You know that feeling when you’ve just woken up from the middle of a weird dream, sunbeams dappling your puckered linens, and you’re immediately unable to recall even the haziest detail of the dream’s plot or sensory composition, but somehow the residual emotion of the dream—whether it’s empathic terror or hallucinogenic exuberance or unfulfilled pre-coital escalation—doesn’t just linger but intensifies, separated entirely from whatever mind’s-eye stimuli that fomented it but standing on its own as a palimpsest, just before it fades into the hypnopompic angst that comes from trying (and failing, hard, inevitably) to recall the dream’s details? Philadelphia’s Tutlie shares Wednesday’s bill with locals Emileigh Ireland and LYR.
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