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When electronic/dubstep disc-scratcher Bassnectar (a.k.a. Lorin Ashton) hosted his mini-festival at the yawning, expansive Bill Graham Auditorium, the downtown San Francisco venue was overrun with thousands of barely legal ravers chewing on glow-in-the-dark binkys and chattering excitedly (with and without the binky). So popular was this event—also featuring Baltimore-based electronic maestro Dan Deacon and jamtronica duo Big Gigantic—that the lines for any normal concert-going activity—bathroom, coat-check, water fountain—took approximately 18 years. The lines actually seemed to be the only orderly element of the entire shindig, as no one really knew who was playing at any given time, and once you stepped into the dancing throng, you didn’t really care.

The Auditorium was an orgiastic pep rally for misfits. It was the “Smells Like Teen Spirit” video if Kurt Cobain had been using Prozac instead of heroin and Nirvana was into LED lights. About half the girls seemed to have picked some lingerie from the Victoria’s Secret catalog and forgot to put actual clothes over them, then complemented their non-outfits with knee socks or furry boots, as though that will keep them toasty. The dress code for guys was a little more diverse, but many seemed to be accessorizing with a fat joint.

There is a burgeoning dub-step movement wobbling its way up and down the West Coast. This makes sense, since missionaries of the genre, including Santa Cruz native Bassnectar, seem to either hail from some hippie city in California or from Denver (which legally gave double meaning to its “Mile High City” nickname years ago). My East Coast friends aren’t as familiar with this species of music, which features clipped samples, breaking beats and that perpetual, rhythmically manipulated, bone-rattling bass. But in places like the Bay Area, there is a massive subculture as devoted to the music and the lifestyle as Deadheads had been in their heyday. In fact, Bassnectar fondly refers to his followers as “Bassheads,” and I spotted many folks sporting T-shirts bearing the name. There are even websites dedicated to dubstep dancing, replete with videos and how-tos.

When Ashton and his mop of early-Anthony-Kiedis hair ascended his throne of keyboards and synthesizers, the crowd flew into a frenzy of lights and skin that didn’t peter out until three hours later when the DJ closed up shop. I was pretty amazed by the endurance of the concertgoers, but Bassnectar seemed finely attuned to his crowd: staff kept us fully supplied with glow sticks, blinking light necklaces and gulps of water, and every time the collective energy appeared to wane, he pumped us up with a Blur or Hawaii Five-0 sample. Ashton—hair flying, silhouetted against a giant illuminated wall—had the entire room pulsing with his glitchy beats, precipitous drops and the wobble-wobble of the mind-numbing bass. After the full-frontal assault on my eardrums, I will probably require cochlear implants.

When I managed to peel my eyes away from the mesmerizing LED light show (which I’m pretty sure is the same thing you see during near-death experiences), I took in the crowd behind me, grinding and flailing on the floor and up in the stands. It resembled the scene you may see when flying over New York City at night, lights flaring and twinkling. A concertgoer decided to show off her pole-dancing skills by climbing up a support beam and performing pretty impressive acrobatics, and another twirled multicolored hula-hoops so dexterously that it made me think she should be onstage as a backup dancer.

With rapid support of young binky-sucking fans who like road trips, the dubstep movement, led by Bassnectar, is poised to infiltrate the rest of the country. Amid the chaos of blinding lights, near-toxic levels of pot smoke and writhing, sweaty bodies, that much was clear.

—Maureen Coulter

MAGNET’s Maureen Coulter reports from the 2011 Outside Lands Music And Art Festival in Golden Gate Park.

With the third and final day of Outside Lands came the lousy Sunday-night feeling I used to get in college when I spent the entire weekend watching Entourage marathons with my roommates instead of studying for Monday morning’s bio exam. Two-thirds of the lineup had already packed their gear and headed out on their tour buses, and I hadn’t caught nearly as many acts I had intended to see. My first, panicked instinct was to cram. And cram I did.

Major Lazer, the electronic/hip-hop mind-meld of DJs/producers Diplo and Switch, gave a balls-to-the wall performance—literally, as the rapping frontman mounted the scaffolding mid-set. Major Lazer took full advantage of the keyed-up crowd by pulling its strings like a marionette: “Make some noise!” “Say yeah!” “Louder!” “Take off your shirts! Everybody take off your shirts!” That last one actually worked, as about 20 percent of the audience ripped off their tops and started waving them in the air like Terrible Towels at a Pittsburgh Steelers game. The group thumped, blipped and dropped, whipping the crowd into a frenzy. Major Lazer continued to irritate the scowling, burly security guards: “Let’s get some girls up on this stage!” About 40 chicks in bras charged the platform and gyrated amongst themselves as the yellow-shirted staff loitered nearby for the right time to escort them off.

Dreamy Swedish synth-pop quartet Little Dragon, led by shiny, diminutive lead vocalist Yukimi Nagano, played a simmering, melodic show perfect for a Sunday afternoon. Nagano’s tinkling voice blended with the jingling and chiming of assorted percussion and often veered off into a hypnotic electronic swirl of bass and synthesizers. While simultaneously dancing and scribbling in my notebook, a guy next to me inquired about my odd choice of concert activity, which begat more conversation. Turns out, his brother and his friend played in Latina breakout star Ximena Sarinana’s band the day before at the festival (and on Jay Leno this week), and I wound up backstage after the Little Dragon set. I then followed them through the VIP section (where the media were banned from this year, natch) to watch the Decemberists at the Lands End stage.

Decked out in hide-leather shoes and hats and blazers fit for an afternoon jaunt at the Kentucky Derby, Colin Meloy and friends were the savory filling of Meloy’s described “John Fogerty and Arcade Fire sandwich.” The band members acted out many of the narrative lyrics in their epic, instrumentally diverse songs, including the finale “The Mariner’s Revenge.” They mandated that the crowd scream as if they were being devoured during the whale-swallowing line. Live video on two large screens bordering each side of the stage would often cut to guitarist Chris Funk’s facial expressions, The Office-style. He is the band’s resident John Krasinski/Jim Halpert. Whenever something would happen onstage, the video would cut to his reaction, which ranged from fake surprise to theatric indifference. While the rest of the players collapsed to the ground during the “death” scene, Funk meandered over to his cup of beer, took a swig, then dropped to the floor dramatically.

En route to see DeadMau5 across the park, I stopped to watch a combination drum line/marching band dressed like they were in the King of Hearts’ court and adorned with gold bells and red-and-black flair. Several men on stilts with faces painted like mimes were lurching around the group, which had attracted several dozen enthusiastic festival-goers. Maybe they’ll be onstage next year.

One thing I learned at Outside Lands was that the tanking economy has had little affect on the drug market. In the few minutes I spent waiting for the DJ/producer’s signature oversized mouse ears to appear silhouetted against the backdrop, about three people asked me for “dry goods.” I was sporting a sweater, glasses and a button-down shirt; I looked like a Sunday-school teacher, not an ecstasy peddler. So if these folks are willing to ask Sister Kathleen McDougle for a hit, the demand is obviously there. However, the rumbling bass and fluid house beats of Deadmau5 could be enjoyed regardless of your present state of mind.

The fact that Outside Lands was a near-sellout affair alone points to its wild success this year. But the beaming faces I encountered as we filtered out of the park were evidence that festival-goers already have 2012 on their minds. I know I do. And next time, I’ll make sure to study up.

MAGNET’s Maureen Coulter reports from the 2011 Outside Lands Music And Art Festival in Golden Gate Park.

It was 80 degrees, and I was in that borderline-perspiring mode as I left sunny San Jose. Not 45 minutes down Highway 280, the creeping fog enveloped the city of San Francisco and eclipsed the sun like a Tom Cruise apocalypse/alien-invasion film. I should have figured it wouldn’t be a “quintessential San Francisco event” without the fog. However, it failed to put a damper on anyone’s spirit. As I drew closer to the festival, the giddy energy grew as palpable as the mist.

I had been self-conscious about the fact that I didn’t have time to wash my hair before I left, but it became clear that I was better off than many of the folks there because I was wearing shoes. Many of the Friday festival-goers were there for Phish, which translates into a lot of hula-hoops, grimy, hand-sewn Grateful Dead patches and clusters of people camping outside of the fence. They may be homeless, if you don’t count a VW bus with a mattress in the back.

While last year I enjoyed the full array of VIP perks as MAGNET’s resident Outside Lands correspondent, this year media were exiled to their own press tent, where bespectacled, shaggy-haired writers in threadbare Toms could gaze longingly at the adjacent VIP tent where ladies and gents were swishing their wine and posing for photos that will end up in the high-society pages in San Francisco magazine.

Best Coast—the L.A.-based, lo-fi, surf-rock trio—played to an adoring crowd of girls who looked like they were the chair of the feminist club at their liberal-arts college. Lead vocalist and primary songwriter Bethany Consentino has the tough-but-glam girl thing down, with a conversational, gravelly voice wrapped up in a cute dress. It’s kind of like what Courtney Love had going on for a minute during her 17th comeback effort for Hole’s Celebrity Skin. The band’s songs are simple and generally poppy. If Telekenesis had a therapy session with the Raveonettes and convinced them to have a more positive outlook on life, Best Coast would be the result.

“This is the best coast!” Consentino declared mid-set. I just hope none of the band’s tour stops includes New England. She’ll either have to retract her loyalty or be subjected to flying cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon and Red Sox paraphernalia.

Zach Braff really did have the right idea when he chose two Shins songs for the Garden State soundtrack way back in the early ‘00s. In spite of the fact that frontman James Mercer has been occupied laying down tracks with Danger Mouse in Broken Bells and his “main” band hasn’t put out a new record in almost five years, listening to Shins songs again is like catching a waft of your high-school boyfriend’s favorite brand of cologne: Memories come flooding right back.

The Shins played an extremely precise mix from each of their previous albums, and their slight melodic detours and Mercer’s Christina Aguilera-style vocal liberties enhanced the overall performance. When they announced they were playing a new song from their impending album, about 20,000 phones werewhipped out. (At this point, you’ll probably find a bunch of grainy videos of the track on YouTube). The preview was a tantalizing appetizer stuffed with funk guitar riffs and a danceable beat. “Sea Legs” featured a throbbing bass that likely rearranged my internal organs and devolved into a jam-off session with Phish, which was playing at the other end of the park. (The Shins won, in my opinion.)

As I waded through the sea of swaying dreadlocks and compostable cups and made my way to my car, the road looked like the first stage of the Tour de France after the gun just fired, with dozens of concert-goers on bikes peddling back into the city to pass out and do it all over again.

“Welcome to tonight’s version of the weirdest tour ever!” says Band Of Horses frontman Ben Bridwell of their last-minute show at the TLA on a rainy Tuesday night. The Seattle-based group had been on tour this summer with Kings Of Leon up until the July 29 show in Dallas where KOL’s Caleb Followill left the stage to “vomit and drink a beer” and never returned. The tour was soon cancelled, and while Followill and KOL are facing a shitstorm of bad press, Band Of Horses took it in stride: The band lined up a few club shows with its guitarist Tyler Ramsey opening with an acoustic set.

Keyboardist Ryan Monroe pumps up the crowd by playing the Rocky theme before leading into BOH’s signature soulful-yet-haunting harmonies, which fall somewhere between Neil Young and the Shins. Last year’s Infinite Arms has such a layered feel to it that you’re surprised when you see the band duplicate what you’ve listened to at home. By the second song, “The Great Salt Lake,” it’s obvious this is going to be a high-energy show despite BOH’s hazy, hypnotic sound. Equally impressive is “Cigarette Wedding Bands,” which showcases Monroe’s talent as he moves from keys to guitar. And not only does he play guitar on the song, he completely shreds it with a short-yet-ripping solo.

Throughout the first batch of songs—from whimsical and haunting to twangy and country—drummer Creighton Barrett is a hulking guy, and it seems at any moment he’s going to go Animal all over his kit. But he doesn’t. Despite his energy, he is incredibly controlled and steady. He hangs back on the more poppy, ‘70s-ish tunes like “Compliments” but delivers the same intensity.

On “The General Specific” (a standout because it breaks apart from the rest of BOH’s songs, lyrically and melodically; it’s more bubbly and country), Monroe rips another solo, on keys this time, that’s more Elton John improv than alt rock. Then there are the songs that could be love letters, like “Part One (Savannah),” which gets the crowd singing along, “You really caught me dear/At the bottom where I’d fallen.”

At the first three notes of “Is There a Ghost,” fans whip out their camera phones to record the band’s single from 2007s Cease To Begin, and they keep recording right into the next, which was recently covered by Cee-Lo Green: “No One’s Gonna Love You.” During clap-a-long “Older,” we get to hear Monroe’s voice alone, and it becomes clear while Bridwell’s vocals seem to define BOH’s sound, Monroe’s are really half of that unique quality.

As the set winds down, the band plays the gospel “Marry Song,” which sounds like a country slow dance at a joint with a sawdust floor. BOH finishes with another single from Infinite Arms, “Laredo,” graciously thanks the crowd and returns backstage. But fans aren’t budging, because they know what’s in store for the encore.

After a harmonica-heavy “For Annabelle,” the crowd is eerily silent, waiting for “The Funeral.” And when they finally get what they came for, I’m happy to see Barrett finally let loose, arms flailing wildly but still harnessing that same energized control that drives BOH’s crisp show.

—Cristina Perachio

It was rather fitting that Vermont trio Mountain Man performed at the First Unitarian Church the night a much-needed rainstorm brought some relief from the triple-digit heat that’s been scorching the city of Philadelphia for the past few weeks. As the rain washed away the layer of grime that sticks to everything when it’s oppressively hot and humid, the lovely female voices that filled the church’s side chapel came as a breath of fresh air to a music scene that seems to have all but forgotten the artform of unaccompanied vocal harmonies. With songs that appear to be inspired by old sailor tunes and Southern hymns, Mountain Man creates a sound that feels familiar but is also unlike anything else that’s out today—factors that are reflected in the band’s unfussy live act.

Fans squeezed into the tiny chapel, all slightly damp after waiting in the rain for the doors to open, and Molly Sarle, Alexandra Sauser-Monnig and Amelia Meath (also sporting wet hair and clothes) casually began the show with a spectacular rendition of “Honeybee” without even pausing to find their first notes. The performance continued in the same effortless-sounding vein as the band stunned the audience with slightly re-worked versions of songs from debut album Made The Harbor, along with a few well-chosen covers. Standout songs included “Animal Tracks,” “Sewee Sewee” and “River,” as well as “Babylon,” a nun-like round that was befitting of the show’s church setting.

The set, like the album, was overwhelmingly a capella, with each girl displaying her versatility by sharing duties on lead vocals as well as both high and low harmonies. Occasionally, Sarle or Sauser-Monnig would strum or fingerpick an acoustic guitar, but the instrumental aspect was never a focus of the act and instead was used merely to add to each song almost as a whim. In today’s age, when it’s easy to hide behind veils of loop pedals and special effects, it’s truly inspiring to see a band brave enough to lay it out bare and talented enough to do it perfectly.

What was especially unique about this performance was its warmth and intimacy, as the girls joked around with each other about eighth-grade diary entries and dreams about Marilyn Manson, paused to say “God bless you” to a fan who sneezed and giggled between songs. Even a mistake on guitar (punctuated by a frustrated “Fuuuuck!” from Sarle), which would have been a glaringly awkward blunder at any other show, only added to the band’s down-to-earth vibe. The set felt less like a performance and more like the audience was sitting in on a hang-out session between three best friends, who were singing together solely for the joy of it, with no rock-star pretence to spoil the mood. We in the audience felt included in the love, too, when the band ended the set by engaging us in a three-part round, leaving the stage to blend in with the crowd.

—Emily Costantino

It’s the 33rd annual Copenhagen Jazz Festival. MAGNET’s Mitch Myers translates the action.

The 10-day jazz festival in Copenhagen finally concluded on Sunday, and I’m happy to report that there was no letdown in the quality of music being performed across town on the final night. Occupying a variety of venues throughout the historic city, the fest came in all shapes and sizes—from coffeehouses to street fairs to theaters to, of course, jazz clubs. Speaking of jazz clubs, I made it to a gig at the Jazzhus Montmartre, a legendary Danish hotspot where American expats like Deter Gordon held residencies and other great jazz musicians made historic recordings.

The interesting this about the (Café) Montmartre is that 35 years after being relocated in 1976 (and then ultimately closing in 1995), the club was reopened at its original location in 2010. With so much jazz history contained in this small-yet-important space, it was heartening to watch alto saxophonist Charles McPherson perform with local Danish musicians, especially because he had gigged at the original Montmartre venue decades before. McPherson is a jazz journeyman who played with Charles Mingus in the ’60s and ’70s, and one reason Mingus always loved McPherson was because the altoist played in a tart style heavily influenced by Charlie “Yardbird” Parker. After all these years, McPherson is still a disciple of Bird, and his repertoire at the Montmartre was straight out of this classic jazz vein. Performing vintage tunes like “I’ll Remember April,” “Scrapple From The Apple” and Jerome Kern’s “All The Things You Are,” McPherson sounded sharp and confident as he jumped from bebop to ballads and blues. As the show progressed, I found myself admiring the dynamic abilities of the drummer and was chagrined to find that it was veteran Alex Riel, a world-class Danish musician who boasts a resume as historic as McPherson’s, if not more so.

Then it was back to the other Jazzhouse, where an auspicious gig was underway featuring Italian pianist Enrico Pieranunzi with a celebrated Danish rhythm section of drummer Stefan Pasborg and bassist Jesper Lundgaard. Pieranunzi began his recording career with the late Chet Baker back in 1979. He’s a marvelous player whose piano style resides somewhere between those of Bill Evans and McCoy Tyner. A longtime critics’ favorite, Pieranunzi has made historic trio recordings with two Americans: bassist Marc Johnson and drummer Joey Baron. In any case, their music at the Jazzhouse was stellar, and although the threesome played several standards, the only song I can recall was “Someday My Prince Will Come.” The talented Pasborg and Lundgaard both sounded strong and distinctive without overshadowing the amazing Pieranunzi, and this trio gig was an international piano man’s dream.

So, it was with an uplifted spirit that I left Copenhagen to return to the U.S., learning that the often-formal boundaries of nations, politics and language can do little to keep talented musicians of the world apart.

It’s the 33rd annual Copenhagen Jazz Festival. MAGNET’s Mitch Myers translates the action.

The Copenhagen Jazz Festival continues, and I try to keep up. And by going to catch Brad Mehldau and Joshua Redman perform after having seen them do a similar show in Montreal last week, I guess I took the easy way out. Still, this was a world-class gig, and I was eager to see how the guys were progressing as they made their way across Europe. The results were predictably impressive, and if anything, the two men are getting even more in tune with each other—if that’s possible. Mehldau and Redman have played together in various group formats over the years, but as far as I can recall, this is the first series of shows where they’ve appeared as a duo. While the bulk of the evening featured new, as yet unrecorded material written by either Mehldau or Redman, they did fall back on one jazz classic, performing “Monk’s Dream” to a highly appreciative audience.

As usual, Mehldau’s piano work was both cerebral and emotive, but Redman certainly was his equal, providing a near-perfect counterpoint on tenor and soprano saxophone. The pressure was clearly on the pair with no rhythm section to rely on, but their sound was full and had its own internal momentum as the two showed off their vast capacities as improvisers. For an encore, they pulled a rabbit out of the proverbial hat with a dynamic version of Nirvana’s “Smells Like Teen Spirit.” Brought back to the stage once more by the politely insistent Danish crowd, the only thing left for the them to do was play the old chestnut “On The Sunny Side of The Street.” And that was it.

Taking advantage of simple proximity, I walked out of the Mehldau/Redman gig and stepped right into an adjacent room where legendary drummer Andrew Cyrille was in the process of putting on a very educational solo show. Cyrille is an avant-garde drummer who has worked with everyone from Coleman Hawkins to Carla Bley, and he got his big break playing with pianist Cecil Taylor back in the mid-’60s. As a matter of fact, Cyrille played on some of Taylor’s most important early recordings including Unit Structures, Conquistador and The Great Concert Of Cecil Taylor.

Cyrille had already been playing with various European improvisers in the course of this jazz festival, but his solo show on Friday resembled something of a masters-class drum clinic. In between his amazing rhythmic displays, Cyrille discussed various aspects of percussive theory as well as a healthy discourse of jazz history. He paid homage (verbally and physically) to drum innovators like Art Blakey and Kenny Clarke, and he discussed peers like Rashied Ali, Milford Graves, Michael Carvin and others. Near the end of the gig, I noticed drummer Adam Nussbaum was in the audience, and he just couldn’t say enough about how cool, classy and important Cyrille was. Many of us stayed after the show was over in order to meet and speak with the man, and now I’m proud to say that I shook the hand that shook the hand of many of the classic figures in jazz. Nuff said.

It’s the 33rd annual Copenhagen Jazz Festival. MAGNET’s Mitch Myers translates the action.

After 10 full days (and nights) of hanging out at the Montreal Jazz Festival, I now find myself in Copenhagen, where the international jazz fest is already in full swing, and I do mean swing. It seems that the population of Denmark spends more money on jazz per capita than citizens of any other country, and while Copenhagen is fairly expensive across the board, there’s still plenty to do regardless of one’s income. The city is lovely in the summer (cobblestone streets, canals, kickass architecture, etc.), and it doesn’t get dark until quite late, making my ongoing jazz sojourn a very pleasant affair.

Disoriented from overseas travel and lack of sleep, I started out on Wednesday night by going to the beautiful outdoor venue Jazz By The Sea to catch my old friends Medeski Martin And Wood perform with saxophonist Bill Evans and trumpeter Randy Brecker. Both Brecker and Evans have long pedigrees playing electric jazz fusion—sometimes of questionable quality—but having MMW as your rhythm section would make any musician play loud and proud. This was the band’s first gig on its summer tour of Europe, and MMW was still working out the set list just before go time. Personally, watching the sun go down and enjoying a cool summer breeze while listening to live music outdoors made for a great introduction to the Copenhagen Jazz Festival, and when drummer Adam Nussbaum spontaneously joined the band onstage for a tune, the energy level immediately jumped up two notches. As always, John Medeski was a true standout, playing a variety of keyboards, including blowing freeform through an amplified melodica. Sadly, I was only able to stay for the band’s first set, because I had to run over to the Jazzhouse to hear the Charles Lloyd Quartet.

Saxophonist Charles Lloyd is one of jazz’s great survivors and has achieved the status of a true master, both musically and spiritually. His tenor style is derived from that of late John Coltrane, and his flute playing is right up there, too. His latest quartet is staffed with young jazz lions, specifically pianist Jason Moran, bassist Reuben Rogers and drummer Eric Harland. Lloyd’s first quartet back in the 1960s featured Keith Jarrett, Jack Dejohnette and bassist Cecil McBee, and his new group may be just as good, which is really saying something. Lloyd opened the show with a silent prayer (this is in a jazz club!) and ended with a meditation adapted from the Bhagavad Gita. Lloyd’s tenor playing gained strength as the night progressed, Moran was sublime on piano, and drummer Harland was basically unstoppable. In spite of my jetlag and battle fatigue, I still stayed for both the early and late sets, as Lloyd’s group settled into a spiritual groove that proved irresistible. Then, after a quick jaunt over to the legendary jazz haven, Café Montmartre, it was time for bed. But don’t fret; there will be more jazz reports from Copenhagen in the days ahead. To be sure.

It’s the 32nd annual Festival International de Jazz de Montreal. MAGNET’s Mitch Myers translates the action.

Leisurely enjoying a warm Montreal evening and taking in the musical potpourri that is their Jazz Festival, I happened by the wonderful Gesù Theater and caught a solid set by mildly controversial alto saxophonist/vocalist Grace Kelly. I have to admit that watching this 19-year-old Asian-American girl playing bebop alongside alto veteran (and mentor) Phil Woods went a long way in gaining my respect. Her playing is sincere and emotive, and while she may be guilty of lacking depth, that will only change for the better over time. She is also a bit over-stylized as a jazz singer, but she has a decent voice and will certainly grow into that role with practice and isn’t afraid to put herself out there and entertain. In the meantime, Kelly has been playing with all sorts of jazz stars since the age of 13, been all over the world as a performer, leads her own quintet and has just put out her sixth CD, Man With The Hat, which also features her buddy Woods. Clearly, this kid will be around for a while. And why not?

On the opposite end of the age spectrum, the grande dame of rockabilly herself, Ms. Wanda Jackson, rocked and rolled the crowd at Club Soda. And at age 75, that’s really saying something. Energized by the career opportunities presented by Jack White, Jackson is out there hustling her new White-produced The Party Ain’t Over and is backing it up with a live show that delivers the goods. Besides singing old hits like “Fujiyama Mama” and “Let’s Have A Party” and including an obligatory tribute to her old boyfriend Elvis Presley, Jackson is now covering other vintage material including “Riot In Cell Block #9” and cool Eddie Cochran tunes like “Shakin’ All Over” and “Nervous Breakdown.” The main attraction here is that Jackson still has that great wail of a voice. Whether singing straight country or growling her way through some rockabilly-boogie, she is a total pro whose lifetime of performing continues to pay off for new and receptive audiences.

Then, after some delicious congee in Chinatown, it was off to see the Roots play to a very full house at the sizable Metropolis nightclub. The crowd was totally berserk for the band, and the Roots responded with a furious set of hard funk, black rock and adrenalized hip hop that included killer tunes like “The Seed” as well as snippets of crazy covers like “Sweet Child O’ Mine,” “Jungle Boogie,” “Bad To The Bone” and “Rock And Roll, Part 2.” Most significantly to me, the band played a rousing version of the late, great Gil Scott-Heron’s classic warning “The Bottle.” The only problem with this great rocking show was that the Roots chose to cut things quite short and left the enthusiastic audience begging for more and out on the street by 10:30. Although the band put the blame directly on the venue, the Metropolis was unhindered by any sort of curfew, and rumor has it that the real reason for the abrupt cutoff is that ?uestlove was simply in a hurry to go spin records as a guest DJ elsewhere in town. I guess that explains the big limo that was waiting outside the Metropolis. Well, I’m sure that the real party went on in Montreal for ?uestlove, Black Thought and all the rest of the Roots—and even for some of their fans.

It’s the 32nd annual Festival International de Jazz de Montreal. MAGNET’s Mitch Myers translates the action.

I know that I’ve been hard on bassist Dave Holland’s performances at the Montreal Jazz Festival this year, but both of the first two nights of his Invitation Series—one of duets with pianist Kenny Barron, the other showcasing his own quintet—felt just a little too well-behaved to hold my interest. Thankfully, all that changed on Holland’s third and final performance, where he gracefully transitioned with the festival’s next Invitation host, Tunisian oud player Anouar Brahem. Freed from the constraints of his own group and clearly inspired by the great abilities of Brahem and master reedist John Surman, Holland finally played the stand-up bass like something important was at stake. These three musicians have recorded for the storied ECM label separately and together, and there was a strong and immediate confluence found between the old veterans. Playing some new things as well as tunes from their beautiful CD from 2000, Thimar, the threesome’s joint effort was intimate but still big enough to fill the audience-packed Théâtre Jean-Duceppe. Brahem’s poignant oud work set a haunting mood, bringing an Arabic feel to the trio, while Holland strummed his bass with a Spanish tinge and Surman lurked around the bottom of the spectrum adding sonic coloring with his bass clarinet and soprano sax. Participating in this passionate collective experience with his driving improvisation, Holland truly played his ass off and showed exactly why he’s been considered one of the top jazz bassists for decades. The man still has it. Brahem has it, too, and he’ll be taking it to the stage in Montreal for the next couple of nights. Perhaps I’ll even be in the mood for some oud.

It’s the 32nd annual Festival International de Jazz de Montreal. MAGNET’s Mitch Myers translates the action.

One interesting aspect of the Montreal Jazz Fest is that it occurs at the beginning of the summer-event season, and many groups appearing are on their way to Europe to tour the lucrative festival circuit over there. This would include the group Fly, comprised of saxophonist Mark Turner, drummer Jeff Ballard and bassist Larry Grenadier. Before its sterling Tuesday-night performance at the Gesù, the talented threesome hadn’t performed together in six months. By now, the trio is off to Italy, Belgium, France and Switzerland for the month of July. The point here is that there’s going to be some lucky Europeans who get to hear this remarkable jazz trio. Turner has been touted as the next big thing for more than a decade, and the cerebral sax man’s playing is finally starting to catch up with all the hoopla, especially with this group. Ballard and Grenadier are best known as the (amazing) rhythm section of the Brad Mehldau Trio—and amazing they were. Despite their lengthy time apart, the unity and familiarity within this group was quite evident. Approaching their sound as equals, they played compositions by each member but never lost the sense of being a collective. All three played extremely well without hogging the spotlight, and the balance of melody and rhythm shifted from player to player quite naturally. Ballard serves as the onstage spokesperson, and if anyone stood out in the band, it was him. Still, it would be hard for any one person to stand out onstage with these guys, so let’s just say they were Fly.

Veteran bassist and Montreal favorite Dave Holland began his three-concert stint as part of the festival’s Invitation Series, and his first presentation was a duet with pianist Kenny Barron. According to Barron, speaking from the stage of Théâtre Jean-Duceppe Tuesday night, “Playing with Dave Holland is like riding in a Rolls Royce.” And indeed, the ride was smooth and enjoyable with no real bumps on the road. It takes a lot of concentration for a piano/bass dialogue to work well in a large hall, but the crowd was supportive, respectful and invested in enjoying the show. Not a lot of fireworks, per se, but Barron is an elegant player within the tradition and Holland still has all the right chops to make the music move. I could have listened to these two guys play all night long, but instead I shook a tail-feather and headed off to the Metropolis nightclub for a more upbeat encounter that began with Trombone Shorty and Orleans Avenue.

Trombone Shorty’s career is going straight up like a funky New Orleans rocket ship, and his Montreal show was only hindered by the brief time allotment opening for Metropolis headliner Bootsy Collins. I ran into mega-journalist John Swenson at the gig. Swenson has a great new book out all about New Orleans musicians called New Atlantis, and he has been watching Shorty’s meteoric rise from growing up in the Tremé neighborhood to performing on a world stage. Like Fly, Shorty’s group leaves Montreal for Europe, where they’ll be barnstorming across the countryside all summer long. This show was probably the best thing going all evening long, and that was just with just one hour of playing time. So, get hip to Trombone Shorty as soon as possible, watch the HBO show Treme this season, and buy Swenson’s new book so you can appreciate what New Orleans and its musicians are all about.

Speaking of Bootsy Collins, the funkmaster is pushing a new CD, Funk Capitol Of The World, and they are really going all out to contextualize him as the keeper of the funk flame—after James Brown and George Clinton. Still, I noted that this tour isn’t going as well as hoped. In Chicago, they tried giving free entrance to ladies who would show up before 9 p.m. and gave away cheap ($12) tickets through the Chicago Reader, but to no avail: The Chicago gig was still poorly attended. In Montreal, Bootsy and his funk army started out with a full house still enthusiastic from Shorty’s upbeat revue. The first half-hour was pure unbridled funk showcasing Parliament-Funkadelic veterans like keyboardist Bernie Worrell, guitarist Dwayne “Blackbird” McKnight and drummer Frankie “Kash” Waddy. The early highpoint was a burning instrumental version of Funkadelic’s “Cosmic Slop” and McKnight just killing it with his relentless Hendrix-style lead guitar. Sadly, Collins himself couldn’t hold the center for long. He disappeared in the “middle” of the show and was absent from the stage for far too long while his substitute funkateers tried to keep the crowd dancing. By the time Collins finally came back out, most of the folks in the crowd were either gone or just exhausted. Still, they cranked things out for another hour, and Collins finally played some classic “space bass” on slow jams like “I Got The Munchies For Your Love.”

Verdict: Less than half of the Bootsy extravaganza was totally great funk, and the rest of his lengthy show was kind of weak. So forget the legendary bassist’s funk-comeback story. I’m putting my money on Trombone Shorty.

—photo by Sharonne Cohen

It’s the 32nd annual Festival International de Jazz de Montreal. MAGNET’s Mitch Myers translates the action.

Hypothetically, there’s something for everyone at the Montreal Jazz Festival. I personally wasn’t interested in mainstream gigs like Diana Krall (in her first ever solo performance) or Chick Corea’s latest edition of Return To Forever, so I began my evening watching saxophonist Kenny Garrett sit in with the Time Capsule band. Their gig was a tribute to Sayyd Abdul Al-Khabyyr, a longtime Montreal musician (and Garrett’s father-in-law) who’s been debilitated by a series of strokes. The band features two of Khabyyr’s very talented sons, and they benefited greatly from Garrett’s added presence, playing some grooving Headhunters-styled jazz fusion before showing a brief documentary on the ailing Khabyyr.

Then, after a quick trip to Chinatown for refueling, I caught yet another homage, this time by Marc Ribot Y Los Cubanos Postizos. As the name indicates, this is guitarist Ribot’s Latin project, and it features the music of Arsenio Rodriguez, a Cuban innovator who helped modernize crucial musical styles like the conjunto and developed the son montuno. Although the band was clearly under-rehearsed, the edgy rhythms of Rodriguez translated well under Ribot’s direction. I won’t say the band sounded like early Santana, but the guitar work was still hot, hot, hot. Sadly, Ribot isn’t much of a singer, but the Rodriguez compositions were very cool, the sound quite moving and Ribot’s fretwork consistently impressive.

Just as Ribot’s set was concluding, I walked right next door for an amazing duet performance by pianist Brad Mehldau and saxophonist Joshua Redman. Performing mostly original compositions (as well as a blues written by Charlie Parker), the two men showed themselves capable of great intimacy and grand innovation, even in the large and formidable Théâtre Maisonneuve. Performing like a pair of grand elders, the two masters practically became telepathic as the concert unfolded, and their intense musical dialogue was both intellectually stimulating and emotionally riveting. Redman and Mehldau are festival regulars, clearly enjoy playing here in Montreal, and I can imagine this musical love affair actually continuing for decades to come.

Finally, I returned to the Gesù to see the Anat Cohen Quartet. Cohen is an Israeli-born clarinetist who resides in NYC. Performing some of the music of another nice Jewish clarinetist (Benny Goodman), Cohen and her band were totally in sync. The effervescent Cohen had already done one gig earlier in the evening with George Wein’s Newport All-Stars, and fellow All-Star Howard Alden came out to play some bracing guitar with her for a few tunes, including a simple-yet-beautiful duet on Django Reinhardt’s famous composition “Nuages.” Pianist Bruce Barth was noteworthy, but the whole band was swinging, and Cohen’s star is clearly on the rise in the world of jazz. Stay tuned.

Aside from consistently showcasing a musically snug live act and a light show that calls for a mandatory acid drop, Yeasayer also loves to mess with its fans when choosing an opening act, at least at the band’s last couple stops in Philadelphia.

On the second and final leg of Yeasayer’s tour in support of 2010’s Odd Blood, the opening bands got weirder, and the set times got much later. A little after 9 p.m., the opening act—a fairly unknown artist by the name of Hush Hush—took the stage.

Let’s recap for a second before we move on. It was last year’s Yeasayer show at the Trocadero where Sleigh Bells brought their interesting to some and to others slightly annoying big-bass-dropping indie anthems to Philly for the first time. Those in attendance scratched their heads as they processed the newish sound and decided if they liked it. Months later, Sleigh Bells eventually caught on and received some above-average reviews from across the board. People seemed slightly dumbfounded by the boisterous guitar-and-vocal duo backed with the loudest drum machine in the history of the world.

This year, the Brooklyn dance/psych outfit raised the bar yet again. Christopher Kline’s solo project, Hush Hush, was exactly what Philly needed in anticipation to Yeasayer’s long awaited set.

Standing alone onstage, the lanky, bearded man began stretching just before he broke out his dance moves. Looking like an oversexed postman with short shorts and kind of a shirt and tie that was removed anyway, Kline slithered and gyrated all over the stage during his entire 25-minute set. His lone-man dance assault and grossly provocative sex lyrics had the crowd eating out of the palm of his hand. With such potential hits as “Bloody Sex” and “Pussy Cop,” Kline meant it when he demanded, ”I wanna make you cry/I wanna 69!” It was almost too deranged to be true and wildly entertaining. Without touching anyone, he essentially had sex with the entire crowd, and they loved it.

Hush Hush’s set made me want a beer, or a cigarette, I wasn’t sure. Some friends an I made our way to the balcony, the only place that liquor is attainable. Of course there’s an issue. A friend’s younger sister is not yet 21. Fake-ID anxiety ran wild. It’s a known fact that as long as you have a real ID in your possession, you will get in to your destination. I really can’t wait until I don’t know anyone below the age of 21 because I repeatedly find myself in these situations. No problem, though. One distracting question will compromise a door man’s attention to detail on an ID. Fact.

Smith Westerns were the second act. They took their positions and began to embark on what felt like the longest set that I have ever sat through. Musically, these guys were good. There’s just something about a band that isn’t terrible by any means but also isn’t great that just ruins me. Their set was tight but an odd set up band for the main act. Weirdly enough, the one-man dancing band seemed more fitting to set up Yeasayer’s set. Was it because they had to follow the wonder that is Hush Hush that made them sound so mediocre and monotone? I’m not sure, but the set dragged on and I am thankful for fake IDs and the numbness that my numerous overpriced Yuenglings brought on. I started with Coors Light but someone made fun of me.

Nearly 11 p.m. rolled by when Yeasayer’s stage crew began setting. Their setup music undoubtedly kept the drunk and growing impatience among fans to a halt as they bumped Bobby Brown’s “On Our Own” from the Ghostbusters II soundtrack followed by Q Lazzarus’ “Goodbye Horses.” It’s always great to hear the “other” Ghostbusters song.

The sold-out crowd gave a gracious welcome as Yeasayer scampered out to the stage and immediately began its seizure-inducing light show. The Middle Eastern-inspired chorus of “Madder Red” echoed throughout with each band member contributing the pinched, nasal melody that drives the song.

It wasn’t very deep into the set when Yeasayer revealed some new material, a highlight of this tour. “Henrietta,” a very different approach to the band’s song craft, was a nice change in the set. Chris Keating, one of the two lead singers, fronted this one, which sounded like a Police cover in the rhythm section. Not many tricks here, just a straight forward pop song. It was refreshing to hear Yeasayer create something so formal that isn’t layered in the synths. It showed that the band members can write a solid pop song with guitar, bass and drums, something not usually present on their records.

The other new songs, “Demon Road” and “Devil And The Deed,” were definitely more Yeasayer, with their tribal dance beats that feature a sort of tortured and dark pop sound not getting too far away from material on Odd Blood.

Whenever you go to these trendy indie shows, there’s always kind of a “look” that’s normally pretty consistent throughout the crowd. It was enjoyable to see a nice mix of people in age, race and fashion sense. When I say fashion sense, I mean people who aren’t deeply concerned with cutting a new pair of jorts for the show. Yeasayer definitely attracts a nice mix of people from bro to mom and dad. The couple who stood next to me were well into their 50s and knew almost every lyric, and they never stopped moving. Another man next to me looked on with binoculars, and he was roughly 50 feet away from the stage. It was an interesting crowd.

Yeasayer mentioned nothing in regards to plans of recording or when the band will be back on tour, but two years in a row, the group packed the Trocadero, brought some interesting opening acts and left fans wanting more yet again after ending its set at nearly 12:45 a.m.

—text and photo by John Stish

Nordic crooner Lykke Li’s show at the Regency Ballroom in San Francisco sold out more than six months ago. While she is certainly a rising star, at the moment she is more PJ Harvey than Lady Gaga (i.e., my grandma hasn’t asked me if I’ve heard of her yet). I wondered what kind of folks would assemble at the venue: the generic flannel-and-ironic-mustache-sporting San Francisco hipster crowd? Cologne-doused males from across the Bay who heard Kanye rap with Li on “Gifted,” with their girlfriends who wear stripper heels and purple hair extensions? The StubHub speculators who couldn’t scam enough people to get rid of all the tickets they bought in bulk half a year ago?

The show was a stop on her U.S. tour to promote her moody, cerebral sophomore album, Wounded Rhymes (LL). Her beautiful, ice-sculpture vocals mingle with indie electronic pop similar to fellow Scandanavian artists Röyksopp and Peter Bjorn And John. (In fact, Bjorn produced both of her albums.) While her first full-length, Youth Novels, betrayed a blithe, upbeat youth (she recorded it when she was 19), Li’s latest effort is more brooding. Her debut released endorphins and balanced out your serotonin in a quick, superficial high, like eating a Xanax. Wounded Rhymes digs into the deep recesses of your brain and probes through your latent emotions, like spending an afternoon on a plush suede couch in your therapist’s office.

Li has the suitable artistic chromosomal makeup to become a star (her mother was a photographer, her father a musician) and has displayed Gaga-esque world-dominating ambition during her brief career, with two hit albums, numerous EPs and her own record label by age 25. And she doesn’t need to wear hot pants to command the stage.

The demographics of the crowd actually in attendance was about 80 percent female, of the faux-hawked, leather-jacketed, and tattoo-sleeved variety. I’m also pretty sure every Swede within a 100-mile radius came out to support their home girl. There were a lot of flaxen haired, leggy women roaming around, and the lady I chatted with in the 30-minute line for the bathroom said her best friend she was with was Swedish.

Opening in a theatrical style, with spotlights blinking and drums rolling, Li floated to the stage on a billow of smoke that seemed to have been swept from arctic tundra. She had the powerful, fluid movements of a Pilates instructor, the kind that make you unconsciously imitate her. Floor to ceiling, fluttering black curtains whipped around the cloaked singer, in a resurrection of Madonna’s “Frozen” video from the ’90s. Li performed a fair balance of tracks off of each album, including the quivering “Little Bit” from Youth Novels and the bouncy “I Know Places” from Wounded Rhymes.

If there was a disproportionate amount of estrogen in the room, I couldn’t feel it (not counting the Disneyland-long wait for the womens’ bathroom). Most songs leaned heavily on rumbling guitars and rollicking caveman-arm drum beats. At the finale of “Get Some,” the band dropped an atomic bomb of thunderous percussion and an impenetrable firewall of synth that literally knocked me over (seriously, I tripped) and deep-fried my internal organs. I’ve been to plenty of concerts, and no riff or jam has ever been so explosive.

Lykke Li is a pop star with depth. While many young singers have to romp around half-clothed to make sure they fill the month’s quota of People pages, Li is more of a “wink from across the room and turn back to her friends” kind of girl. The beauty of her music is that it’s both digital and unprocessed—she bares her soul, and then sticks it in Fun Dip. Her fans hung on her every tinkling “ooh” and “ahh,” and besides the grizzled homeless dudes who ask for tickets outside of every show ever played, there were no scalpers in sight, StubHub or otherwise. So far, she seems to have found a recipe for success.

—Maureen Coulter

During the Röyksopp show at the palatial Regency Ballroom in San Francisco, Murphy was my unexpected plus-one. After parking on a shady side street and hiking eons to the venue, everything that could have gone wrong, did. Thank god I was at a Röyksopp show and not a Morbid Angel death-metal show: Instead of knifing someone in the mosh pit out of frustration, I just danced.

Task #1: Shuffle through long line and grab tickets. Found out name was left off the guest list. Fail.

As I stood awkwardly in everybody’s way at the will-call table, I watched the two attendants deflecting “What do you mean nonrefundable?” missiles and “You gotta be kidding, you can’t be sold out!” bombs with relative ease.

“I don’t envy you guys,” I said to the one girl with a compassionate shrug.

“Eh, it has its perks,” she replied, as she dodged an “I forgot my ticket” bullet.

When I stood there long enough to realize they weren’t going to let me in on the sheer fact that I sounded important because I wrote for MAGNET and knew the tour manager’s name, I brought out my phone and called the guy. “How did you get this number?” said an exasperated British voice on the other end. “I don’t know who you are!”

Great.

Task #2: Take serviceable photos of the band. After squaring away the guest-list confusion, I took out my camera and discovered my two-year-old Canon was dead on arrival. Fail.

Task #3: See the show. Well, I didn’t completely fail on this one. I was able to see about one-fifth of the stage under the armpits of Shawn Bradley and his Amazonian girlfriend standing in front of me. What I did see, however, was enough to please anyone hoping to extend their weekend. The drums and bass pulsed through the cavernous room with a flashing phantasmagoria so intense you could close your eyes and experience your own personal light show through your lids.

Thankfully, Murphy didn’t try to crowd-surf onto the stage. The duo from Norway, performing as a five-piece for their international tour, played a perfect blend of up-tempo, African-style drum beats, analog-synth electro-pop, ambient-Air interludes tinged with nifty guitar riffs and robot-feminine Ladytron vocals, while dressed up in bizarre-yet-intriguing outfits and masks.

The crowd that came to see Röyksopp wasn’t just looking for an excuse to drink on a Monday. Mouthing the words and reacting viscerally to a remixed version of the Geico song and “Happy Up Here,” these people had obviously been following the band for years. It was also the most diverse audience I’ve ever seen: a throng of couples both gay and straight, 19-year-olds and Real Housewives, guys with tucked-in, button-down shirts and girls in leopard-print tights with little backpacks, all grooving alongside each other, basking in the strobe lights.

In the brief intermission between the “Goodnight, you are amazing [insert current tour stop city]!” and their encore, I slipped through the sweaty bodies to the side of the pack and discovered ample dancing room and a much better view. Winning!

My euphoria was short-lived, however. An exceptionally grabby dude with a metallic tie who looked like Lloyd from Entourage started grinding on my leg and literally shoved his iPhone in my hand and told me to give him my number. I bolted to the ladies room.

In spite of my personal travails at the Röyksopp show, there was no way I could be disgruntled while listening to songs like the blippy “Epie” and watching the guitarist rock out with a glow-in-the-dark helmet on his head. Like grope-y Lloyd, I left Murphy behind.

—Maureen Coulter; photo by Mishavladimirskiy.com and butchershopcreative.com

When I heard the Get Up Kids were doing a show at Slim’s in San Francisco, my thoughts drifted back to sophomore year of high school, riding four strong in my friend’s ’91 Taurus that had duct tape holding together the left side-view mirror, game-planning how we were going to smuggle in our house drink (read: water bottle with a mix of five kinds of booze from parents’ liquor cabinet) into the school dance.

The five-member indie-rock group from Kansas City, Mo., boasts an impressive body of work spanning a decade and a half that includes five studio albums, a live record and various EPs, influencing bands like Blink-182 and the Promise Ring that were a staple of many a high-school experience.

Indeed, the atmosphere at Slim’s on this night had the feel of a reunion. Not the “I just Botoxed half my face, cashed in a significant portion of my 401(k) to buy this Rolex and am currently on the fifth day of a wheatgrass-and-lemon-juice detox diet” feel. But the age of the audience hovered around 30, and several friends and family of the band were mingling amongst the crowd, including guitarist Jim Suptic’s art-school roommate. There was even a party in the ladies room: As we idled in wait for a stall to open up, several girls and I tossed around ideas on how to solve the female bathroom crisis experienced in concerts and entertainment venues across the nation. We concluded that female urinals were the answer.

The Get Up Kids disbanded in 2005, much to fans’ dismay, citing creative differences. They reunited two years ago to churn out a mature, beat-heavy, full-length new album, There Are Rules (Quality Hill), which came out last week. Their set featured many new numbers like “Paraelevant” with bass that rattled your rib cage, wafting into the range of psychedelic rock. This was a departure from the familiar basement emo/punk that defined Get Up Kids 1.0.

Classics such as “Beer For Breakfast” and “Overdue” provoked a lot of arm waving and finger-jabbing toward the stage and stirred a rapidly expanding mosh pit. The pack swarming the stage could have sang Matt Pryor’s lines for him. You could tell it was a homogenous audience of true fans, not just old heads looking for live music on a Saturday night or teenagers who found their older brother’s CDs last week.

So what is different this time, during their reunion tour? “When we broke up, we were in a dark place,” said Pryor after the show. “We’d been touring for 10 years straight, and we didn’t like each other anymore. Now, we make sure we take enough time off so when we come back together to play, it’s fun. Tonight was fun.”

Now that I think about it, I forgot I had holed up in my bedroom listening to “The Most Depressing Song” on repeat for a week after mom and pops took the car keys away due to my youthful indiscretion. (I guess parents notice when you water down their Sambuca.) While we can still reminisce through horn-rimmed, rose-colored glasses, it’s better that we are all adults now.

—Maureen Coulter

At the ritzy Fox Theater in downtown Oakland, Calif., the glow-stick-festooned crowd was on a collision course with a Mack truck of pot smoke, rib-cracking bass and, yes, pretty lights. On the eve of Thanksgiving, a day of wholesome family gatherings and pilgrim-hat centerpieces, the ravers were out in full force, replete with tiny backpacks, glitter, leather vests, a plethora of phosphorescent jewelry and plenty of E. They came to see Pretty Lights, a.k.a. Derek Vincent Smith, the product of a thriving DJ music scene in Denver, Colo.

Rhythmically bouncing behind his table of laptops and sound boards in a white hoodie, flat-rimmed baseball cap and aviator sunglasses, Smith was the DJ who is too engrossed in his beats to notice the 67 women in the audience throwing themselves at him. That focus has brought him from college-dropout record-scratcher to Red Rocks headliner and music-festival draw. He emerged from the lush electronic-music environment of the Mile High City, and the influence of DJ Shadow and RJD2 can be heard in Pretty Lights’ deft blend of vintage soul crooning over spacey bell chimes and glitchy hip-hop beats.

Modern music is becoming both more fractured and universal, due to the internet and iTunes and MySpace. We’ve heard it all before, so we are more particular about what we waste our ear quota on. Artists like Pretty Lights have risen to the occasion, cherry picking the best of what’s available, then chopping and sorting and mixing to craft something completely fresh and pneumatic. It’s not unlike pop artists of the prior century—Andy Warhol with his soup cans or Roy Lichtenstein with his Ben-Day dots—wielding them as sharp statements on culture and art as we know it. In Oakland, Pretty Lights wielded his beats like a carving knife, serving up a slightly pink and tasty concert experience.

The venue itself was classy and well designed, with strategically placed bars, a multi-tiered dance area and a lofty ceiling with walls adorned like an art museum’s cultures-of-the-world wing. It has an old-theater feel without the elbows in your face.

Pretty Lights lived up to its name. The light show in tandem with tracks like “Gold Coast Hustle” and “Hot Like Dimes” was like taking grandma’s warm apple pie and plopping a scoop of homemade ice cream on top. It didn’t just enhance it; it shot it into another dimension. Strobe lights, multi-colored lights, psychedelic swirling lights, clouds, fire and bubbles all pulsed with the blippy synthetic loops and drum cadence.

The set went on for more than two hours, but no one slowed down. Girls in furry animal hats were still grinding against the banisters, sweating out Four Loko as Pretty Lights wrapped up and sent them off to face their families the next day. Concert-goers can take comfort in the fact that Light therapy helps with depression.

—Maureen Coulter