last rate was — only what you deliver. 

ACT V — THE AFTERGLOW 

Morning hits different when the road ends. 

The noise fades. What’s left is the quiet hum of the hard drive — 2,000 frames waiting for judgment. 

Everyone says these are my best shots. 

Mike says clean. Danny says best. Vincent says they slap. 

I see ghosts. Fatigue. A band half-there — and me not really there at all. 

That’s the truth about creating under obligation: the art gets made, but the soul stays behind. 

You can’t fake connection. The camera knows. 

But even in detachment, there’s honesty. 

Art doesn’t always come from inspiration — sometimes it’s forged from frustration. 

Maybe that’s what the lens caught: not perfection, but persistence. 

As I scrub through frames, I start to see it differently — the exhaustion, the subtle disillusionment. 

Not failure — recognition. 

The moment when both artist and documentarian realize the fire doesn’t burn forever. 

But the pictures still breathe. 

Even when the night didn’t. 

And that’s enough. 

You can’t cancel the current. You can’t stop the shutter. 

ACT VI — RETURN TO THE BLUE RIDGE 

Back home, perched high in the calm of the Blue Ridge, the silence finally lands. 

It reminds me I’m still here. Still building. 

This trip brought growth — the kind that comes from motion, frustration, and reflection. 

No road trip is a straight line. 

Nothing ever goes as planned. 

But every wrong turn still leads somewhere. 

I’m not the same person who left Connecticut twenty years ago. 

And I’m not the same one who left North Carolina on October 16th and came back the 29th. 

Travel changes you — that’s the point. 

If it didn’t, it wouldn’t be an adventure. 

Here’s what I know now: 

We’re not pit shooters. We’re not feed-fillers. 

Off The Streets works with people who value the craft. 

We don’t exist for the algorithm — we exist for the story. 

We’re not here for staged smiles and post-show PR. 

We’re here for the scars, the exhaustion, the quiet victories that don’t fit in captions. 

To the bands reading this: 

I’ll shoot your show — if you value what I bring. 

But if you want fluff, scroll up — there’s plenty of that online. 

I want the whole story: 

The green room before the noise. 

The doubts backstage. 

The fatigue after the encore. 

To tell that, I need access. Trust. Partnership. 

The days of floor-only passes and favoritism are done. 

What we do isn’t just photography. It’s bearing witness. 

Filed from Asheville, North Carolina — October 30, 2025. 

• Off The Streets Productions