SXSW: Wednesday [Amy Phillips]

Peter Morén [The Parish; 10 p.m.]

Sure, I'm as sick of "Young Folks" as the next guy, but I don't hate on Peter Bjorn & John. Writer's Block is a pleasant enough album, and I feel like any sort of overly strong negative emotion towards these guys is kind of like getting mad about those Once people winning an Oscar. What's the point? They mean you no harm, and you can bring them home to Mom.

Peter Morén opened his set completely solo, singing along with a Magnetic Fields-like backing track. It was cute and catchy, exactly the kind of hooky indie pop PB&J specialize in.

After that, things went downhill, slowly and gently. Most of the material Morén played, accompanied by a keyboardist and string trio, lilted along like a summer breeze. Lovely and refreshing at first, but then just kind of there. Nothing to get worked up about (either positively or negatively), but nothing to get excited about either.

Morén is quite a charming character, though, which might end up being the saving grace of his forthcoming solo album, The Last Tycoon. His banter about faking a hearing problem to avoid serving in the Swedish army (before "Reel Too Real") and how students are more well-behaved than teachers ("Social Competence") provided minor blushes and giggles, and it's possible there's a lot of wit in his solo songs' lyrics that I just wasn't able to make out in the live setting. So I'll give him the benefit of the doubt, for now.

After announcing that he would be playing a different cover at each of his SXSW performances, Morén brought out Adam Olenius of Shout Out Louds for a duet on A-Ha's "Take on Me". Their voices harmonized perfectly together. Peter Bjorn John & Adam anybody?

The Mae Shi [Mohawk Inside Stage; 11 p.m.]

Like Dan Deacon, the Mae Shi squeeze every last drop of joy from the marriage of spazz-punk and kiddie pop. On the tiny Mohawk stage, surrounded by amped-up fans who seemed to be soaking in Red Bull from the atmosphere, the Los Angeles band exploded with good cheer. They've got the energy, sure, and the stage moves (audience invasions, guitar hero poses, gimmicks like spreading a sheet out above everybody's heads), but unlike so many noise bands that are all about confrontation, the Mae Shi have the songs to back it up. Their latest album, HLLYH, is one of the most enjoyable listens of recent months, its hooks hitting pleasure centers deep in the brain, and its vibe one of boundless creativity. And like the album, their SXSW set (the first of many they are scheduled to play before the festival is over) was short and sweet, refusing to overstay its welcome.

Frightened Rabbit [Maggie Mae's Rooftop; 12 a.m.]

Over the past few weeks, I've become perhaps unhealthily obsessed with Frightened Rabbit's forthcoming second album The Midnight Organ Fight (out April 15 in the U.S. on FatCat). I can't explain why this band's jangly, anthemic indie pop hits me harder than everybody else's jangly, anthemic indie pop, or why such terrible-on-paper lyrics as "you're the shit and I'm knee-deep in it" and "it takes more than fucking someone you don't know to keep warm," sung by a guy who sounds like the twee Scottish version of Adam Duritz, come across as so profound. I just don't know. But it works. I can't stop listening to this album.

Maggie Mae's Rooftop is not an ideal music venue by any stretch of the imagination. The "stage" is situated on a patio in front of the bathrooms, resulting in a steady stream of people walking right in front of the band in order to go do their business. And as is typical of most SXSW venues, which aren't usually devoted to live music performances, the sound was shite, all overdriven feedback and static hum.

But Frightened Rabbit were so wrapped up in their own little sound-world, they didn't seem to care. Singer/guitarist Scott Rabbit's outbursts and convulsions were all the more dramatic in contrast to the overwhelming averageness of the band's appearance. You just don't expect such emotion from a guy who looks like he should be playing Scrabble down at the local coffee shop.

Have I mentioned how much I love this band? I love this band.

The Tough Alliance [Karma Lounge; 1:15 a.m.]

If you've read our past Tough Alliance coverage, you know that Eric Berglund and Henning Fürst are just as interested in the theories behind the performer/audience dynamic as they are in the show itself. But never mind that. These guys put on a hell of a mindfuck, whether you knew what was going on or not.

The pair took the stage enveloped in fog and strobe lights, bearing nothing more than a video projection screen, a pair of maracas, two microphone stands, and seriously determined expressions on their faces. The screen intercut scenes from blinged-out hip-hop videos with idyllic images of dolphins and beaches. The maracas were quickly tossed aside. The mic stands were wielded like baseball bats, guitars, batons, and various other phallic symbols/weapons, much to the chagrin of the Karma Lounge staff. Very rarely were they used as things to actually sing, or even lip-sync, into.

The seriously determined expressions never wavered, though, with the guys staring off into the middle distance, fixated on a point just above the small but enthusiastic crowd's heads. They looked as if they'd ingested a potent cocktail of ecstasy and steroids, blissed out but ready to punch in the face anybody who didn't share their happiness.

The glistening synth-pop of songs like "Silly Crimes" and "First Class Riot" sounded great blasting from the club's sound system, all pre-recorded and unencumbered by any live embellishments. Did two baby-faced Swedish boys just completely destroy the entire concept of the live musical performance? Maybe.

It was all over in less than 20 minutes.

SXSW: Wednesday [Tyler Grisham]

Jeremy Jay [Emo's Lounge; 9 p.m.]

The almost-hidden space underneath Emo's on 6th Street, the cavernous Emo's Lounge, provided a perfect setting for one of SXSW's rather hidden new artists. K Records signee Jeremy Jay, looking like a very young Thurston Moore with his shaggy blonde mop and hunched shoulders, brought a traditional four-piece and hopped, pranced, and strutted across the stage for his set's 45 minutes. Debuting mostly new material-- neither from his well-recieved 2007 EP Airwalker nor his soon-to-be-released LP A Place Where We Could Go-- Jay even galloped along to a tune whose chorus went "Giddyup horse, giddyup."



The mostly sedate crowd finally got the message in the middle of the set, when he played EP track "Airwalker", and began moving their heads in tandem with his campy sway. He sounded less like Thurston and more like Bowie, but every time he brushed his hair out of his face or arced his shoulders around the mic stand, there was a pretty eerie resemblance. But not quite as eerie as what happened next.





Bjørn Torske [Thirsty Nickel; 10 p.m.]

Heading over to the Smalltown Supersound showcase just a couple blocks away, the real Thurston Moore was standing outside the Thirsty Nickel, like a silent clarion inviting in-the-know folks to the night's hippest show. He had been there to see Sunburned Hand of the Man, whose set had just finished, and after hanging around a few minutes looking dapper in a white fedora, he disappeared to quietly endorse some other showcase.



That didn't stop a nice crowd from gathering to hear Scandinavia's greatest DJs in one of the unlikeliest bars in the world-- on an ordinary night you could imagine a cowboy-hat-clad group of line dancers or Longhorn frat types filling the Thirsty Nickel-- but on Wednesday night, all it took was another shaggy blond pelt and Ableton to gather a mix of all shapes and sizes. Bjørn Torkse whipped up a few "live" tracks, looping some homemade percussion (read: taking a drumstick to a block of wood), a carrot-shaped shaker, and a banjo. A minor glitch in the sound system aside, he warmed up the crowd nicely for his fellow Norwegian Diskjokke.





Diskjokke [Thirsty Nickel; 11 p.m.]

Eschewing his labelmate's kitchen-sink looping tricks, Diskjokke's setup was simple and clean, with just a laptop and some basic controls, but the bass-heavy disco sound he unleashed actually got the Texas crowd to do some strutting without thumbing their belt buckles. Halfway through his set, the Nickel was nearing capacity and a crowd had begun gathering around the windows behind the DJ booth on the sidewalks outside. Who needs Thurston's seal of approval when you have blisteringly loud space disco to entice passers-by?





Lindstrøm [Thirsty Nickel; 12 p.m.]

But of course the night's big draw was Hans-Peter Lindstrøm, the Norwegian DJ whose collaborations with Prins Thomas and Solale have garnered him wide praise. The "space disco" pioneer debuted his first proper solo album in its entirety and, well, suffice it to say, if you liked It's a Feedelity Affair, you're gonna love Where You Go I Go to, arriving on June 2 on Feedelity/Smalltown. Expanding his airy interstellar sound, the italo synths and their icy chords are still there, but the sound is much more massive, and the crowd reacted in kind. Unable to control themselves, the audience was nearly falling over the railing in front of the DJ booth, trying to snap a shot or just dancing without care.

SXSW: Wednesday [Dave Maher]

The Cansecos [Habana Calle 6 Patio; 9 p.m.]

When the Cansecos took the stage, it was a pleasant surprise to see the Canadian quartet made up of dudes who didn't look like they were in a band, the drummer's bolo tie aside. They kicked things off with an astral, Daft Punk-y tune before settling into their own danceable groove; unfortunately, their singing was hit-or-miss during the entire set, but the bass player was working overtime with a constant accompaniment of bubbling lines. Overall, they were at their best when they kept things tight and not, as they proclaimed themselves before their multi-part closing song, "epic."

Peter and the Wolf [Central Presbyterian Church; 10 p.m.]


There's something about churches. Peter and the Wolf played Central Presbyterian, and the minute I walked into the sanctuary, everything just felt calmer. While a space can determine the tone of a performance, Red Hunter and his chorus of note-perfect backing vocalists did a damn fine job of establishing a mood themselves. Hunter was relaxed and conversational, repeatedly referring to the choir as his friends and practically including the audience in that designation.

For the most part, the songs went by so quickly that I felt like I missed one if I spent too much time breathing. The biggest exception was a rousing, fleshed-out version of "Safe Travels"-- the group took their time building it, and the result actually swung. Like "Safe Travels", quite a few Peter and the Wolf songs have themes of movement and/or city-dwelling, so as Hunter sang about the fast pace and isolation of modern life, the delicateness of the performance provided a lovely counterpoint.

R.E.M. [Stubb's; 12 a.m.]

There was no way people weren't going to love R.E.M. Their set was one of this week's Big Shows, and I was honestly expecting not to get in. An hour beforehand, Stubb's was surprisingly easy to enter, but it was plenty packed once I got inside.

Michael Stipe opened by saying, "Children of South by Southwest, come to me," and he followed that with plenty of stares, smiles, and open-armed gestures throughout the night. R.E.M. are professional entertainers, in the best way, but the amount of energy they put into their performance was inspiring for a band that's going on three decades (!) of existence.

The flipside of being around for so long is that you amass a catalog so big you can't possibly please all your fans with a single SXSW set. This show consisted of an unfortunately small number of the band's biggest classics (though superfan favorite "Fall on Me" made an appearance), but people ate it up anyway. My favorite moment of the set, however, occurred when Stipe explained, "That was a new song" and a fellow show-goer responded with, "Now play an old song."

The Lemonheads [Emo's Annex; 1 a.m.]

The Lemonheads, on the other hand, celebrated the old songs, playing the entirety of their underrated 1992 album It's a Shame About Ray in order. The record's a small-scale affair, a compact set of tunes about things like getting high, liking girls, being (drug) buddies, and eating cereal (at least I think that's what "Ceiling Fan in My Spoon" is about, unless it's about drugs). And for this show, Evan Dando and co. left the record pretty much intact; he freely added falsetto throughout, changing things up just a bit, but songs this good didn't need anything extra.

SXSW: Wednesday [Paul Thompson]

Phosphorescent [Mohawk indoor stage; 3:45 p.m.]

In between flying, arriving, checking in, registering, getting the lay of the land, bumping into J. Mascis and a giant chicken-man on the same block, marveling at the sheer amount of paper people waste on flyers at these things, and dealing with the looming feeling that the next big thing is two clubs over, the first few hours at South by Southwest can leave you a bit restless. But opting for Phosphorescent's brief, mostly hushed set at the Austinist/Gothamist party at Mohawk proved a good balm for the looming chaos, as a crowd of maybe 75 stood in the dimly-lit back room to catch Matthew Houck and company ramshackle their way through some of their ramshackle country-inflected drone-folk.

Bogged down a bit by a weird mix, Houck nevertheless managed to throw that sweet old voice of his all over a half-dozen or so tunes-- including an off-the-cuff sounding cover of Dire Straits' "So Far Away"-- in a relaxed manner that seemed about as far removed from the roving packs of publicists and industry types trudging past the window behind them as could be. "A Picture of Our Torn Up Praise", lovely as can be on last year's underappreciated Pride, grew even lovelier when Houck's vocals are allowed a little more room to breathe, and the thunderous drums of "At Death, A Proclamation" took on a bit of a punk edge in the live setting. Or, as my showgoing companion Dave Maher said, "that dude really looks like Zeus." He sure does.

Earlimart [Austin Convention Center Bat Bar; 7 p.m.]

Upon hitting the back of a surprisingly long line to the Austin Convention Center's Exhibit Hall 4/Bat Bar, I was approached by a very nice lady in a DirecTV polo shirt who inquired about my television service back in Chicago. We chatted innocuously enough about the advantages of satellite and how in the world I can live without a DVR, but when the line started to move and another very nice lady posted at the door told the camera around my neck "no pictures!", I realized I was walking into a trap.

I didn't go to SXSW last year, but I did sit on my couch and fiddle with the remote a bit, and I recall seeing a few very slick productions of mostly middling bands "live from South by Southwest" on one of those channels way up in the hundreds. This, it became quite clear upon almost getting smacked in the face by a camera crane, was that. I must've stood for about 15 minutes snapping photos (which were, it turns out, no problem before the broadcast began) watching Earlimart frontman Aaron Espinoza crack wise with the crowd and exchange incredulous looks with cohort Ariana Murray. That they shared my sense of the ridiculousness of this thing was the set's main saving grace.

We were told to clap on cue as the set began and the band rolled through their pleasantly gooey but largely forgettable pop tunes, including a pretty mess from their forthcoming Hymn and Her LP. They're not a bad band, really, there's just not a whole lot that they do that one can latch onto: Their first few records had moments, but their most recent stuff is so pleasant as to be unpleasant, if that makes sense. People tuning in at home: The Bat Bar isn't so much a bar as a stage and an elaborate series of neon signs, with a little enclave to the side where beer is served. And, in a town with a ton of real bars hosting a ton of rock bands, the facade of this thing was a bit hard to shake, even, I suspect, for Earlimart. Still, that's a lotta channels for $54.99 a month.

These New Puritans [Antone's; 9 p.m.]

"We're These New Puritans," frontman Jack Barnett mumbled in the middle of the band's way too short set, "and we'll play our songs now." So they did. These New Puritans deal in reserve, not blunt force. But damn if I wasn't pummeled anyway by their almost scarily powerful set at the Domino showcase at Antone's. These kids wielded that wiry post-punk energy like a weapon, giving the songs plenty of room to fly around inflicting their art-damage. Jack Barnett exuded an eery confidence with his mumbled/shouted vocals, wearing a menacing gold-feathered vest. The rest of the band alternated between tumult and near-lethargy, creating a perfect medium for their detached yet debilitating tunes. Yeah, with their chanting vocals and nervy hooks, they sound a lot like Liars in their dance-punk days, but Liars never had a pop tune as good as "Elvis", and "Elvis" is a pretty friggin' menacing pop tune. It's a little scary how much These New Puritans get out of so little, and I left wishing I could see them again right off.



Times New Viking [La Zona Rosa; 10:30 p.m.]



I've often wondered why no one can get a convincingly raucous photo out of the convincingly raucous Times New Viking, but then again, I'd never attempted it myself 'til tonight. Sure, their set was the same glorious shit-pop muck they've learned to cultivate and we've grown to love, but they do it with such ease, it's as spooky as Jack Barnett's collected menace. Beth Murphy stands in place at the organ, occasionally bending a bit at the knee. Guitarist Jared Phillips holds the axe like a rifle and fires with the confidence of a master marksman, rarely letting the blowback lift his wrist. Adam Elliott gets a little wild behind the trapset, but as often as their music threatens to spin out of control and become unbearable noise, these kids are in total control.

The set was typically great, with Present the Paisley Reich's "Imagine Dead John Lennon" serving as the highlight amidst a lot of fine ones, mostly from Rip It Off. "This goes out to anyone born in the early 80s, or Paul McCartney," Elliott chimed in before tearing into another one, giving me further ammo for my claim that Times New Viking are the Beatles of noise rock. Cut some of the murk (and the live show does remove their fourth instrument, the tape hiss) and they're writing some of the catchiest songs going, and, hey, those Beatles had nifty little numbers about drugs and teenage lust, too. Though perhaps Mariah, not Ringo, ought to be the one watching the fuck out for this lot: John Norris from MTV News was in the wings, looking on appreciatively.



Bun B [Fuze; 1:15 a.m.]



I met Joel, a SXSW volunteer from Austin taking a break from his duties at a club across downtown, outside the Bun B show at Fuze. Despite the badges around our necks and the "Badges Only" sign on the door, neither of us were allowed in, though no one was manning the door and not a single official from SXSW showed in the half hour or so we were waiting in a formless line outside the club. Miffed, we went and grabbed a late-night Shiner together, and Joel explained to me that, after the recent death of Bun's UGK partner Pimp C, he'd all but given up on listening to rap music.

Bun was the dude I wanted to see more than any other at SXSW, and I guess that means I should've stood in the line I saw forming outside the club around 7:45. Those folks probably saw Bun B last night, but Joel and I weren't among them. And, though a glance into the side door lead me to believe it was a capacity issue, no one could say for sure. The scene outside was electric with confusion, and the pair of bicycle cops who showed up just as we left only added to the static.

It was a nice night, all told, but it's not the kind of night you're supposed to have at SXSW. You're supposed to see Bun B if you want to. As Dave Maher, who caught UGK's showcase last year kept telling me, rap shows at South by Southwest are a little different. Now, why is that?

SXSW: Wednesday [Matt LeMay]

[Photos by Christine Tadler]

Pattern Is Movement [Mohawk Inside Stage; 2 p.m.]

As the Mohawk's inside stage cleared out after A Place to Bury Strangers (who, at least from across a crowd of people, I didn't really get at all), singer/keyboardist Andrew Thiboldeaux of Philadelphia two-piece Pattern Is Movement announced, "we're a happy band." They certainly delivered on that claim, playing a brief set of music driven by the contrast between spare, ambient keyboards and thunderous, complex drumming. A cover of Radiohead's "Everything in Its Right Place" recast the song's mantra in much less menacing terms-- a kinda goofy move for sure, but well in keeping with the band's stubbornly positive stage energy. Case in point: Thiboldeaux applauded for drummer Chris Ward after every single song, emphasizing both the band's good-naturedness and the musical rapport shared by its two members.

Shearwater [Mohawk Outside Stage; 4 p.m.]

By the time Phosphorescent took the stage at 3:45, the inside room at the Mohawk was totally packed; we opted to move outside and get a good spot for Shearwater's performance. This was my first time seeing the band, and while I loved Palo Santo, I was completely unprepared for their impressive live show. Jonathan Meiburg's voice is a thing of beauty, and his band's just-so-slightly atypical arrangements (Thor Harris's teeny-tiny hi-hat cymbals and crackly, busted-sounding snare drum in particular) flatter the nuances of Meiburg's performance and songwriting.

I have trouble letting myself be moved by a band if I get the sense that they're trying to pull something on me, or to elicit a specific reaction via means outside of their music, but I was entirely won over by Shearwater's earnestness and ease. I was so enthralled by Shearwater's set that I didn't even notice the construction on adjacent Red River street until Meiburg pointed it out.

Upright Citizens Brigade [United States Art Authority; 8 p.m.]

After dinner, we got word that three of the founders of Upright Citizens Brigade were going to be doing one of their famous A.S.S.S.S.C.A.T. improv shows at an artspace near the UT campus. With so many big-name comedians in town, many with ties to UCB, there was talk of a star-studded performance. The show turned out to be just Matt Walsh, Matt Besser, and Ian Roberts, but it was far from disappointing-- lack of celebrity cameos notwithstanding. Breaking from the show's protocol, Walsh, Bessner, and Roberts engaged the crowd constantly, polling its male members as to how many shave their junk and soliciting stories from the audience at large.

The Judy's [Austin Music Hall; 9 p.m.]

Finallly, we headed down to the newly renovated Austin Music Hall to catch the Austin Music Awards. And it was a weird, weird combination of David Lynch-esque Americana surrealism and the kind of cultural grandstanding (WOOOO WE GOT A BIG, TEXAS-SIZED MUSIC SCENE) that makes me kind of hate Austin. On the stage, local cult heroes the Judy's were playing what I believe to be their first show since the early 1990s. I've heard and enjoyed their recordings, which sound like a more straightforwardly power-pop take on the B-52's kinda jokey new wave, but I was pretty distracted by the band's decision to trot out thematically relevant items (TVs, water) for each song. Prop rock? Really?

Okkervil River [Austin Music Hall; 11 p.m.]

From there, the night only got weirder. Roky Erickson was presented a lifetime achievement award by ZZ Top's Billy Gibbons, Spoon was presented pretty much every major award, and acceptance speeches ran long and gratuitous. It was well after the scheduled time of 11 when Okkervil River took the stage, but the wait was worth it; the mood at the front of the auditorium changed drastically when the band launched into a stunning set of three songs from last year's excellent The Stage Names. The band's on-stage presence reminded me of a more sharp-focus Arcade Fire, more attuned to the ebbs and flows of individual songs than to broader, grander gestures.

Roky Erickson with Okkervil River [Austin Music Hall; 11 p.m.]

After Okkervil closed their set with a stirring rendition of "Unless It's Kicks" (my fave!), they were joined on stage by Texas psychedelic music legend Roky Erickson. I'm more familiar with Erickson's back story than I am with his music, but I was struck by how Okkervil's backing highlighted the power of Erickson's voice and the melodicism of his songs. It was a pretty great end to a very odd night.

SXSW: Wednesday [Matthew Solarski]

Laura Barrett [Emo's Jr.; 12:15 p.m.]




Laura Barrett is that quirky, crafty, half-hip/half-nerdy friend who miraculously managed to escape puberty with her imagination fully intact and who never ceases to charm you with her wiles and whimsy. Like one Joanna Newsom, she's embraced an atypical instrument (the kalimba), she has a serious childlike streak, and her songs have a certain emotional swoop to them that belie their innocent qualities. Yet unlike Newsom, whose ambitious compositions have found a comfortable home in orchestra halls by now, Barrett's tunes seem custom made for house shows and gatherings of friends. They didn't mingle so well with the strangers packed in at Emo's Jr., but then again, who or what does mingle well on a Wednesday just after noon?

Planningtorock [SESAC Day Stage Café; 3 p.m.]

Of the 13 or so performances I witnessed on Wednesday, the most eye-opening by far belonged to Planningtorock, who spent the entirety of this brief afternoon set perched on a table, with avant-garde video projections behind her and a pair of homemade space helmets beside her that she would occasionally don.

Taken together, her status as a British expatriate in Berlin, penchant for ridiculous headgear, and tendency to do unusual things with her voice all tempt me to brand her a female Jamie Lidell, though she's too willfully eccentric and stylistically unhinged to cultivate an audience on his level. As performance art, however, this was pretty exciting stuff.

The Russian Futurists [Habana Calle 6 Patio; 11 p.m.]






Early in this set Russian Futurists mastermind Matthew Adam Hart accused the audience of being a bit "static," though the same charge might have been leveled at him. While Hart is more or less solely responsible for the infectious, effervescent pop found on the Russian Futurists' three excellent albums, live he has a guitarist, keyboardist, and drummer conjuring most of the music, leaving him to twist a few knobs and sing.

It would have been nice to see Hart take advantage of this relative freedom and just let loose some more, to really inhabit the frontman role that I'm sure he's more than cut out for. We got glimpses of what might have been in Hart's steady stream of between-song wisecracks ("Okay guys," he quipped late in the set, "we have one more and it's called 'We Just Got to Austin and We're Looking to Buy Drugs Right Away'"). I'd love to see that sort of mischief manifest itself in the performance.

But we'll cut the guy some slack; this gig marked the Canadian band's first Stateside appearance since being turned away at the border during a Caribou/Junior Boys tour in 2005, and they were probably on their best behavior (apart from soliciting the audience for drugs, of course). Also, they hit pretty much all the RF catalog high points-- "Let's Get Ready to Crumble", "Paul Simon", "Precious Metals"-- and even whipped out a (okay, a little goofy) cover of Sally Shapiro's "I'll Be by Your Side"!

Gowns [Habana Calle 6; 12:10 p.m.]






Like Gowns' fantastic 2007 album Red State, this set was positively charged with desperate energies and highlighted by moments of profound focus and clarity. During those brightest moments (light and brightness being a leitmotif of Red State) it feels as though Gowns are grasping at some quintessential truth, and in so doing, tottering at the edge of oblivion. And then oblivion always wins. Dear world: Please produce more bands like this one. Love, Matthew.

Silje Nes [The Velveeta Room; 1 a.m.]




There's something oddly fascinating about watching someone take the electric guitar-- the instrument that brought popular music performance out of the parlor-- and use it to create delicate percussive effects and faint resonances, all of which fly in the face of the instrument's traditional macho and phallic associations. Silje Nes here essentially turned the electric into a parlor instrument like its forbearer, creating an intricate sound-cocoon that felt a million miles away from the chaos raging just outside on 6th Street. That's pretty goddamned punk rock, if you think about it.

Additional Photos:

Radar Bros. [Emo's Jr.; 1 p.m.]


Mala Rodriguez [SESAC Day Stage Café; 2:30 p.m.]


Shearwater [Mohawk Patio; 4 p.m.]






The Wedding Present's David Gedge and Terry de Castro [Emo's Annex; 5:15 p.m.]


Abigail Washburn/Sparrow Quartet (featuring Béla Fleck) [Mother Egan's; 6:30 p.m.]

Do you have a news tip for us? Anything crazy happen at a show you attended recently? Do you have inside info on the bands we cover? Is one of your favorite artists (that's not somebody you know personally) releasing a new record you'd like to see covered? You will remain completely anonymous, unless we are given your express permission to reveal your identity. (Please note that publicists, managers, booking agents, and other artist representatives are generally exempt from this rule, but will also be granted anonymity if requested.)