every once in a blue moon there comes a show that you know will change your life. it's the kind of show that gives you butterflies like your first date with a crush. neil young was like that for me, as was elliott smith, john prine, tori amos, and a few others. tonight, i'll have a nervous twitch all the way up chuckanut to go witness doug martsch and his band, built to spill. i've seen the band once before, in the oh so large yet strangely claustrophobic crystal ballroom in portland. the venue, in the third story of an antique building, with bouncy dance floors from the rubber tires hidden beneath the wood and only two bottleneck exits, was packed to the gills. the whole time, doug was a tiny lego-sized man on a stage far far away, and i was preoccupied with possibilities of fires or natural disasters and ensuing stampedes. tonight, the show is in a small venue, and it's not even sold out. which is one of the many reasons life in a small town beats the heck out of a city in this arm-wrestling match: it's suddenly a much more intimate experience.