There is a peculiarity one experiences at a Foty show. It’s unlike any other. The show starts out basically as a standard rock show, even if asses do tend to shake more than usual. The first couple of songs go by, and you think, “Damn. These guys can play.” You leave it at that. Then, all of a sudden, you’re standing on the sidewalk, wearing your coat, wondering what the hell happened. Things are fuzzy. You walk to your car, trying to piece together the previous three hours. The best you can figure is that after that first beer, the show got a little louder. Rich started to jump around a bit. Ben took off his shirt. Aaron and Joel grew horns, and the evening degenerated into this balls-out, crowd-fueled, request-fest, guest-player, rock orgasm. You come to realize that the fuzzy light in your head is the musical equivalent of a post-coital afterglow, and to tell the truth, it’s highly addictive. Here you are. Sitting in your car at three in the morning, and all that’s on your mind is one question: When’s the next show?