A uniformed police officer ceremoniously empties a beer on the sidewalk beside a young couple slumped against the adjacent wall like a pile of dirty laundry. He hands them a citation and saunters off. One floor above on a rusted fire escape overlooking Mission Street sits Kurt Vile, sucking on a tall Tecate I bought him. On the other side of the glass, standing around stinking like cigarettes, sweat, and angst are the busy mission hip kids, sardine stuffed into a nondescript apartment turned bordello/bandstand for the evening. Kurt’s solo set is the second of the evening, and the one most people came to see judging from the rows of lips mouthing lyrics and shouting out song requests like it was ladies night at the Copa. In between “He’s Alright” and “Breathin’ Out” –the two songs captured in the above video– I overheard a messy-haired spandex sporting twentysomething whisper to her girlfriend, “He’s like a much cuter version of Neil Young.” I still can’t think of a nicer sounding compliment.