Last week was hell for me. And when I say hell, I mean that it was a getting-kicked-in-the-crotch horrible with a side of smelly shit. Yea, real bad.

(As for why, let’s just say the debilitating state of the newspaper industry hit home, turning me from a vibrant and happy arts reporter to a full-of-piss-and-vinegar-rage cops reporter).

But I pushed on and, in the end, found that the right mixture of ice cream, Chinese food and indie rock is the right recipe to turn a shitty, soul-sucking, debilitating week completely around.

Step one: eat an obscene amount of ice cream at the Jimmy Fund Scooper Bowl, an event that combines the unbridled joy of a buffet with the creamy taste of dairy. For $8, we went nuts, trying flavors like “Cheesecake Brownie,” “Birthday Cake,” “Imagined Whirl Peace” and “Mint Chocolate.”

From there, we headed to Chinatown and, after gorging on fried calamari and fried rice (yea, i beat the shit out of my stomach), it was time for the ladyfriend to return to the apartment, leaving me and the sis to venture out to the show.

(BTW: The most disturbing part of eating in Chinatown? Waiting for the men’s bathroom and seeing an elderly woman emerge from it. Worse than that? She didn’t flush).

Local band You Can Be a Wesley was performing when we got to Great Scott in Allston, inspiring us to head straight to the bar. The band was decent, though at times I felt their lyrics were completely comprised of sounds like “waaaaahhhhhhhhaaaww” and “aaaaaahhhhhhhhrrrrraaa.” It was endearing at first. Then annoying.

After Wesley was done, they said Grand Archives would be up next, which surprised me since I was expecting to see Sera Cahoone, who is on Subpop (like GA) to hit the stage next. We found out later she was sick and couldn’t perform that night.

Instead, we got the impossibly thin Mat Brooke (seriously, his legs look like ski poles) and company taking the stage and launching right into the music that, for the past year or so, have sent music bloggers into hyperventilating hysterics (I’m one of them).

Brooke looked possessed when he sang and tilted his head back during the high notes, which made his eyes look even wider. At times, he looked like a mix of Cat Stevens, Torgo from “Manos: Hands of Fate” and my old college roommate when he was drunk and stuck in the bathtub.

When he sang, his entire body stayed relatively still while his left leg vigorously kept the beat, so much so that it seemed to have a life of its own.

As the music played, every bad and negative thought in my mind melted away and I was left with an overall feeling of carefree wonder, as if the Grand Archives somehow mystically made me feel better about the stupid industry I chose for a profession (yay journalism).

In short, the Grand Archives saved my life that night.

But the best part was sharing that feeling with the band. GA was genuinely surprised at the response they got in Boston, with Brooke saying “This is, by far, the biggest crowd we’ve ever had. Thanks so much. Really.”

And then when the shouts and screams got louder, a small smile crept up on his bearded face, causing him to look up and reveal (for a brief moment) a glimpse of joy in his eyes.

The show was amazing. If you know their music, you know there’s hardly a bad song in their catalog (despite only having an EP and one album). One highlight was “The Crime Window,” a natural sing-a-long song that had the crowd stomping their feet and screaming.

But the big surprise was hearing “Torn Blue Foam Couch.” I never realized how much this song rocked. The quiet opening gave way to Brooke and company pounding on their respective instruments as the crowd howled in excitement.

Grand Archives - Torn Blue Foam Couch

Brooke then announced the band would play a “cheesy cover song” and proceeded to do “Another Saturday Night.”

SIS: “Hey! I know this song!” (she’s notorious for knowing songs and messing up lyrics)
ME: “Me too! I love this song! But wait…it’s not cheesy…is it?”

Grand Archives - Another Saturday Night

At that point I didn’t care anymore. The entire room was singing along and it felt that the good indie-rock feeling everyone created had a chance to make it to the streets.

At this time last year, I was writing my master’s capstone on Scottish rock bands. I was hoping to never write about the Fratellis again, but here I am. At the time, I thought the Fratellis were going to be big, but the initial buzz after that iPod commercial seemed to die quickly and backlash followed (Los Campesinos! won’t even be your friend if you like the Fratellis). Then last week, they came out with what in my opinion is a brilliant sophomore album, Here We Stand, and played a sold out show at Webster Hall.

The Fratellis debut album, Costello Music, featured boozy singalongs about girls with catchy hooks. Here We Stand is a little more of the same, but more toned down. There are a few misses, like “Mistress Mabel,” the poor man’s “Chelsea Dagger,” but for the most part, the variety and maturity on the second album makes it superior.

At Webster Hall on Friday night, the crowd was pretty well mixed in age and gender. The venue had yet to fill up when openers the Airborne Toxic Event from Los Angeles took the stage, yet everyone in the front was already crowding together, trying to get as close to the stage as possible. The bright colored lighting made it hard to see the band.

The five-piece band plays indie rock infused with violin and a little bit of pretension. They sounded pretty good, but they played for far too long, probably close to an hour. I like to see opening acts because you never know when you’ll discover a great band, but I prefer the sets to be short enough to introduce me to the band but not too long that I get impatient for the band I actually came to see. That’s unfair, I know, but it’s just how I feel.

The Fratellis opened with “My Friend John,” one of my favorite songs on the new album, but it sounded off, the playing lazy. Earlier that day, they played an acoustic show at the Virgin Megastore (which many audience members were raving about, but I couldn’t attend, because I, you know, have a job), so maybe they were tired. But the concert got progressively better and towards the end, Jon admitted that he felt “shite” at the beginning and apologized that the first five songs didn’t sound great. I don’t think I’ve ever heard a band apologize for sounding bad, so that was pretty refreshing, even though it would have been better if they sounded awesome the whole time.

By this point, the 1,400-capacity venue was completely packed. The band did a good job of mixing up the set list with new and old, the hits and the more obscure songs (including “Cuntry Boys & City Girls,” which was not included on the American Costello Music). My friend and I were standing towards the front with all the other short girls near a large group of rather obnoxious drunk boys who were aggressively pushing everyone.

I know, it’s a concert, I should relax and have fun. I can understand jumping and dancing, but I really don’t understand inflicting pain on others. If you must push people around, at least confine it to the songs that lend itself to that behavior, such as “Chelsea Dagger.” Don’t do it during every song, even the slow acoustic ones. That’s just silly. At least there was a duo of high school boys who took it upon themselves to try and block the girls so they wouldn’t be knock around. I guess gentlemen like the Fratellis too.

The show closed all too quickly with “Milk and Money,” an out of character piano ballad which progresses into a rock-out session. As the band left the stage, makeshift stars lit up the background, which were as cheesy as the annoyingly blinding lights.

The first encore was just guitarist Jon singing my new favorite, “Baby Doll.” I never thought the singers of “Chelsea Dagger” could make my heart melt, but I guess I’m just a sucker for a guy and his guitar wearing a “Come Together” shirt with a peace sign. It would have been an intimate moment had those same guys not been singing along loudly and dancing around, which was pretty rude to the band.

Then the rest of the band joined him for the crowd pleasers “Flathead” and “Baby Fratelli.” Though the show felt much too short, it ended on a high note–Mince (the drummer) threw his drum sticks into the crowd and I actually caught one, a concert first.

Pittsburgh is notorious for never bringing good bands to town, but last month (May), OURS made their first appearance in years in the Steel City. The band, out of the New York City/Jersey area opened their headlining tour at Diesel on the city’s eclectic South Side in support of their latest release, Mercy… Dancing For The Death Of An Imaginary Enemy

I’ve been meaning to check these guys out since I first heard of them in 2000, but they never got close enough to Pittsburgh. Cleveland was a fair bet, but within days they had booked a show in my hometown, sparing me a road trip to the Mistake by the Lake and gas at $4.00 a gallon.

The band mix tender, falsetto vocals with rather dark themes of love lost and self-worth. Most of the guitar lines are washed with delay, giving the music a spacey sense of depth and atmosphere, even when the lines are simple.

The band opened with “Willing” from their new record, but soon threw the set-list to the wind as the rather thin crowd yelled requests at the band. Instead of being pompous and ignoring them or frustrated with a sparse room, the band took everything in stride and indulged the audience with their requests. The crowd was exceptionally supportive and sounded as if they were twice their size. And the band didn’t let them down, playing every song as if they were rocking a capacity crowd.

Having all of their records, I was familiar with their song style, but wasn’t sure how everything would come across live, especially vocally. Vocalist and chief songwriter Jimmy Gnecco’s voice is everything it is on their records and more live, a feat not often met in these days of bogus rock stars and studio magic. Every note was met with force and passion, and it wasn’t hard to tell that this guy meant it.

Gnecco effortlessly slips from soft, whispered falsetto to full-on, blood-curdling screams. The two guitarists, Locke (occasionally on keys) and Static, build walls of swirling distortion and rhythm while Race holds the bass line down and Pit Orbach moves the songs with the drums (yes, those are their professional names). Gnecco occasionally grabs an acoustic or electric for a few songs, but focuses mainly on his crushing vocals and eerily dominating stage presence.

On the track “Murder” from the latest release, Race grabbed a trumpet that was on stage and replicated the brass lines from the record. A really nice touch, and refreshing to see that they didn’t try to fake it with a recorded track.

Between songs, Gnecco explained that the nearly six-year lapse since their last release, 2002’s Precious, had been met with many battles. The band really wanted to capture what they do live on the record without being over-produced and maintaining their raw edge. It’s been a long, patient wait but Gnecco confessed that this is the record he has been wanting to make his whole life.

With the legendary Rick Rubin at the production helm, Gnecco says they took their time perfecting each track without outside pressure from label reps and time constraints from promotional ventures. They simply sat back and made sure everything was right by them. It definitely has paid off on “Mercy.”

Gnecco also told the crowd that they were still working songs out live since this was the very beginning of the tour. From my perspective, it didn’t seem that anyone was lost or struggling to find his part. Gnecco’s falsetto was flawless and he nailed every scream. Everything came across very tight and polished.

Actually, I would prefer a band take some liberties during their live show and explore a little bit. It’s much more exciting to me than listening to something that has been rehearsed and doesn’t take musical risks. Keep it a little rough and unpredictable. The whole experience is more live and organic that way, and he definitely has the band that can do it.

I was very interested to see if and how the band would perform “Black” from the new record. The song ends in a spoken tirade in which Gnecco calls out an unnamed aggressor for deceitfulness and taking advantage of sincerity. It worked great live and the sound guy did his part to make sure Gnecco’s low spoken growl was audible to everyone in the room.

Unfortunately, the night was rather brief as the band told the audience they had to be out by 9:30, after just an hour set and two brief openers. This seemed to be a shock to the band, but was all too understandable for me. Pittsburgh is just not up on culture and the times.

In a city absolutely dominated by hip-hop clubs, brawling no-necks, and ladies who get their fashion and lifestyle cues from the Hills, the city struggles to find any sort of original identity.

I can’t blame the club, though. They have to do what they can to make money, and live music is struggling in this town. So they book early shows and then clear the place out so the 40something divorced women in mini skirts and hoards of college kids can start filtering in to get their ears blown out by tired remixes.

Hey, at least Diesel is trying by keeping live music on the bill, but it’s a shame to see an extremely talented band get a crappy time slot and do dismal numbers. I’m getting off the subject here. Perhaps a topic for a later blog.

Ours finished up the set with “Live Again”, an explosive rock song that takes turns in and out of serenity and sonic destruction, augmented by an explosive drum pattern that builds and dies through the song.

With such a powerful tune, it was good to see that the performers didn’t do anything over the top. Absent were the cheesy rock stances and choreographed acrobatics that so often plague a live show. It was just five polished music veterans communicating their emotions to the audience through their music. Even Gnecco’s gyrating dancing toward the song’s finale was fluid and proper for such a dynamic ending.

But one of the biggest highlights of the show for me was when the band finished, they began packing up their own gear. Even with moderately popular bands, you rarely see the musicians humbly wrapping cables and carrying out amplifiers—and these guys are by no means up-and-comers. But they sucked it up and did it themselves with a little help. No grandiose stage exit or breaking of guitars. Just a very honest and sincere Thank-You to the crowd and a humble bow. I got the sense that they all were genuine people and not self-absorbed faux-rockers. They even hung around on stage afterwards to chat with fans and take pictures.

I’ve met and played with a lot of national touring bands over the years and it is rare to meet ones without egos bigger than their tour bus. I’m often disappointed by going to see my favorites bands and then finding out that they are a-holes in person. I’m glad that wasn’t the case this time.

I’ve gotten to see the Roots live several times, often for free, since I moved to Philadelphia. That was four albums ago, when the posters for Phrenology were plastered up and down Broad Street eventually found their way into dorm rooms. That record and the one following it didn’t hit like the phenomenon did in ’99 and before, yet the Roots crew has always lived up to its reputation for a live show. They have evolved into a full fledge production, and tend to be unmatched.

I picked up tickets for the Roots Pre-Picnic show, for which the line-up boasted about a quarter of what the actual picnic was holding other than the headliner. Though I try to avoid paying 35 bucks for a show at TLA, I wanted to see what kind of heat new names like Santogold would bring. She was about to go on as we rolled in six deep.

Appearing as a less physically attractive and tiredly formulaic copy of MIA, Santogold took the stage flanked by two dancers dressed as PE-style Black Panthers, whose occasional choreographed break from ‘statue’ to ‘spaz-dance’ was about the only interesting thing about the set. Santi herself lip-synched most of the set, one clearly crafted for ready-made fans by producers in place for this former label exec to live a rockstar dream. The absolutely garbage set confirmed my suspicion that the former A&R for Epic Records would put out something sugary and contrived, taking up valuable airtime that would have been better deserved by a an original and talented discovery.

I spilled my Yuengling. All over the floor of the upstairs bar. I forked over another $5.75 for a new one and resumed my spot next to my head-shaking boys. Somehow, the next act was even worse. Janelle Monae, a fledgling on Diddy’s Bad Boy label (yes, you can smell the shit already) was fan-fared by pre-made signs, obviously handed to concertgoers who had never heard of her, which bore her name and ridiculous haircut. The patronizing effect of obviously pre-produced beats with the façade of a real band not even playing their instruments had one of my boys laughing and comparing it to a show by the robot animal band at Chuck E. Cheese. Every song was at best a weak take on Southern style pop coined by Andre 3000. She was a pretty bad performer to boot.

Finally (finally!) the Roots took the stage and murdered shit. No surprise there. Not many of my favorite old tracks were played, but we got an extra-fast version of “The Seed”, a pretty standard version of “Don’t Feel Right” and, most notably, a dub version of “You Got Me” that had my drunk ass smiling hard. The sousaphone player kicked it on stage the whole time, supplementing the bass lines in a unique way. Extra long jams on “Jungle Boogie” and “Super Bad” rang for ages, and a nice mid-set break for Black Thought gave singer Bilal a chance to tear it up for a second. A great set with well-placed surprises.

In brief, it looks like the Roots are partially surrounded by trash, even though they themselves are still holding it down. And not all of their new affiliates are worthless; Wale’s new ‘Mixtape About Nothing’ is one of the best thematic hip hop works since the Automator/Prince Paul days. But I will be weary of who the crew endorses from here on out.

The last crowd-level incident that occurred that night had us laughing; ?uestlove, as usual, tossed his sticks into the crowd, one of which my boys Brian O dove for, battled a 350 pound dude over, got it loose and fell back knocking over the guy’s girlfriend. Brian bolted into the crowd while the gigantor kept his girl from hitting the ground. It all happened fast, right in front of us and we were all losing it for a minute.

See the epic mustache?

Ah summer time…what a fine season. The sleepy drone of lawnmowers filling the neighborhoods, diffusing the sweet smell of fresh-cut grass. Birds singing playfully. Bees dancing whimsically through their aimless choreography. Flowers vibrant, trees verdant. The nostalgic scent of chlorine and sunscreen. Long days, warm nights. And of course, that one thing that keeps summer in our heads all year long: outdoor music festivals.

This year, on a picture-perfect Memorial Day weekend, I kicked-off what promises to be a great summer of music at Philadelphia’s Jam on the River. As always, it was a great time. But there were a few differences from previous years, some for better and some for worse.

First, due to some kind of scheduling fiasco, the event had to be moved from the Great Plaza of Penn’s Landing to the Festival Pier. This was a shame. In fact, one of my favorite aspects of previous JOTR’s was the location. Picture standing on stadium-style steps looking past the stage out over the Delaware River, boats and jet skis skipping by. That’s the Great Plaza. It’s fairly small and there isn’t a bad viewing spot in the whole joint. There are fountains, shade trees and a gorgeous view of Camden (if there is such a thing) from across the river. It is a chill spot for a concert, and I missed it very much this year.

The Festival Pier, a much larger venue, was not bad, but it lacks the charm of the Great Plaza. With a giant stage, a circus-sized tent of vendors, and no view whatsoever, it’s a pretty lackluster scene.

Another striking difference this year was a rather weak line-up. Well, it wasn’t terrible, but there were only two acts I was really excited about: The Flaming Lips and the Disco Biscuits (more about them later.) I usually like to hit up both days of the festival, but this year I only felt the need to check out Saturday’s line-up.

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It gives me a warm, happy feeling inside to see headlining bands in the audience during opening acts. It shows me that they genuinely care about music and are probably nice people.

The members of Los Campesinos! not only watched both of their opening bands, but stood in the front, cheering and sometimes even singing along. In this way, Los Campesinos! forever endeared themselves to me before they even started playing.

Aleks (lead vocals/keyboard/melody horn), Ellen (bass/vocals), Gareth (lead vocals/glockenspiel/keyboard), Harriet (violin/keyboard/vocals), Neil (guitar/vocals), Ollie (drums/vocals), and Tom (guitar/vocals) Campesinos! (their adopted last name) met at Cardiff University. They have since graduated college (all but Aleks, who had to take a leave from medical school). Their debut album, Hold On Now, Youngster, was released in the U.S. on April 1 of this year. The band played at the Bowery Ballroom on Monday, May 19, for its fifth stop on its U.S. and Canada tour, continuing until the middle of June.

The first band, Flying, a trio from Brooklyn, did little for me, especially vocally. The three alternated on vocals and while a good voice is obviously not a requirement in rock ‘n’ roll, they did not make up for it with style, conviction, or stage presence, the way the other two bands did. They just sounded very shy and awkward and it was a little uncomfortable to watch. I’d like to give them the benefit of the doubt and say that they were probably nervous and maybe will get better as they become more comfortable around an audience.

The Jersey-based Titus Andronicus gets points for being named after an underrated Shakespeare play. I probably wouldn’t listen to this band at home–the music was a little too repetitive and, well, loud for my taste–but their energy was a relief after the previous set. There was a large group of friends or fans (I couldn’t tell which) in the audience who already knew the lyrics. During the band’s self-titled song, the lyrics evolved into an outcry of, “Your life is over.” There was something both disturbing and gratifying about a room full of people repeating this as lead singer Patrick Stickles jumped off an amp and mimed pointing a gun to his head. The power of rock does have a way of bringing people together.

This proved to be true during the final set by the band that made me allow the exclamation point as an acceptable form of punctuation. It was a good size crowd for a Monday night, maybe sold out, but I’m not sure. Everybody was cheerful and dancing (then again, how can you not dance to Los Campesinos!), and the crowd was one of the most polite I have ever witnessed. Everyone gave each other room and I saw no pushing or shoving. At one point, someone actually apologized for accidentally bumping into me.

Starting with the hyperactive screams of “One, two, three, four!” of “Broken Heartbeats Sound Like Breakbeats,” the band launched into a set as joyous as the album. One of the best things about seeing a band with only one album is that they are pretty much gauranteed to play the song that you’ve been listening to on repeat all week (for me, that song was “We Are All Accelerated Readers”).

We are All Accelerated Readers

I barely noticed the issues with Gareth’s mic, or mics (at one point he was using two). The band members are all between the ages of 21 and 23 and their songs have a juvenile ADHD-like quality, yet there is a sophistication in the clever lyrics and arrangements. The band was as interesting to watch as to listen to, especially Gareth, who looked like a little boy (no disrespect intended) with his horse shirt and charade-like hand motions. In any case, they were having fun with each other (I’m pretty sure Gareth licked Neil at one point) and the audience.

They closed appropriately with “Sweet Dreams Sweet Cheeks” (not to sound old, but at close to midnight, it was past my bedtime) before coming back for an encore, “2007, The Year Punk Rock Broke (My Heart).” In 2008, though, punk rock shouldn’t break the hearts of anyone listening to Los Campesinos!

*I did not take this picture…and I love her rabbit too.

Aside from her creepy video about clown love, (it’s probably the only song you know from her. It’s “The Way I Am”) I didn’t know much about Ingrid Michaelson and, to be honest, the girlfriend and I were going to see Ari Hest (NYC singer/songwriter who’s in the middle of a project called “52″ where he writes one song a week for a year).

So I was ill-equipped with information and assumed I was going to see a piano-driven show filled with songs about love. Like every experience i have in my life, I found I was totally wrong.

From the onset, Michaelson approached the mic on stage as her own personal therapist, talking about past relationships, her problems with drooling on planes and even testing out the various sounds on her keyboard that turned into an impromptu sing-a-long of Richard Marx’s “Right Here Waiting” (it’s true…you totally had to be there…oh wait, now you can).

When she wasn’t crooning along on stage, she was entertaining the audience with her personality and talking about her secret hobby of searching Youtube for fan videos of her songs.

So not only is the “Grid” a pretty girl with glasses, but she’s hilarious…making her my new music crush (for those who are keeping up, my previous one was with the girl in the Office…the band not the show).

This is the third time I’ve been surprised at a musician’s stage presence, straddling that line between singer and stand-up comedian. In Ingrid’s case (or her hip-hop name which she revealed was “Grid”) this worked in her favor.

Piano-driven songs are nice, but I can’t listen to it for an entire evening without wanting to nap. In Grid’s case, it was great to have these songs coupled with hilarious stories about her life, like this one about the time she fell asleep on a plane.

Drooling Story

I know. It’s hilarious and I want to give her a hug. The last time I experienced what Grid called “frivolous frivolity” at a concert was at Tegan & Sara, who have elevated the act of bantering with the audience to an art form.

Ingrid admitted that it was a strange night for her and that she was talking about things she normally doesn’t (like her ex-boyfriend). It’ s funny what a little comedy and audience interaction can do for a singer. And in Grid’s case, makes her stick out in a world that seems to be constantly churning out female singer-songwriters who write emotional ballads for Grey’s Anatomy.

Before, she was just another female singer/songwriter that seemed to be jumping on the I-wear-glasses bandwagon, but now whenever I hear her songs, all I remember is the comedy and laughing about her silliness. Maybe the future of albums should be adding little personality bits from the artist. Kind of like the skits on hip-hop albums, only funnier. Eh maybe not.

The girlfriend enjoyed her, even though it was past her bedtime (she’s a teacher) and, like me, only knew one song. Now we listen to album all the time and wonder if she’s still drooling on herself on airplanes (seriously, listen to that track. It’s a hilarious).

For now, I’ll leave you with the funniest moment of the night. It happened right after she sang “The Chain,” a song only available on her Myspace page.

(and hey, someone took video of it. I was told to put my camera away, mostly because the ushers at Berklee let people in the front section do whatever they want).

There’s a lyric in there that has her go “Glide away on soapy heels” and apparently people on Youtube have been covering it, but saying “Glide away and so be healed” (I think this is the video she was talking about).

Ingrid thought it was hilarious and, with one of her band members, did a song with the new lyrics in an epic, religious sort of way. After that, she went into a remix version of her hit “The Way I Am.” Again, both worth your time.

“The Chain” discussion and intro to “The Way I Am”

The Live Remix of “The Way I Am”

Ingrid Michaelson, I don’t care that you had creepy clowns in your video…I think I love you.

I’m a total Harry Potter nerd. I’m talking dressing up for midnight book parties kind of nerd. I was an English major in college, so I’m pretty much a nerd for literature in general. And since I write for this site, I obviously love live music. So, seeing a band sing about Harry Potter in a building full of books on a Saturday night is my idea of a good time. Add in the fact that it was free (did I mention I’m cheap too?) and there was no way I was going to miss this.

Boston-based Harry and the Potters are two brothers, Paul and Joe DeGeorge, who write all their songs from the point of view of Harry Potter. Paul represents the seventh year Harry, and Joe represents the fourth year Harry (although I never quite understood this because they both sing songs representing Harry from other years at Hogwarts).

The band is considered the frontrunners of the Wizard Rock movement. They mostly play in libraries, but this was their first time playing at the New York Public Library and they kept calling it a dream come true.

I wish more bands would hold concerts in libraries. Everything seemed so efficient. Tickets were handed out the day before so as not to go over the 500 capacity limit. On Saturday night, since the library was already closed, a line of mostly excited tweenage girls formed outside (I think I was the oldest person there who was not a parent). When they opened the doors, everyone went inside in an orderly fashion and staked out their spots, but there was plenty of room to roam around. I was surprised at how few people were dressed up. Some were wearing Gryffindor ties or Harry Potter related tees (full disclosure: I myself was wearing my homemade “Real Men Play Quidditch” shirt), but very few people were decked out in full Gryffindor gear. Although after everyone had a chance to visit the merch table, I turned around to notice a sea of green “Save Ginny” shirts.

The excitement in the room was infectious when Harry and the Potters bounced onstage in their trademark grey sweaters, white collared shirts, Gryffindor ties, and of course, glasses. They passed out foam fingers, but unfortunately there weren’t enough to go around, and two little boys might have killed each other for one had their parents not intervened. I’ve heard Harry and the Potters CDs before and while I’ve enjoyed their songs, they are not great musicians or singers.

Their songs are simplistic and repetitive. But they do know how to put on a great show. They had lots of energy, frequently jumping into the audience and pumping up the crowd with speeches about the power of love and rock. Towards the beginning of the show, they taught the audience a dance to a song with the lyrics, “Hagrid is fun to hug. Hagrid is full of love. Just don’t pull on Hagrid’s beard.” At various intervals throughout the show, they would go into the song. The first time, some were hesitant, but each time, more and more people would join in the silly dance. At one point in the concert, the drummer, known as “Bill Weasley” got offended that the Harrys called his brother Ron a weasle during the song “The Weasle.” He left and was replaced by a man dressed as a squid (I don’t know what that had to do with Harry Potter), but then they reconciled and Bill rejoined the band.

Inspired by being in the library shown in Ghostbusters, during “The Human Hosepipe,” they segued into the Ghostbusters theme (replacing, of course, the word “ghostbusters” with “Harry Potter”). They played crowdpleasers like “Save Ginny Weasley” and my personal favorite, which they said they don’t play often, “(not gonna put on) the Monkey Suit,” a song about sticking it to the man. For the final songs, the band was joined by the Dumbledore Army’s horn section, adding a more professional level of musicality to the evening. The concert seemed to end much too song, but all in all, it was an hour and a half well spent.

Just as there seems to be an age battle going on in the democratic primary (Clinton’s elderly to Obama’s youth), a similar psychological war was waged last week at the Jimmy Eat World concert, namely between JEW fans and the teenagers who came to see Paramore, a punkish pop, female-fronted band from Tennessee.

It was interesting to see the stark difference between the two groups. Paramore: 80s fashion (think bright colors and strange outfits) coupled with punkish attitudes (I add the “ish” since the real punks are probably in a ditch somewhere).

With Jimmy Eat World, it was more a laid-back group. The girls had those trendy eyeglasses on (is it me or does it seem like everyone has those same ones?), the guys had hooded sweatshirts on. Some were so laid-back that towards the “late” hour of 10pm, they were double fisting cups of Pepsi.

My girl and I were somewhere in the middle. We were more Jimmy fans, but weren’t scared of “the youths” (some people were huddled together in the corner of the arena, as if to hide from the teenager frenzy on the floor).

We were content with mocking Paramore fans and wondering why 80s fashion came back (though in the end we applauded the intensity and started to mock the Jimmy Eat World fans who were “too cool”).

After Paramore, the sweaty teenagers departed from the main area (some left all together, to the obvious joy of their adult chaperones. The rest went to the first tier of the arena to hit the bathroom, buy a shirt, or rub their sweat all over the wall.

I felt bad for the people who thought it was ridiculous and scoffed at some of the teens emerging with no shirt or a missing shoe. If you can’t appreciate that, then you were never in the pit as a kid and missed out.

As for Jimmy, I came to this show as a strange sort of homecoming. I spent five years of my life in Arizona (JEW is from Mesa, AZ) and have always felt a strange kinship with their music. I know how easy it is to “fall in love tonight” after a drunken experience at the bar on “9th and Ash” (it’s Casey Moore’s).

And when I finally left the state a year ago, their song “My Sundown” was one of the first to play on my iPod before the cross-country trip (it had the appropriate lyric “I’ve said my goodbyes/ This is my sundown/ I’m gonna be so much more than this…”)

So it was great to see the band again (this was my…third time? I was really drunk during one of those shows) and, as shows go, they put on a pretty tight set. Almost too tight.

Aside from the perfunctory (though no less appreciative) thanks, Jim Adkins and company didn’t do much expounding to the crowd or even divulge any strange road stories.

It was as if JEW knew that some people left after Paramore or that maybe they felt upstaged by the middle band in the lineup of three. Or maybe the road was getting to them. Either way, it felt quick and even the encore lacked drama. They left with a green light shining on the audience. They returned less than a minute later, so it was more like a water/beer/pee/puke/eat break behind stage.

If they did feel rushed, it’s interesting that, even deep into their career, Jimmy Eat World is still that band no one bets on, that people continue to push aside and that hipsters don’t give a second thought.

At the end of the show, the two factions of fans departed ways. The teenagers, sweaty and some with torn clothes, all exclaimed that this was “the craziest concert” they had ever been to and started recapping the “insane” moments to each other. Somebody yelled back at the jerk in the front row. Someone got puked on. Someone’s ears were still ringing.

I couldn’t help but smile and remember the times I would leave concerts, high off the experience, and feeling like I just witnessed something important. Times are a-changin indeed…

I thought I made a mistake. I was surrounded by women. Hot women dressed in tight jeans and knee-high heel boots, all achingly awaiting for the Australian wonder twins that make up The Kin to hit the stage. Already, I felt completely out of my element.

Initially, I was drawn to the show because of the band’s commitment to charity:water, an organization dedicated to building clean water wells in places like Africa. The Kin’s specific well was for a community in Kenya, and was to cost $35,000.

During their shows, they sell $20 bottles of water with all of the money going to the charity. According to the charity:water, $20 can give one person safe water for 20 years.

So, since I made a New Year’s resolution to stop being a dick, I bought one (though there’s something weird about drinking water from a charity that aims to bring water to people who don’t have it).

Still, after seeing the twins come up on stage, I was tempted to leave and not witness all the eye-fucking that was going on between the patrons and the group.

Then something happened. The brothers left the stage and pulled their charm onto the main floor, asking the crowd to form a circle around them. They performed a couple of songs, one of which was the political “Abraham.” It started with someone yelling for the rest of the bar to “shut up!”

The Kin - Abraham (live at TT the Bears)

For a moment, the wall between audience and performer was broken and suddenly we were all drunken friends, singing along with these two Aussies as if it were a house party and someone had found a guitar in the corner. The Kin performed in the dark, away from the spotlight, mics, and speakers of the stage.

It got to the point the everyone in the circle began singing the chorus towards the end.

After a couple more songs, the boys returned to the stage where the eye-fucking got completely out of control, with the women crowding towards the front (there were even some dudes there).

But the impromptu and intimate performance in the midst of the audience was enough to convince me that this was a group to see more of. They played most of their songs from last year’s “Rise and Fall,” and promised a new album was coming this summer.

Sure, this is a group that makes music ripe for those “emotional” moments on television dramas, but there was something inspiring about breaking down that wall, bringing the concert experience to the audience and bringing music fans together as one rowdy bunch in the middle of dive bar.

It ended as most good parties do, with another sing-a-long, this time to Prince’s “When Doves Cry,” with the brothers again in the middle of an audience-made circle.

An open note to the opening band…

Girl in a Coma,

I showed up late to your set and caught, I think, the last two songs. My bad. I’m usually better at getting to t places on time but, well, it was a Wednesday night and, at the time, I was more interested in running back home to play Call of Duty 3 to beat the shit out of some Germans in World War II.

But I got into your set. And it wasn’t because i enjoy all-girl groups that rawk or the fact that I was in the mood to hear something loud and primal. It was the way your lead singer’s eyes seemed to almost pop out of her skull. That was truly engaging and I had to inch closer to the stage to see if it would happen.

And even though it didn’t, it was fun to watch and see some of the male members of the audience cower in the back.

So thanks Girl in a Coma. You got me in the mood to break things. Bless you.