Review Round-Up: October 2013

Cass McCombs
Big Wheel and Others

Two years ago, Cass McCombs gave us two distinct, intriguing but oddly opaque albums; each a mere eight songs long.  At twenty-two tracks and eighty-five minutes, Big Wheel and Others (note the typically coy titular understatement) feels like a deliberate reaction against those records' mincing concision, although, as double-sets go, it's loose but hardly ragged.  Neither a conceptual epic nor a sprawling White Album-style smorgasbord, but a genial stretching-out a la Exile and Blonde on Blonde; an album to put on and just live in for a while.  Stylistically, it's somewhere in that ballpark as well; a rootsy ramble from the truckdrivin' title track's musclebound motorik to the dusty folk surrealism of "Unearthed," via pretty pedal-steel ballads, slinky beatnik blues, and jazzy yacht-country instrumentals – all gorgeously performed – plus three slightly bewildering interview clips (taken from the 1969 documentary Sean) with a four-year-old who probably could've penned off-color nursery-rock goof-off "Satan is My Toy."  Throughout, McCombs hits a brilliantly unpredictable songwriting stride, like a wry, wandering Silver Jew, peppering his romantic and socio-political ruminations with twisted neo-hippie logic ("I believe in littering: waste should not be hidden but seen") and tersely quirky quips ("what's it like to shit in space?") [8/10]

Kwes.
ilp

Now here's what I call a kaleidoscope dream.  Like a bookish limey Miguel with zero of the bravado and a flair for woozy, Floydian whirr, Kwes is a man of modest but nostalgia-rich pleasures.  The first vocal appearance on his long-simmering Warp debut (which comes ninety seconds in, once the sound-dust settles from the album's startlingly queasy initial eruption) finds the low-key Londoner listlessly "walkin' in the park, chuckin' bread to swans, hearin' em honk."  Soon he's picking berries while fending off butterflies; later he's reminiscing about a lover who once invited him rollerblading ("back in '93"), and someone else who suggested riding a cable car ("today," though the time difference feels somehow negligible.)  Words are feeble, fleeting things on ilp, but these at least offer some tangible, redolent images amid the album's hazy, paisley swirl.  Likewise, despite the occasional gummy refrain – like the burbling stutter-soul of previously aired highlight "b_shf_l" – Kwes' pop instincts typically prove incidental to his synaesthete's bent for structureless head-trip meanderings.  But it's hard to mind once they've gotten you in the door: rarely does one stumble into a world so richly realized and so warmly, curiously inviting. [7.5/10]

Schneider TM
Guitar Sounds

Dirk Dresselhaus is a man of surprises.  He slyly prefigured the micro-house boom with his 1998 Schneider TM debut LP, Moist, before shifting gears entirely to the (similarly prescient) Beach Boys-infused lap-pop of 2002's Zoomer.  Last year's Construction Sounds returned to the alias for an unprecedentedly abstract and experimental effort incorporating field recordings from building sites.  And while it bears substantial common ground with that work, Guitar Sounds essentially finds the Berliner broaching yet another new genre: per the title, it's a set of guitar-based electro-acoustic improvisation (or as he'd have it, "instant composition.")  It's a far cry from the playful humorousness of his early days (unless, arguably, you squint at just the right moments – say, the gently sputtering "explosions" toward the end of "Landslide.")  But his curiously organic approach to electronica and close attention to sonic detail remain, somewhere, among these meandering drones and tones, grindings and scrapings (and brief, occasional bouts – as on "First of May" – of actual guitar playing), which are warmly enveloping in many stretches and, even at their least palatable, still rather pleasantly unpleasant. [6/10]

originally published in Magnet Magazine

Dirtbombs
Ooey Gooey Chewey Ka-Blooey!
[Rock/Pop]

It's not every garage-punk band that follows up their Detroit techno covers record with an exuberant, party-starting homage to vintage bubblegum.  Okay, The Dirtbombs are probably the only one – but they're also the best.  Not just any ol' '60s pop re-hash, Ooey Gooey Chewy Ka-Blooey (In The Red) stomps and shimmies, sugar-shocks and sha-la-las like the Archies gone pleasantly feral.  While these ten three-minute wonders are technically all Mick Collins originals, he's not above bolstering the project's authenticity by lifting a lick (or an entire vocal melody) from the classics: "Mony Mony," "Yummy Yummy Yummy," even "Good Vibrations."  Remember kids, only the greats steal.

Haim
Days Are Gone
[Pop/Rock]

Notwithstanding the Haim sisters' long-haired, shade-sporting LA rockstar image, their duly touted instrumental chops, legitimately ass-kicking live show and ample use of twitchy, palm-muted guitar licks, the songs on their long-awaited debut LP are no less technologically-abetted studio creations than those of that other red-hot hype-riding trio of the moment, Chvrches – though neither are they any less perfectly-formed pop.  And despite the Fleetwood Mac RIYLs that have been persistently trailing them, Days Are Gone (Columbia) lands a good deal closer to Thriller than Rumours.  Just remember which one of those had Van Halen on it.

Devon Sproule + Mike O'Neill
Colours
[Singer-Songwriter]

Devon Sproule and Mike O'Neill met singing Beach Boys duets on Youtube – like you do in the twenty-teens – and crafted the collaborative Colours (Tin Angel) long-distance, between Austin and Halifax.  But there's nothing new-fangled or logistically strained about the topics traversed here – family life, human goodness, ceiling fans, a minor boating accident, love – nor the album's unhurried, loosely jazzy folk-pop.  All of this reflects Sproule's usual open-hearted, modestly idiosyncratic milieu, which O'Neill slots neatly and effortlessly into.  His voice is high and pure like hers, and the results, colored by Sandro Perri's sympathetic, synth- and horn-flecked production, are rarely dazzling but consistently comforting.  The Wilsons should be proud.

Glasser
Interiors
[Electronic/Art-Pop]

Cameron Mesirow's gonna have a tough time shaking those chronic, facile-seeming Björk comparisons with her second LP as Glasser, and not just because of certain heavily reminiscent contours in the soaring, otherworldly acrobatics of her voice (which, to be fair, shares at least as much with the sweet, artful detachment of St. Vincent's Annie Clark.)  Even while Interiors (True Panther) remains undeniably Mesirovian, its architecturally inspired yet organically fluid techno-pop shapes evoke the exploratory, hypercolor digitalia of Homogenic more than anything Björk herself has touched in well over a decade.

VV Brown
Samson & Delilah
[Electronic/Pop]

VV Brown emerged in 2009 as a perky, playful retro-pop songbird, but we've barely heard from her since, as the intended follow-up to her delightful debut was first delayed, then permanently shelved for artistic reasons.  Her actual sophomore release may offer some explanations: Samson and Delilah (YOY) represents an almost complete aesthetic overhaul; a dramatic left turn into gothic, quasi-operatic electronica that's as magnificent as it is unexpected.  Brown's voice, all but unrecognizable, weaves across frosty industrial synthscapes, deep distorted machine grooves and imaginative, darkly glistening dance-pop, compensating for its somewhat diminished personality through sheer emotive potency.

Machinedrum
Vapor City
[Electronic]

Much as Machinedrum's 2011 breakthrough, Room(s), refitted and streamlined the frantic antics of Chicago footwork, Vapor City (Ninja Tune) appropriates the floor-friendly architecture of drum'n'bass and skittering digital dancehall for much more shadowy, diffuse, wistfully atmospheric purposes, loading on the sonic detail – sleepy/spectral vocal fragments, brooding synth pads, infinitely divisible rhythmic tracery – to render a meticulously misty, greyscale urban moodscape.  (The title scans as flatly, almost blandly descriptive.)  Barring passable detours into chillwave, dappled Boards of Canada-isms and abstract ambient fuzz, the results tend toward theoretically danceable tracks which in practice are more ideally suited for deep, sullen vibing.

Trentemøller
Lost
[Electronic/Eclectic]

Unerringly proficient, if increasingly inscrutable, Anders Trentemøller continues to distance himself from the coffee-table tech-house and elegantly tailored club fare on which he made his name.  The Danish producer's third full-length, Lost (In My Room), is split evenly between instrumental curios – everything from noir-ish mood pieces to sludgy psych-rock to the occasional, dazzling display of programmed-synth kineticism – and mild, suggestible vocal features for assorted indie rock notables (members of The Drums, Blonde Redhead, Lower Dens, etc.)  It's an amiable mess strewn with captivating moments – plus, kicking things off with seven heavenly minutes of Low's unimpeachable Mimi Parker is gonna win you plenty of points around these parts.

Diplo
Revolution EP
[Dance/Electronic]

Once upon a time, Diplo made an album.  It was 2004, and it was a pleasantly low-key, trip-hoppy affair entitled Florida.  Since then he's hardly even sat still long enough for anything so laidback or long-format – these days he keeps a feverish, turbo-boosted pace of 140-character blasts, 130 BPM, and (per Forbes' 2013 highest paid DJs list) a cool $13 million per annum.  We'll still claim him as a de facto local, but his jet-set lifestyle and restless, rootless musical m.o. are about pan-global as it gets.

Last year's Express Yourself EP was a rare dispatch from the hedonistic heart of that one-man whirlwind – his first (ostensibly) solo production jaunt in eons – offering a typically delirious but uncommonly focused burst of twitchy, ass-twirling equatorial ghetto-tech.  Hard at its heels comes Revolution (Mad Decent), re-upping with another six cuts (four originals, two workmanlike remixes) of gregarious gutter-funk abandon.  These 23 minutes are more hyper-stuffed than ever, flaunting two to four collaborators per track and cramming in buckets of stutter-step machine claps, bass-rattling horn blurts, twinkly rave synths, tacky pop'n'B diva warbling, EDM screw'n'grind and a slew of quick and dirty rap verses from the game's finest young turks.  And if you can keep pace with all that, there's another drop coming any second now.

Drake
[Hip-Hop/R&B]
concert preview

For what was effectively a coronation pageant, 2011's Take Care hardly felt like a joyous occasion; compared to Nothing Was The Same (Cash Money/Universal Republic), though, it's practically a party record.  "I'm on my worst behaviour," Drake snarls – Canadian spelling, of course – over ominous, disjointed rattles and synth throbs, and he's not kidding: he's rarely sounded as crass, petty and angrily, needlessly defensive as he is at certain points on his third full-length.  As for his persistent emotional ineptitude (and crippling nostalgia for past romantic failures), well, that's been covered before, and it remains as perversely compelling if increasingly tough to sympathize with.  Mostly though, he's just awfully, inexcusably morose.  Noah "40" Shebib keeps on building him these sumptuous luxury suites – weird, staggering, adventurously modern moodscapes – and all he wants to do is mope around in them.  But he's still got that nagging, hard-to-define charisma; a knack for absorbingly intimate confessionals, even if it clearly stems from some serious boundary issues.  Also, it must be said that to see Drake in concert is to witness Aubrey Graham in his element: he really is a born performer, and if we ever finally get sick of listening to his elegantly-appointed sulking, he can totally fall back on that acting career.

Deltron 3030
[Hip-Hop]
concert preview

It's been 13 years since the release of Deltron 3030, the sci-fi comic-book hip-hop concept opus which paved the way for the improbable sci-fi comic-book hip-hop crossover success of Gorillaz (involving many of the same key players) – although apparently only ten have passed in the album's peskily dystopian, technocratic futureworld: according to Joseph Gordon-Levitt's ponderous spoken intro to Event II (Deltron Partners), it is now "Stardate 3040."  But – despite the efforts of our trusty hero, renegade rap-battle freedom-fighter/disenchanted "mech soldier" Deltron Zero (alias Del the Funkee Homosapien) – not much has changed.  Narrative specificity and conceptual coherence still take a definite backseat to the generally bad-ass, swashbuckling atmosphere created by Del's twisty, jargon-flourishing raps, turntablist Kid Koala's skittering scratches and producer Dan the Automator's lavish, widescreen sample-sourcing and adrenalized breakbeats.  While it's almost certainly better than we had a right to hope, this guest-star-studded sequel is probably best taken as an overdue victory lap; a gleeful exercise in warp-drive retro-futurist nostalgia.  But even if it's no more than an excuse for the triumphant triumvirate to head out on tour, with a sixteen piece orchestra in tow no less – and if Kid Koala's deliriously fun Vinyl Vaudeville shows from last year are anything to judge by – justice will be served right here in the present.

Bill Callahan/Lonnie Holley
[Singer-Songwriter]
concert preview

Through his dozen or so albums as Smog and, especially, the handful he's made more recently under his own name, Bill Callahan has etched out a reliable, dependably unhurried furrow for his quietly affecting musings.  But it's rarely felt as cozy as his latest, Dream River (Drag City), which settles into a loose, surprising seventies soul-jazz vibe: Callahan's laconic, iconic baritone drifting overtop congas, claves and electric piano like Leonard Cohen moonlighting with Gil Scott-Heron's band; his roving ruminations sharing space with fragrant flute and fiddle leads and guitarist Matt Kinsey's subtle atmospheric heroics.  The title befits Callahan's typically cryptic, trancelike stream of cast-off observations, cock-eyed profundities, corny jokes and come-ons, which circle here around familiar themes but with a cautiously more sanguine outlook, finding mundane beauty and savage splendor in the natural world and solace in the smallness of human relationships.  Lonnie Holley – an Alabama-born African-American artist who has, arguably, actually lived the kind of outsider's perspective Callahan often adopts in his songs – arrives at a similarly thoughtful optimism amidst markedly stranger circumstances in the surreal pronouncements on Keeping A Record Of It (Dust-to-Digital), with a decidedly more dynamic, colorfully expressive voice and to considerably chintzier musical accompaniment.

John Vanderslice
[Indie/Singer-Songwriter]
concert preview

John Vanderslice is one of indie's surest bets; a steadfast, sure-footed songwriter who's never made a bad record, even if he's never turned out a clear masterpiece.  (I'd probably point to 2005's Pixel Revolt as his finest hour, but each entry in his discography has its partisans.)  All of his albums seem to create and inhabit their own private, often insular worlds, but Dagger Beach, his ninth full length, feels especially personal; less for its songs than its archetypical array of warm, gritty textures – overdriven acoustic guitars, woody synths, brightly chunky drums, free-floating analog dribbles of uncertain origin.  A crowd-funded, self-released project following a stint on Dead Oceans, it was recorded – computer-free – at his own Tiny Telephone studios, and particularly knowing that it came in the wake of a significant break-up, it's easy to imagine JV sitting alone at his Neve console, finding solace and focus in meticulously building up layers of atmospheric sonics.  As much of a studio rat as he is, though, the quintessential way to encounter Vanderslice is in person at his shows, where he flashes a legendary chatty affability at odds with his understated, often elusive songwriting.

Franz Ferdinand/Frankie Rose
[Rock/Pop]
concert preview

Franz Ferdinand have always been as much a dance band as a rock band, coaxing the sharp, jagged lurch of post-punk into the plumped basslines and signature crisp, feline strut that fueled both the deathless "Take Me Out" and an impressive string of worthy successors.  While the seedy nightclub trawl of 2009's Tonight was their most overt, mildly experimental dalliance with "proper" dance music, morality-teasing fourth album/reset button Right Thoughts Right Words Right Action (Domino) drafts in some of the finest minds in electro/pop – Hot Chip's Joe Goddard and Alexis Taylor; Scandinavian sooperproducers Todd Terje and Björn Yttling – yet results in the band sounding utterly like their own waggish, swooningly metrosexual selves.  It's their tightest, leanest effort since their debut, and it's great to have them back.  In the support slot is Brooklyn linchpin Frankie Rose, whose latest opus, Herein Wild (Fat Possum), weds the glorious layered-vocal luminosity and Cure-cribbing beat-beds of last year's great, quantum-leaping Interstellar to the spunkier garage-pop grit of her debut, and throws in the occasional string section.

The Dismemberment Plan
[Rock/Pop]
concert preview

The Dismemberment Plan were one of the most fiercely beloved bands around before their 2003 break-up, so it's understandable that there are a lot of feelings surrounding their recent return to the active column – a brief, triumphant tour in 2011, and now the curiously misspelled Uncanney Valley (Partisan), their first album since 2001's masterful Change.  A lot of excitement and eager anticipation, but also a lot of wariness and skepticism, especially surrounding the record – protectiveness, perhaps, toward the band's cherished memory and established catalog.  Well: the new disc doesn't sound much like, say, 1999's timeless Emergency & I.  But then again, neither did any of their other records.  They've always been a band in motion, and they return now evolved once more – as righteous emo diehards will be miffed to discover – into a looser, goofier, less existentially pensive and altogether more jovial (and synthesizer-happy) iteration of themselves.  But there's no mistaking Joe Easley and Eric Axelson's sparky, jittery math-funk grooves, nor Travis Morrison's densely geeky, reference-strewn lyrics; smirky and earnest in equal measure.  From the gorgeously whirring workaday introspection of "Invisible" to the sweetly unabashed affection of "Lookin'" to propulsive party starters like "White Collar White Trash," the band has never sounded so contented or so celebratory.  Truly, what's not to celebrate?

Saint Rich/Wild Belle
[Rock/Pop/Reggae]
concert preview

If post-rockers could talk, what would they say?  Here's your chance to find out: Monday's double-bill pairs two new song-oriented projects from musicians better known for their instrumental-only affairs.  Steve Marion makes curious, captivating wordless guitar-pop with/as Delicate Steve, but he's switched over to drum duties behind bandmate (and North Jersey high school buddy) Christian Peslak in the recently-minted duo Saint Rich.  Their debut Beyond the Drone (Merge) is a rollicking, rootsy, riff-tastic rip through '60s rock and '70s boogie that feels a bit like Foxygen without all the anxious posturing (and with notably witty lyrics.)  Meanwhile, jazz-steeped saxophonist/experimental tinkerer Elliot Bergman made his name fronting (too-long dormant) avant-afrobeat heroes NOMO, with whom his sister Natalie has occasionally featured as a touring member; now the siblings are slinging globally-conscious indie-pop as Wild Belle.  Their predictably groove-rich, sonically adventurous Isles (Columbia) sets them up as something like a worldbeat She & Him, pulling from African pop and Motown but with a particularly emphasis on Caribbean rhythms which make it well-suited to help pass the time before the reemergence of summertime, and/or Santigold.

Fuzz
[Rock]
concert preview

Ty Segall has made a lot of records – let's just say that's a significant understatement – but he's never made anything quite so epically colossal, and at the same time so lean and laser-focused, as Fuzz (In The Red)  The obliteratingly self-evident self-titled debut from the West Coast scene-leader's latest collaborative venture spotlights the amped-up blooze riffs and brain-scrambling solos of guitarist Charlie "Moonheart" Moothart and the appropriately hefty underpinnings of bassist Roland Cosio.  Segall's still singing lead, but he's jumped from strings to skins here to show off some breezily ferocious, Mitch Mitchell-style dexterity behind the kit.  While this is a new project, these dudes have also been playing and starting bands together since high school, and there's a purity of purpose here that seems to stem from the spirit of those days, channeling fellow San Francisco outfits like the Jimi Hendrix Experience and Blue Cheer.  Accordingly, Fuzz strips away the garage-bound shagginess and punkish snarl that typically characterize these guys' output to focus on heavy, heavily-Sabbath-indebted psychedelic proto-metal that makes this a power trio in the most classical, primal sense.  In other words: just what you'd expect from the awesome, fiery blue elemental space-demon on the cover.

Cayucas
[Indie-Pop/Rock]
concert preview

While obviously not as uncommon as the eponymous shaggy forest-dweller, it's still a rare and precious thing to encounter an indie-pop debut as sharp, succinct and perfectly formed as Bigfoot (Secretly Canadian), which breezes through eight great, unimpeachably summery tunes in just about a half hour.  The Santa Monica outfit, whose name is slightly modified from the beach burb of Cayucos, a little ways up the coast, have caught considerable flak for their nagging similarity to a certain East Coast band likewise beloved of 1950s archetypes, plaid button-downs and lilting, tropical-tinged guitar lines.  But while the Vampire Weekend-in-California call-outs are certainly apt – down to the literary details of their collegiate travelogues and sun-bleached romances, enthusiastic use of onomatopoetic yelps, and Futura-enabled album design – it's hard to see why that's much cause for complaint, especially now that Koenig and crew have moved on to decidedly less simple pleasures, and most especially when head Cayuca Scott Yudin can churn out something as instantly and persistently indelible as the snazzily syncopated "High School Lover," which I'd contend equals or betters anything on the first VW album.

Fuck Buttons
[Electronic]
concert preview

In theory, Pitchfork-annointed electro-noise auteurs Fuck Buttons make a reasonable fit for the Making Time demographic.  But its troubling to contemplate what might actually happen when the assembled party-ready masses at Voyeur encounter the Bristol duo's portentous, magisterial sound barrages.  Probably the best bet is to hope they bust out some of the old stuff: 2009's relatively populist Tarot Sport at least boasted appropriately movement-friendly four-on-the-floor underpinnings on most of its tracks, plus a twinkling, major-key bent to its awe-inducing anthemics that rendered them rapturously uplifting.  (Enough so that they served to score part of last year's Olympic opening ceremony.)  As for the stark, soul-crushing monoliths that make up most of this year's negative-inverse offering Slow Focus (ATP), they seem markedly less well-suited to soundtrack a scene of happy revelry than to accompany the queasy aftermath of rubble and devastation following, say, the invasion of a popular hipster dance night by an army of demonic, emotionless alien cyborgs.  Maybe if you escape to the basement "bear den" the haze of sweat and stoner rock jams will drown out the screams.

Raime
[Electronic]
concert preview

Raime – the British abstract electronic duo of Joe Andrews and Tom Halstead – record for a label called Blackest Ever Black, and it's hard to get around the aptness there: their music is just really damn dark.  The sounds they favored on last year's intoxicatingly potent full-length debut, Quarter Turns Over A Living Line, as well as several preceding EPs, include rumbling cavernous drones, gnawing, unblinking metallic tattoos,  and the occasional, muffled irruption of amorphous sonic violence.  But while it's easy enough to sum up their approach as purely and simply evocative of bleakness and dread, wholly subsumed by gloomy negatives, there's something oddly neutral about it too: a subjective, malleable emptiness.  There are shades within shades here: those creeping industrial heartbeats have a subtle, dubby, Burial-esque lilt that might be sensuous or sinister, depending on your angle.  Those churning streaks of cello could be savage or serene.  One person's gaping, ominous void may be another's womblike sanctuary.  After all, the blackest black is really no different from eternal, blinding sunshine once your eyes have time to adjust.

Holy Ghost!
[Electronic/Dance]
concert preview

Holy Ghost! don't do very much to justify that exclamation mark.  The NYC production duo are more apt to induce sly, slow-building smiles than sudden ecstatic surges; the pleasures to be found in their sleek, shiny updates of 1980s electro-disco are, perhaps unusually for a dancefloor-oriented act, those of comfort, familiarity and expertly executed craftsmanship.  The title of their second album, Dynamics (DFA), suggests a broadened range, and it is indeed a more varied, well-rounded affair than their rather same-sounding debut, but it delivers that breadth via a further smoothing and softening – an occasional uptick in melancholy emotionalism; a generally plusher sound palette (including a string arrangement from the great Kelly Polar) – rather than any great deviation from their standard-issue mid-tempo template.  The exception proving the rule is "Dumb Disco Ideas" – easily their best single to date – an extended, multi-part cowbell'n'clavinet dance-funk jam that solidly cements their DFA bona-fides and probably warrants at least a little punctuation.

originally published in Philadelphia City Paper

SXSW 2013: Day Five [Saturday]

On Saturday night I was in a church pew and a mosh pit, within the span of about two hours.  I suppose that might not be so unusual if you're used to attending Sunday hardcore matinees.  But this was a hip hop mosh pit.  At various other points of the night, I was also at a sweaty, debaucherous Brazilian dance party, a big outdoor rock show, a big shiny auditorium pop show, an orchestral concert, a dingy basement dance club, on a gorgeous landscaped bike path at sunset and in a clothing store, eating pizza.  Such is the quick-change mish-mash and experiential overload of South by Southwest, which wrapped up for me in typically chaotic, multivalent fashion.

Emmylou Harris and Rodney Crowell at the W Hotel, 11am

The day started early, with this live taping for KGSR which we sort of unintentionally snuck into.  They were quite late getting started, despite it being live radio, which is probably why they only played two songs.  Somehow just two was enough, though, and it was also a treat getting to hear them talk a bit in between, telling stories about their long friendship (they've been collaborating in one way or another since the early '70s.)  Not sure if this was age or just a week full of shows, but Emmylou's voice, miraculous as it definitely still is, was getting awfully whispery in the upper registers.

Ivan & Alyosha at Peckerheads, 12:30pm

Biked across town precisely too late to catch an evidently very prompt 20-minute set by West Philly's own Waxahatchee, then doubled back to see a few songs by this very nice, spirited New York folk-pop band, who seem like they ought to do very well.  E thought they seemed like good Christian boys. 

Little Daylight at Cedar Door, 12:30pm

Then a small second helping of Little Daylight, just in time to wile out to "Overdose," which, I'm gonna call it, was my SXSW anthem for this year.  Only, I feel like it really should be performed with a battalion of at least a dozen field drummers.  Great free tacos and strawberry tic-tacs, too!

Generationals at Stage on Sixth, 1pm

Saw a bit of this upbeat New Orleans band; more rootsy folk-pop (maybe closer to folk-rock), which is more or less the default setting for several of my Austin friends.  Enjoyable enough but didn't make a huge impression, so I left them there and went off in search of free coconut water and to try to catch Wild Belle.

Feathers at The Jr., 1:30pm

No dice there (the Mohawk indoor entrace is a major bottleneck) but I did snag some promotional Zico (flavor ranking: passionfruit>natural>chocolate>mango>latte) and another free American Apparel shirt (raspberry!) and catch some of this pretty cool Australian band, another four-lady-plus-guy-drummer outfit who play somewhat dark, punky synth-rock.

Eric Burdon at Stage on Sixth, 2pm

Okay, and then it got serious.  Another day, another still-ragin' '60s legend, although this set by the one-time Animal took a bit more from his days with War, which I tend to forget about.  He and his fairly large band kicked off with "Spill The Wine" and featured a bunch of similarly grooving, bluesy tunes from his new album, including an impressively non-schmaltzy one about "when I was young."  They did rip out "House of the Rising Sun" to close, however.  ("The shortest song I ever recorded.")  His voice is hardly the pristinely preserved marvel of Colin Blunstone's, but it's still a force to reckon with, a fierce, toughened near-bark.  As Kelly Hogan remarked afterward, it was great to see his bulging neck muscles in person.

Kelly Hogan at Stage on Sixth Patio, 2:30pm

Had been really hoping to catch this Atlanta-based singer, who put out one of my favorite and most-listened-to albums last year.  She played most of the highlights from that record, I Like To Keep Myself In Pain (including the title track, written by Robyn Hitchcock, who I missed seeing but whose birthday it apparently was) and threw in a rendition of the Magnetic Fields' classic "Papa Was A Rodeo."  It all sounded pretty damn fabulous, although I couldn't help missing Booker T. Jones' organ contributions.  Hogan is clearly content to record and perform at a leisurely, almost dabbling pace, but it's really a shame she doesn't get out there more.  Nearly as good as her singing, however, was her outfit, which included a red neckscarf and matching ribbons tied just above her ankle socks. 

 

Kitty at the W Hotel Terrace, 3:30

Tried to see Detroit trio Jamaican Queens, but they were just lackadaisically soundchecking and playing improvised acoustic reggae (contrary to the name, they aren't actually a reggae band at all) for about twenty minutes before I figured out that they were merely stalling because their set had been pushed back by an hour.  So, instead, we swung back by the W to catch this red-headed ray of teenybop hip-hop Florida sunshine.  Kitty, who I saw this summer on her Tumblr-hype-fueled first-ever tour (before she unfortunately dropped the Pryde part of her moniker) is still an outrageously adorable stage presence, utterly giddy and unselfconscious, bouncing around through the crowd, peppering her garrulous banter with giggles and wooos and quasi-nervous pleas for attention ("Just joking!  Not really, I really do love attention!") – but she's also come a long way as a performer.  Whereas before she seemed to be approaching her whole so-called "career" with amused, self-mocking disbelief, she's clearly gotten a lot more serious about rapping and performing, despite never giving the impression that she takes herself at all seriously.  She pulled rapper Lakutis up from the crowd for an impromptu collab (Le1f reportedly did the same thing with Kitty at his set immediately afterwards), enlisted her brother/DJ to rap RiFF RaFF's part on "Orion's Belt" and generally endeared herself to an already fawning (and awesomely dressed) audience.

 Delicate Steve at Stage on Sixth Patio, 4:30pm

I'd seen him briefly the night before, but I'm really glad I caught a full set by this New Jersey-based guitarist (a.k.a. Steve Marion), whose music is something like Ratatat but with a full rock band instead of electronic beats backing his shiny metallic guitar leads.  He's great on record too, but it definitely took the energy several notches up to see him on stage, in tank top, jean shorts and beat-up sneakers, shaggy hair spilling out from a ski cap, and seeming to spend about half the time leaning dramatically into a battle-ready rock'n'roll lunge stance.  

  

King Tuff at The Jr, 5:15pm

Speaking of classic rock posturing, this guy's got it all: long lustrous locks, an inimitably croaky croon, scruffy bandmates named Magic Jake and Kenny, whom he ribbed with almost Butthead-ish glee about their lost voice and oversized big toe (?), respectively and – best of all – a black studded vest emblazoned with his magisterial moniker.  He's practically a rock'n'roll cartoon – but he knows damn well what to do with a couple chords and a righteous riff.

Jeni's Splendid Ice Creams

The next touring entity we encountered (right by the line for the impossible-to-even-consider-trying-to-think-about-getting-into Prince show) was not a band but an ice cream cart, staffed by a pair of scoopers who'd travelled down from Columbus, OH to rep Jeni's Splendid – now sold in pints in Austin, evidently – whose James Beard Award-winning, decidedly unorthodox ice cream cookbook I can very highly recommend.  Now I can do the same for their actual ice cream, especially their signature salty caramel and whiskey-pecan.  Mmhmm.

Angel Haze at Austin Music Hall, 6:30

Oh man – if there's one artist I saw this year who seems clearly destined for stardom, it's this upstart up-and-coming rapper (and singer) from New York City.  Apart from her impossibly rapid flow and solid singing voice, she's got a compelling back-story that she is not the least bit shy about drawing on for dramatic effect, and a strong, classically populist inspirational message, both of which simultaneously underscore one another and help balance each other out.  She has all the fierceness (and lurid sensationalism) of Azalea Banks, without the flippant/flaky goofball tendencies –indeed, if she has a shortcoming, it's that she comes off as fairly humorless, though I suppose you could say she comes by her stoniness honestly.  And she commanded the still-sparse early-evening crowd at Perez Hilton's annual one-night pop showcase – all alone on an auditorium stage that's got to be bigger than pretty much anywhere she's played before – like it was midnight at Madison Square Garden.

Bonde Do Role at Stage on Sixth, 8pm

I always look to end my last night of Southby with the best, biggest dance party I can find.  This time it started out that way.  These nutzo Brazilian baile funk schticksters – who returned after a long absence to drop probably the greatest party album of 2012, the aptly named Tropicalbacanal – stormed the Stage on Sixth (only recently vacated by a week's worth of Paste-approved singer-songwriters and tasteful roots-rockers) dressed in big furry animal costumes – a dinosaur, a penguin, a green parrot and a kangaroo (vocalist Laura Taylor, who quickly zipped down the top half of the costume to reveal a bathing suit underneath) – and started chucking blow-up dolls (both male and female, of various skin colors) into the crowd.  From that point on, all four members were in constant, frenzied motion, as were the dolls, as was the audience.  They dispensed with anything so fussy and humdrum as actually playing instruments, instead just trading off on rapped and sung and chanted nonsense vocals – except for the parrot, who mostly just ran around, typically shirtless, adding to the chaos.  They threw out the dolls, we threw them back.  They jumped offstage, ran around in the audience and came back, Taylor at one point establishing a limbo line using her microphone cable, somebody else seemingly initiating a congo line.  They energetically and inventively used the dolls, one another, the oversized head-masks and other components of the gradually disassembled costumes, and anything else at hand as simulated sex objects.  They played a bunch of faves from both albums, and then some even more rudimentary, banging Brazilian-rap tracks that I didn't recognize.  Then at some point they threw on a crazy electro revamp of "Surfin' Bird" and abandoned the stage entirely to come and party in the crowd.  Not a bad way to start off the night.

The Little Ones at Dirty Dog Bar, 9pm

Very sweet, upbeat indie-pop, with a nice rhythmic energy and some good sing-along hooks.  The lead singer has a funny, high, kinda froggy voice, and a funny habit of bending one knee behind the other (toe on the ground) while he sang.  I liked them.

The Lone Bellow at St. David's Historic Sanctuary, 10pm

It's a sort of ironic band name because they actually have three singers, who specialize in lovely harmonies.  Really lovely.  This is the kind of straightforward, generally earnest folk band that I tend not to pay too much attention to, but it was really nice to see them, and they have some strong songwriting in their corner too.  They also covered "Angel From Montgomery," managing to charm me with a song that I often find somewhat annoying.

Mac DeMarco at The Parish, 10:30pm

Was glad to finally get to see a bit of Mac – even though I'd just seen him play a fully satisfying show a few weeks ago – because I'd long since declared him to be the MVP of this year's conference.  I don't know how many shows he actually played, but he seemed to be on nearly every schedule I looked at, criss-crossing demographics to appeal everyone from the skate-punks at the Scoot Inn's Death Match to the preppy-flannel Paste types, from Pitchfork hipsterati to the brand-hawking swag hucksters behind Fader Fort and Hype Hotel.  Even without seeing him, I really enjoyed the mental image of him bouncing around here and there across Austin all week like a kind of muppet, with his wagging tongue and goofy grin and nutty, frequently juvenile banter.  By the time I caught up with him, for three gems off of 2, he'd clearly taken a beating – his speaking voice was craggy and close to shot – but he was still smiling that distinctive smile, big and dopey and just a little bit creepy.

HAIM at Stubb's, 11pm

Word on the street was that there wasn't much of a line for Vampire Weekend's big festival-closing set, which meant a good opportunity to catch their openers, this young trio of long-haired L.A. sisters (plus, again, a guy drummer.)  "Pop-rock" doesn't feel quite right for their sound; let's call it '80s-style hard rock with strong, even stadium-ready pop appeal.  There were definitely some Fleetwood Mac vibes in there; I also got Michael Jackson on a few songs.  It did take me a few songs into the set to really warm up to them, but as they went on (and got to the stronger part of the setlist, perhaps) I grew increasingly impressed, and the set ended on a high note with all three wailing away on drums at the front of the stage.

Lunice at 1100 Warehouse, 11:30pm?

Around this point somebody hung a lit pink glowstick on my bike, so I threw it around my neck and set off – only later realized that it happened to be shaped like a penis.  The huge and generally chaotic Boiler Room party was running behind so I caught a good chunk of Lunice's DJ set, though I didn't figure out that's what was going on until he dropped his TNGHT trap smash "Higher Ground" and somebody announced who it was.  

Death Grips at 1100 Warehouse, 11:45pm

Then the action switched to a different stage in the center of the space, and within minutes I was in the middle of a seething mosh pit, struggling to keep aloft two giant inflatable pills, at least six feet in diameter, which were built more like heavy-duty white-water rafts than stage props.  The unmistakeable figure of MC Ride appeared on the stage: bald, bearded, bare-chested, rail-thin and muscly and sporting some intense ski-goggles.  His crushing, rapid-fire flow was completely incomprehensible, even the transition from one song to the next was hard to completely discern, and I only stayed in the pit for maybe fifteen or twenty minutes, so not sure if they played "I've Seen Footage" or any other hits – maybe I should have stuck around, that would have been a pretty incredible release – but it was damn fun anyway.

Jackmaster at Barcelona, 12:30am

Looking for the next party (after just missing Norway's MØ at Hype Hotel) I headed to this Sixth St. basement bar, where I'd heard Jacques Green turn in a transcendent DJ set the year before.  Somewhat similarly, but far less inventively, Scottish producer Jackmaster was playing to the not-very-SXSW crowd, flipping the likes of Ludacris, New Order and Outkast.  It was all fine stuff, and well mixed, but clearly not his normal set...made me wonder what Rustie, up next, was gonna do with this place – anything close to resembling the earth-scorching set he played on Thursday would be liable to cause a riot.

!!! at Hype Hotel, 1am

Somebody earlier in the week suggested that this might be the party to beat, so we investigated... Not sure, but I wasn't really drawn in; for some reason it just seemed kind of disorienting.

Mother Falcon at Esther's Follies, 1am

So we caught a few numbers by these guys, the local indie chamber orchestra, including "Paranoid Android," which we'd missed the day before (another interesting arrangement, with the dreamy comedown section scored for saxophones rather than the more obvious strings.)  Realized that vocals are probably their weakest point – whereas they'd given some of the OK Computer parts to trained classical-style singers, to excellent effect, the main singers for their original tunes have kind of plain, uninteresting voices.  Still, a real joy to watch.  That might have been a fitting enough end to the week's festivities, but we were still itching to dance some more.

George Clinton and Parliament/Funkadelic at Empire Automotive, 1am

We'd hoped to catch the tail end of Big Freedia's set but that had wrapped a bit early, so we wandered across the street, where this funk band was playing.  This was sort of confusing...it really didn't look like George Clinton to me, but I guess it's just that, as it turns out, he actually has aged since the last time I saw him with P-Funk back in the '90s.  They did play "Atomic Dog," so I suppose that was a pretty good confirmation.  I also didn't realize that there had been some beef among the band over the last decade or so, and this was actually something of a reunion.  I guess I was just too spent by this point to appreciate what was going on.