The surprisingly large crowd of people gathered in the Courtyard two hours before headliner David Bazan was scheduled to appear were eased into the night with an acoustic performance by Nic and Heather Dillon, a husband and wife duo who call themselves Casados.

I’d seen the Urbana act a couple years back at the Local Music Awards, an event where their gentle ballads were no match for the fully stocked bar and rowdy atmosphere.

In a quieter setting, though, the pair’s ambient compositions were allowed to shine. With warm notes and frequent harmonizing, the pair generated a folksy backwoods sound that provided an apt soundtrack to combat the bitter winter weather outside.

On each song, as in the between-song banter (which should have been kept to a minimum, as Nic’s thoughts were much better expressed in lyrical form), Heather was content to let her husband take the lead – using her mandolin to nicely accentuate her husband’s strumming and laughing at at all the right times during his spoken interludes.

Like Casados, veteran Tooth and Nail Records act Starflyer 59 brought only two members to the stage – guitarist/vocalist Jason Martin and drummer Trey Many (bassist Steven Dail was absent) – but boasted a sound that was literally more electric.

Although cramming 15 years worth of material into a nine song set almost seems like it could be part of a magic act, the bigger trick was how it felt like the performance ended as soon as it started.

Being as it was my first time seeing and hearing the band, I didn’t really feel as if any song really stood out considerably from the rest (nor did any seem particularly subpar). Instead, all of the music just blended together into one fairly homogenous mass – like one 45-minute long track – that went by in a flash.

Somewhat curiously, the group played only one song (the vocally and musically restrained “Minor Keys”) from its just released full-length Dial M. Rather, Starflyer 59 chose to draw equally from all across its discography, including “The Frontman,” a harder-edged indie rock tune from 2006’s My Island, and the Jimmy Eat World-lite cut “No More New” off 1999’s Everybody Makes Mistakes.

Unlike his chatty stage predecessors, Martin finished each song with a simple “Thanks” uttered in his even baritone. In fact, he talked more to his drummer than to the audience – continually asking Many if he was ready, as if the group was in a hurry to get on with it and get off the stage.

And soon enough they were. A solid and agreeable set, to be sure. But not quite one that would indicate the group has enjoyed such a lengthy and distinguished career.

Set List

A Good Living
I Win
E.P. Nights
Minor Keys
Not Funny
I Drive A Lot
Easy Street
The Frontman
No More New

It’s not like David Bazan is likely to read this post, but I’ll admit it’s still kind of intimidating to write about a man who flippantly dismissed music critics with lines like “Just pretend / That you don’t make your living / From selling advertising” on his exceptional debut solo EP Fewer Moving Parts.

But, over the course of the hour-long acoustic set, Bazan only performed one song from this 2006 record (“Fewer Broken Pieces”), a track that witnesses the musician ruminating on his decision to go solo.

And it’s no wonder the topic is on his mind, as it seemed to be on everyone else’s. After playing three songs (and about every three after that), Bazan paused to ask the crowd if they had any questions – a solicitation that elicited queries about his previous work with Pedro the Lion and Headphones, as well as a brazen inquiry about whether he is an alcoholic. (He doesn’t think so.)

Although Bazan did appease the audience with “Priests and Paramedics” and “Transcontinental,” the soft-spoken frontman was more interested in debuting material from his forthcoming full-length. To this end, he mentioned that he was performing nine of that disc’s 10 tracks (though to my count there were only eight).

Even more so than on his previous musical output, these new offerings featured lyrics that placed Bazan’s religious skepticism and drinking habits (two subjects that often seem to go hand-in-hand) squarely at the forefront – with a healthy dose of clever wordplay to temper the subject matter’s seriousness.

Packed in front of the stage, the crowd listened attentively to every word the man spoke and sang, from his unique take on the Christmas standard “God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen” to his thoughts on having a daughter who can now talk back to him.

Although I’m more partial to Bazan when he’s backed by a full array of instruments, there’s still something undeniably rewarding about hearing him in an intimate acoustic setting that leaves his music as bare as his soul.

Set List

(New Song)
Please Baby Please
Weeds in the Wheat
Priests and Paramedics (Pedro the Lion)
Transcontinental (Pedro the Lion)
Curse Your Branches
Harmless Sparks
Fewer Broken Pieces
Shit Talker (Headphones)
When We Fell
June 18, 1976 (Pedro the Lion)
God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen
Bearing Witness
The Stitches

Although the Friday concert at the Courtyard Café was labeled as an “Indie Pop Rock Show,” for me it was “Pygmalion Redemption,” as I finally had the chance to see two acts I missed when they played the festival in September.

Bathed in red, orange and yellow lights, folk/indie pop group World’s First Flying Machine opened the night with warm and mellow songs that matched the colors raining down from above.

Like a guest in the Neutral Milk Hotel (but without all the fuzz), the Champaign-Urbana sextet played intimate music that would be well suited for listening with close friends around an aging phonograph.

Anchored by the strumming of an acoustic guitar and bolstered by the presence of its electric counterpart, drums, bass, ukelele, violin and a glockenspiel, the band performed a seven song set ranging in tone from the stripped-down “Butterflies” to the swelling “Inefficient Machines.”

With so many instruments to account for, making sure everything was plugged in and feeding through the monitors correctly turned out to be a disruptive to the overall pacing of the show. But when all were producing sound in unison, it was hard not to become immersed in the layered melodies.

Although I wasn’t entirely convinced that lead singer Ben Campbell had the vocal prowess to hold his own with little support from the music during the softer moments, all shortcomings were forgiven after the lyrical eloquence and elegant simplicity of the excellent “The Ferris Wheel” found its way to my ears.

As if to prove me wrong moreover, on the fiery, bass-infused closer “Love Is An Art,” Campbell dispensed with his guitar, unwound his mic from the stand for the first time all night and finished the song screaming with his back turned to the audience

Overall, despite a bit of turbulence here and there, World’s First Flying Machine proved that it should have no problem staying aloft in the crowded C-U musical sky.

Perhaps seeking to upstage the Courtyard’s first act, St. Louis-based Gentleman Auction House boasted seven members and offered up two of just about every instrument – including drums, keyboards and guitars (not to mention the brief appearances of a trumpet and flute).

Yet, despite the surplus of bodies and instruments forced to cram into a deficient space, the band gave no indication they were hindered in any way whatsoever.

After a medium-paced opening song, the set truly got started with “ABCDEFGraveyard” off the band’s first full-length Alphabet Graveyard. Featuring a spirited group shout/clap-along and a whistle-blowing drummer wearing a bear mask with the face cut out, the song packed enough energy to propel the band through the rest of the set (not that the rest of the songs needed any such boost to get going in their own right).

Most of the show’s other offerings were also culled from this July release, including “Call It Casual” and “I Sleep In a Bed of Scissor Arms,” both of which featured the band’s signature bombastic rhythms and concise, vivid lyrics.

Near the end of the set, Gentleman Auction House paused to acknowledge its love for the night’s headliner Headlights (noting that the group’s latest album is perfect for early morning listening), before performing “A Good Son.”

Once the song had ended, a member of the audience turned and asked his friend whether it had been a cover of the aforementioned Champaign indie-rockers, a question that serves as a perfect way of describing how its plaintive melody still managed to convey a hint of optimism.

This song, it turned out, was not the group’s only local allusion.

In light of the day’s early-morning blaze that destroyed a historic building in downtown Champaign, the opening lyrics of closing number “Book of Matches” – “We set the fire that stalked a town / We set the fire that burned it down / We set the fire that raged and raged / …” – briefly took on a somber overtone, which the song’s infectiously propulsive beat quickly converted to joyous head-nodding and toe-tapping.

As Kevin Barnes (the mastermind behind indie electro-pop purveyors of Montreal) croons on “St. Exquisite’s Confessions”: “The freaks want to take me home to see / If the rumors are true.”

And, after all the buzz that erupted following the Athens, GA-based band’s performance in New York City earlier this month, who could blame them?

As accounts of live horses and a raucous cover of “Smells Like Teen Spirit” rippled through the blogosphere, I awaited the chance to see in person whether the show was as extravagant as reported.

Finally, this opportunity arose when of Montreal brought its traveling spectacle to Chicago for a Monday night show at the Riviera Theatre.

Despite having a pretty concrete idea of what to expect during the concert, the sheer amount of visual imagery and schizophrenic musical outpouring made it impossible to become bored while watching and listening as the slightly less than two hour show unfolded.

From the moment Barnes and Co. took to the stage accompanied by a team of golden creatures dancing along to “Id Engager” (before transforming into ninjas by the song’s end), it was clear that of Montreal intended to gratify the eyes as much as the ears on this evening.

In testament to this objective, a miniature rotating stage flanked by a bi-fold screen was used to showcase several skits – including a Wild West saloon shootout, a nun supplicating at the feet of a religious figure and Barnes’s own (eerily realistic) hanging.

Giving the sense that Halloween had arrived five days early, a crew of actors frequently roamed the stage in animal masks, military fatigues and other various get-ups. Even drummer Ahmed Gallub joined the act, wearing a blonde wig, pink boa and oversized sunglasses as he pounded away behind his elevated drum kit.

However, despite all that was going on, the primary focal point of the show was always Barnes.

Whether he was slathered in shaving cream or painted red, strutting around with a mic or strumming a guitar, being hanged from a noose or shot in the mouth, Barnes was continually at the forefront of the action.

Donning several costumes throughout the night – including an oversized fanny pack and a horse’s latter half – the frontman eventually settled on a gold thong with a purple waistband as his main attire.

Yet, rather than being gratuitous or shocking, Barnes’s nearly naked appearance was merely apropos of the overtly sexual and (psychologically) revealing lyrics he sang in “Plastis Wafers” and “Heimdalsgate Like A Promethean Curse,” respectively.

Serving to make the event even more of a personal affair for Barnes was the appearance of his brother David (who designed most of the sets), his wife Nina (the aforementioned nun) and daughter Alabee (who hopped around a small portion of the stage for much of the encore).

Although they needed little prompting, the crowd packed into the pit area took its cues from Barnes – dancing, jumping and clapping whenever he commanded (and often when he didn’t). From my vantage point up in the balcony, the crowd seemed to be perpetually pulsing to the same rhythm the band was pumping through the speakers.

The impassioned audience response was all the more impressive in light of the fact that a large portion of the set list was culled from the just released Skeletal Lamping, which hit stores a week ago Tuesday and was basically played in its entirety. But, even fans unfamiliar with this latest full-length had occasion to dance and sing along to older offerings from Hissing Fauna, Are You The Destroyer?, The Sunlandic Twins and Satanic Panic in the Attic.

After exiting amidst a flurry of feathers shot into the audience, of Montreal returned to the stage a short while later to appease the screaming crowd with a short encore that concluded with the dynamic one-two punch of “Oslo In The Summertime” (featuring Barnes playing an extended drum intro) and “Smells Like Teen Spirit.”

Even though it remains to be seen whether the show will enable Barnes to exorcize his inner demons, at least the rest of us got to experience a little Nirvana.

Set List (in no particular order and not guaranteed to be complete)

Id Engager
Nonpareil of Favor
Wicked Wisdom
For Our Elegant Caste
Touched Something’s Hollow
An Eluadarian Instance
Gallery Piece
Women’s Studies Victims
St. Exquisite’s Confessions
Triphallus, To Punctuate!
And I’ve Seen A Bloody Shadow
Plastis Wafers
Beware Our Nubile Miscreants
Heimdalsgate Like A Promethean Curse
A Sentence Of Sorts In Kongsvinger
She’s A Rejecter
Wraith Pinned To The Mist And Other Games
So Begins Our Alabee
—
Disconnect The Dots
Oslo In The Summertime
Smells Like Teen Spirit (Nirvana cover)

Because I arrived at Canopy ultra early, I headed over to the UGL to kill time before the show and did some Wikipedia-aided research on the night’s performers. This turned out to be a great decision because the entry on Tim Fite provided me with a startling (and awesome) fact: Fite was the first half of Little T and One Track Mike, the white rap duo behind the goofy 2001 MTV hit “Shaniqua.” (If you’re not familiar, check it out below.)

Although Fite was instantly recognizable to me from his one hit’s ubiquitous music video (even his haircut was identical – a crew cut with one long string of hair coming out of the front) his overall appearance has changed drastically. Wearing a cream-colored button-up shirt paired with suspenders, Fite seemed intent on channeling a fundamentalist minister who wouldn’t be out of place in O Brother, Where Art Thou?

This image matched well with the preachy content of his songs. It appears to be no coincidence that Fite has found a label home on ANTI-, as his lyrics railed against consumerism (the hip-hop rant “It’s All Right Here”) and “the Man” (folksy single “Away From The Snakes”).

While I wasn’t particularly impressed with the songs themselves (an exception being the plucky, acoustic strains of “Big Mistake”), there’s no denying the show was strangely entertaining. In lieu of using live instruments, a video screen showed weird footage of Fite sitting in a wheelchair playing a guitar and keyboard while other images of himself danced in the background. Between tunes, short animated cartoons (similar in style to the ones Demetri Martin uses in his stand-up) entertained the crowd and twice led them to act out “Head, Shoulders, Knees and Toes.”

All of these slightly juvenile attempts at humor provided an unsettling juxtaposition with songwriting that was seriously aimed at exposing society’s faults and left the impression that the transformation from Little T to Tim Fite was not yet complete. In contrast to his own claim, perhaps it’s not quite true that Shaniqua don’t live here no more.

If Tim Fite had actually been the leader of a Southern Baptist church revival, than Man Man was exactly the sort of evil he would seek to exorcise – a gypsy camp after dark, reveling in sin and sound into the early morning hours.

Despite also being signed to ANTI-, about the only thing the Philadelphia-based quintet seemed dead set against was silence. Never once pausing to address the crowd, the band filled its time slot with the typical strumming of bass and guitar coupled with the banging of drums and piano keys – but also added to the mix metal pots, whistles, xylophones and whatever else could be used to produce noise. (At one point, lead singer Honus Honus even went up to the mic and jingled his keys, prompting many in the crowd to do the same and making the place sound like Memorial Stadium before a kickoff.)

Starting off with two consecutive tracks from the April 2008 release Rabbit Habits (”Doo Right” and “Easy Eats Or Dirty Doctor Galapagos”), Man Man maintained a fairly high level of energy via uptempo cuts including “Mister Jung Stuffed” and “Harpoon Fever.”

Although the action on stage wasn’t nearly as raucous as I had been expecting, the pit was even more so – as people in the crowd (some of whom sported fake moustaches, war paint and cloths tied around their heads in homage to the band) seized every opportunity to dance and jump around.

After playing roughly 15 songs, the band came out for two encores (and possibly a third, although I left during the second). Somewhat disappointingly, these returns to the stage established a much less lively tone than was featured in the original set. Leaving behind its signature groove-worthy tunes, Man Man offered up more subdued, expansive cuts such as “Skin Tension” and “Gold Teeth.”

While it was nice to see a different side of the band whose frenetic songs seemed to meld together when played one after the after, I would rather have seen more of an effort to mix up the tempo throughout the show than to end it on such a downbeat note.

But I guess even the most roaring of campfires dies out eventually.

On Saturday night, all eyes (and ears, of course) turned to the festival’s big-name headliner: Yo La Tengo. Unlike the intimate shows and venues that marked Pygmalion up to this point, the spacious, two-tiered Krannert Art Center theater provided the stage for one of indie music’s most enduring groups.

As someone encountering the band’s music for the first time (I know, I know – but I liked that rock I was living under too much to leave), I filed out of the auditorium feeling impressed with the musicianship, but not in a mad rush to listen to their past albums.

Easing into the show with the gentle love song “Our Way To Fall,” the trio quickly accelerated the pace with “I Should Have Known Better,” off its acclaimed 2006 record I Am Not Afraid of You and I Will Beat Your Ass.

This sort of slow-fast, quiet-loud progression was a hallmark of the show – one that featured the group showcasing its ability to transition effortlessly from garage rock (“Watch Out For Me Ronnie”) to piano jazz + falsetto (“Mr. Tough”) to unrelenting groove-outs (“The Room Got Heavy”).

In addition, while I sat in one of the most comfortable theater seats I’ve ever occupied, the members of Yo La Tengo continually scurried around from instrument to instrument – changing on-stage locations almost as often as they shifted genres. At one point, drummer Georgia Hubley even came out from being the kits to sing and play keyboard on the ballad “I Feel Like Going Home.”

The group seemed pleased to be back in the twin cities before such a large crowd, as guitarist Ira Kaplan reminisced about playing at the Blind Pig and the Highdive almost a decade ago. And I, for one, was happy to have Kaplan back in town because he was hands-down the best guitar player I have ever seen perform. For me, his extended solos on “Pass The Hatchet, I Think I’m Goodkind” and “The Story of Yo La Tango” were the unquestionable highlights of the evening.

As the concert drew to a close, the band played a few covers as its encore before Kaplan led audience members in a growing conga line up to the doors at the back of the theater – his location identifiable at all times by the maracas rattling in his hand.

Our Way To Fall
I Should Have Known Better
Autumn Sweater
Deeper Into Movies (?)
Pass The Hatchet, I Think I’m Goodkind
The Room Got Heavy
Bean Bag Chair
Mr. Tough
I Feel Like Going Home
Tom Courtenay
?
Watch Out For Me Ronnie
The Story of Yo La Tango
—–
Speeding Motorcycle
Come On, Come On (Cheap Trick)
Nuclear War (Sun Ra)

After leaving Krannert, I headed down the street to take in the three-band Polyvinyl showcase at Canopy Club. Opening the bill were The M’s, a four-piece rock band from Chicago. Channeling the likes of The Kinks and T. Rex, the group played a competent, no-frills set that catered to fans both old and new.

After beginning with a few older selections, the set concluded with a string of songs from Real Close Ones (released this past June), including “Don’t Be Late,” “Get Your Shit Together,” and “Ultraviolent Men,” before finishing with catchy psych-pop single “Big Sound.”

Because the evening’s crowd was still wandering in and most people chose to hang out toward the back (except for Headlights’ Erin Fein and Nick Sanborn, both of whom occupied a spot right in front to watch their labelmates), the band might not have been exposed to as many new faces as it would have liked, but those who were there looked to be bobbing their heads in approval.

Sandwiched in the middle, everyone’s favorite hometown band gone national, Headlights, was clearly the main attraction. Judging from the fact that every nook and cranny in the area around the stage was filled with people, a C-U performance from the lady and gents is definitely still a noteworthy event.

Because I’ve already written about the group (in my first post, no less), I’ll suffice it to say that the quintet sounds more “rock” every time I hear them. Even “Cherry Tulips” shed its original sugary-sweet complexion for a louder, more muscular feel. No matter how many times the band swings through town, it’s always worth it to see them because each tour sees them getting that much better at their craft.

The last act to take the stage – Asobi Seksu – is also the most recent addition to the Polyvinyl roster. Hailing from New York City, the group is anchored by vocalist/keyboardist Yuki Chikudate and guitarist James Hanna. Notably, on this particular night their for-hire backing band also included drummer Larry Gorman (formerly of influential post-hardcore rockers Glassjaw).

For those who are only familiar with the group’s albums, don’t let the sound found therein fool you – this band rocks out. Hard. Easily beating out The M’s and Headlights for loudest performer, furious guitar rhythms and pounding drums duked it out all night in a battle royale. (I’ll declare the contest a tie.)

Canopy’s speakers were ill-suited to handle the force of Chikudate’s half-Japanese, half-English singing – her diminuitive figure (which barely rose above her icicle light-strewn keyboard) disguising the powerful vocal cords within. Her small stature also made it all the more suprising when, on the last song of the night, she took over behind the drum kit and banged away with as much furor as she had taken out on her keyboard previously.

Entering undetected during the middle of Owen’s set Friday night at Krannert Art Museum was no easy feat – as the large crowd filling the lobby sat hushed on the floor giving rapt attention to the man sitting alone on stage with his acoustic guitar. The silence was such that even the sound of Mike Kinsella tapping his foot to the beat of the music was clearly distinguishable along with the plucking of strings and the subtle fluctuations of his voice.

With a set list scribbled on the inside of his hand, Kinsella treated the audience to obscure cuts (such as “Top Shelf” and “Good Friends Bad Habits” from his split 7″ with City on Film) in addition to newer (or at least, unrecorded) offerings – “Ugly on the Inside,” “The Anthropology Song,” “Bag of Bones” – that followed his formula for writing sparse, incisive vignettes.

To fill time during his 45-minute set Kinsella asked the crowd several times what they wanted to talk about, a conversation that at one point led to which came first – David Duchovny’s TV show or his sex addiction – and a clever brush-off to a request for “I’m Not Seventeen” (“I don’t know that one”). With just a couple minutes to spare, Owen again asked the crowd for topics to discuss before deciding to play one last tune when a girl announced she had driven two hours to see him – and had just arrived.

After Owen, a friend convinced me to stay and watch Thao with The Get Down Stay Down instead of hustling over to the Red Herring to see Gentlemen Auction House (the argument being that the St. Louis natives will be back in town soon enough). Although I guess I’ll never know which show was better, I definitely don’t regret my decision to stick around Krannert.

With its infectious blending of smooth female vocals and a heartily strummed acoustic lead guitar, the group entertained the crowd with floor-stomping indie rock jams. Recounting the story of seeing several shirtless Delta Chi members playing on a Slip ‘n Slide (with no girls in sight) earlier in the day provided the material for humorous between song banter, but the set’s real enjoyment came from the feel-good rhythms streaming out of the amplifiers.

In stark contrast to the stripped-down stillness of Owen, Chicago’s own Dr. Manhattan had spastic energy oozing out of every corner of the Red Herring’s basement stage. In particular, it was impossible to pin down the location of keyboardist (and part-time percussionist) Andrew Morrison from one second to the next – as he divided his time among roaming around his tiny section of the platform, dragging his drum out into the crowd and standing on top of his keyboard.

The set began in surprising fashion, as Tracey Morrison and Tricia Scully, who had performed just prior with their band Tall Tale, shared the stage to perform a couple of original songs –along with TT guitarist Justin Tanaka, whose job was to run his hand across the seat of a mic’d-up chair. (Actually, I guess the pairing wouldn’t have been too unexpected if I had taken a hint from “Tracey’s Buns” off Dr. Manhattan’s debut full-length)

The raucous set was filled with songs from this 2008 Vagrant release, including “Big Chomper, Big Chomper,” “Gunpowder: A Ballet” and “Minds Like Ours.” After the chaos had concluded, Morrison (of the Andrew variety) thanked the crowd for being there and indicated how much the band loves performing. But after seeing them in person, this clearly went without saying.

And oh yeah, bassist Adam Engers sported the best moustache this side of Borat.

Next on the night’s agenda was the appearance of Titus Andronicus in the Canopy Void Room. The band’s name was certainly appropriate for the festival, as both its namesake Shakespeare play and the story of Pygmalion derive from Ovid’s Metamorphoses (who said English degrees are useless?). Also befitting of their moniker was the threat that things could get bloody during the first (and only) instance of moshing I witnessed at the festival.

As anticipated, the New Jersey group showcased the deceptively raw and unpolished sound found on this spring’s The Airing of Grievances. Playing a mixture of shoegaze, indie and punk shrouded in lo-fi aesthetics and peppered with harmonica, the concert was fast, crass and sweaty through and through.

To close out the evening, I stepped through the doors into Canopy’s main hall to watch the midnight set from Canadian rockers Black Mountain. After a few minutes, it became apparent that the band revels in its “black” image – complete with minor key tuning, classic rock guitar riffs and throbbing bass. A sonically riveting performance to be sure, but visually much less so.

Standing in place to watch the band members do the same up on stage soon became boring so I ended the night in the same fashion as I started – sitting down with music soaring overhead.

Because The Brother Whys ended up cancelling its afternoon set, the first band I ventured out to see on Thursday was Sub Pop recording act Oxford Collapse. Performing with all the lights still on inside Krannert Art Museum, the group made an immediate connection with the crowd during the opening song when lead vocalist/guitarist Michael Pace played part of his solo amidst the people standing in front of the stage.

In addition to playing shoegaze-y songs infused with energy of DIY punk, the group was highly visually entertaining – with Pace breaking off a few karate kicks and bassist Adam Rizer (who eerily played most of the set with his eyes closed) stomping the ground and plucking his instrument like he was being controlled solely by the music surging through him. (Not to mention the fact that with his cutoff jean shorts, drummer Dan Fetherston slightly resembled David Cross in Arrested Development. Never-nude, anyone?)

Although equipment troubles ate up a fair amount of time, the malfunctioning bass amp did produce the rare opportunity to hear Pace (who admitted he had been waiting for a moment like this) serenade the crowd with a solo version of “The Boys Go Home.”

Not much has changed with regard to Oklahoma’s Evangelicals since they last passed through town during a co-headlining stint with Headlights. The fog machine I wrote about previously was still present (but used to a much lesser extent) and the group’s obsession with reverb was still in full effect – an aspect that lent a touch of unintentional humor to their between-song banter.

Granted, some songs (such as “Paperback Suicide”) succeeded in getting a small contingent to shuffle their feet – which is about the most movement any indie rock band can ask for, even one as theatrical as Evangelicals. It’s just that for the most part, the spooky harmonizing/keyboard sounds throughout “Bellawood” and the cackling (along with a brief use of strobe lighting) featured in “Skeleton Man” seemed better suited for a run-down building at Halloween than a sparse museum lobby with the lights (now) turned off.

Having missed seeing Murder By Death the past two times the group has appeared on campus, I was determined not to make the same mistake again. And it seems I was not the only one to place the Indiana-based alt-country/rock quartet at the top of their most anticipated list. Appropriately occupying the headlining slot, the band easily drew the venue’s largest and most enthusiastic crowd of the night.

Distinguished by vocalist Adam Turla’s bone-chillingly deep baritone and Sarah Balliet’s haunting cello accompaniments, the band delivered a solid set that featured songs spread evenly throughout its previous three albums: Who Will Survive and What Will Be Left of Them (“The Devil in Mexico,” “Until Morale Improves, The Beatings Will Continue,” “Masters in Reverse Psychology), In Bocca Al Lupo (“Brother,” “Dynamite Mine”) and Red of Tooth and Claw (“Ball & Chain,” “Fuego,” “‘52 Ford”).

Highlights of the performance included the lyrical and musical aggression of “Sometimes the Line Walks You” and the ominous mood cultivated in “Coming Home” – both of which transformed the museum lobby from the aforementioned haunted house into a Wild West saloon tinged with the faint musk of gunpowder and an aftertaste of whiskey.

Pausing to purchase a CD after Murder By Death’s set ended left me with precious little time to trek over to the Courtyard Café to watch student group Butterfly Assassins. Recently signed to upstart NY label Old Flame Records, the band has previously made waves on this campus (as well as at all the others its members attend) with unique songwriting that blends classical influences and gothic rock overtones.

Although I was too late to catch the entire concert, I arrived just in time to hear the stilted and pounding (both good qualities, in this case) “Hypocratocracy” and a slower new offering that featured the quintet’s (actually, a four-piece on this night due to the absence of cellist Kate Wakefield) signature crescendoing progression. The always entertaining Bryan Trahan (on lead vocals and keyboard) was true to form – writhing on the ground during the last strains of the closing song.

The crowd, however, was not ready for the show to end and demanded (and received) an encore in the form of “Prelude in D Minor” (not the one listed as such on their Myspace) – a track with a swirling piano build-up that gradually picks up support from other instruments and ultimately crashes into a genuine pop masterpiece.

For those expecting something close to a repeat of the 2007 Pitchfork performance that was shut down by a Chicago fire marshall, the biggest disappointment of the festival was Dan Deacon. Come to think of it, even if you weren’t anticipating a show that wild, you might have been let down. Perhaps Deacon, himself, said it best when, in the process of organizing a dance contest, he declared the event would draw a psychological line between those who were participating and ones who weren’t.

This analysis proved particularly apt, as those crowded around Deacon (who had set up shop at ground level and marked his position with a glowing neon skull) tried their best to turn the concert into an all-out dance party – with a large group even accepting his invitation to occupy the vacated stage area (until this idea was nixed and the house lights were turned back on about three songs in due to safety concerns).

For the rest of us, however, the performance was closer to trainwreck than insane spectacle. Despite the fact that Deacon berated the in-house sound engineer for more than ten minutes until the levels were finally to his satisfaction, the end result was nothing more than a muddle of vaguely electronic noise. In addition, what should have been one long, non-stop celebration was frequently interrupted by Deacon’s instructions to the crowd and the already alluded to dance competition.

Toward the end, the show finally started to become interesting, as Dark Meat (who played directly before Deacon) appeared on stage to provide additional musical support and crowd surfing ensued (led by Evangelicals’ singer Josh Jones). Unfortunately, just then the set came to an abrupt halt as the curtains flanking the stage began to buckle, the lights came on once again and people awkwardly stumbled away.

As it has each year since 2005, Pygmalion Music Festival put a stranglehold on the Champaign-Urbana music scene with its four-night, three-day celebration of local, regional and (inter)national indie musicians.

One of the qualities that contributes to making the event so unique is its commitment to providing C-U bands the opportunity to shine alongside acts that have already broken through on the national radar. In fact, about half of this year’s 80 scheduled performers hail from the twin cities.

For actual proof of this geographical diversity, concertgoers had to search no further than the five-band bill that kicked off the festival at Canopy Club Wednesday night.

As the opening act, local duo Common Loon jumpstarted the show with a hard-hitting indie rock tune that was more assertive than the majority of its other offerings. Unfortunately, the teasing promise held in this (and one other) uptempo song probably clouded my appreciation for what I’ll label as the group’s more “beautiful” arrangements – those marked by a jangling, melancholy sound and mellow vocal harmonies.

Throughout the set, drummer Matt Campbell and guitarist Robert Hirschfeld contributed equally (both musically and vocally) toward constructing their sun-soaked psychedelia-infused pop songs. All in all, Common Loon did an admirable job of warming up the crowd, but was soon lost in the shuffle of the tremendous acts that followed.

A cancellation by the Minneapolis-based Mute Era bumped Coco Coca up to the second slot. To gain a much needed reprieve from the heat (Canopy’s AC was broken), I went to stand outside during the set – which was just as well, because judging from the thumping beats, things were only heating up in the Void Room.

A move to Seattle has transformed the once-local noise rocker into something more resembling a dancehall DJ. Although electronics always figured heavily into his act, this set seemed more aimed at getting the body’s lower half dancing than assaulting the upper part’s ears and eyes (remember the huge inflatable spider at the 2007 LMAs?).

Without a doubt, the hometown heroes in Elsinore drew the largest crowd on opening night. For the first time, curtains sealed off the small stage from the rest of the room and Ryan Groff was dead on to remark that it felt like the band was playing inside of a TV set. (One that, I’ll add, everyone in the crowd had tuned to their favorite channel.)

The set list was predictable, yet pleasing – as before you knew it, the group had breezed through “Wooden Houses,” “The General,” “Chemicals” and its outstanding cover of The Postal Service’s “The District Sleeps Alone Tonight.” In a finish that would have shattered the glass screen had there been one, the closing moments of “Landlocked” dissolved into a frenzy of noise, through which a final burst of melody briefly emerged before it was consumed by more chaos and sound.

In its direct supporting role, Milwaukee’s Decibully turned in what post-show chatter indicated was the evening’s most surprising performance. From the overheard comments of those oozing praise afterwards, it seems that an ear-piercing squeal during soundcheck was about the only false note the band hit.

Squeezing seven people into the tiny stage area, the folk-tinged indie rock collective showed off its agility (a few members still found room to rock out with abundant energy in the crowded confines) and versatility (as evidenced by the multiple instruments played by some in the group). Seamlessly meshing a few guitars, a couple of keyboards and even two drummers at one point, the band produced a smooth, unified sound that was never as cluttered as the on-stage setup would lead one to expect.

While some bands (such as the one just discussed) are adept at playing soaring, atmospheric music that would translate just as well in an outdoor setting as inside a club, Times New Viking is not one such act. Instead, the Ohio-based trio plays songs that are loud and grimy – music that is meant for dingy basements and late night listening. It was just as well then that equipment difficulties added to the show’s already late beginning and pushed back the headliner’s start time well into the seedy early morning hours.

Although I wasn’t too impressed with Times New Viking’s recent Pitchfork performance, in this smaller setting its songs resonated much better – the indistinct vocals mixing with lo-fi guitar lines to bounce off the walls and back and forth between by ears. Throwing in a lyrically repetitive new offering and longer cuts from its previous albums, TNV ended Pygmalion’s opening night on a clamorous, if not always intelligible, note.

As I sat in the beer garden at Mike ’N Molly’s on a brisk Friday evening, it seemed as if the summer had come full circle. A mere four months earlier, I had ventured downtown to catch a show at this venue for the first time a few weeks after school had ended – and practically froze every bone in my body on a chilly May night.

And now here I was again, in the exact same location a few weeks after the beginning of the fall semester. A little older? Certainly. But was I any wiser? Well, at least I had brought a sweatshirt this time.

In the opening slot, Decatur’s own Soy City Stranglers tried to get the blood flowing for the spattering of people who had arrived at the announced start time. In the same vein as Snot (but with a greater emphasis on quickening the pace and dirtying the riffs), the group played short, thrashy songs which were heavily accented by lead vocalist Billy Fury snarling singing voice.

In my estimation, the group made a mistake by not starting out with its strongest songs and when a few semi-tolerable tracks finally snuck their way into the set, it was too late to make up for the bad first impression.

From its unrefined nature, I can only surmise that the group was formed one night when the members were sitting around talking about their favorite bands and decided to pick up instruments to try and be just like them (case in point was one song which was prefaced with: “This one’s about Mudvayne, my favorite band”).

All was not lost, though. I did have a good time trying to spot all the standard rock cliches. Singing with alcohol in one hand. Check. Song about tattoos. Check. Jumping off speakers. Check. (Although the stunt might have had a bigger effect if the speaker jutted up higher than only a foot or so above the stage.)

But overall, the band didn’t take themselves too seriously (at least I hope not), so I won’t either.

Wedged into the middle spot on the three-band-bill, Golden Quality possessed a lot of the, well, not-so-golden qualities attributed to those with middle-child syndrome: often overlooked and not all too special.

It’s not that the songs weren’t capable of getting feet tapping and heads nodding – they just never came across as particularly memorable. Playing bland meat-and-potatoes rock songs with the occasional tinge of punk, the group had a likeable feel that unfortunately wasn’t very long lasting.

Toward the end, a forgettable ballad seemed to be thrown in merely as an attempt to exhibit the scope of their musical abilities and wasn’t as strong as their other more upbeat offerings, including a well-executed instrumental track that succeeded in capturing my attention the longest.

One peculiarity that did stand out was the abrupt ending of many of their songs, a feature that was perhaps thrown in just to make sure people were paying attention (and for the most part, it didn’t seem as if they were judging from the lack of applause by those caught off-guard).

Maybe a less lackadaisical live show would have done wonders to boost my opinion of the band and consider them a more noteworthy unit, but on this night Golden Quality was definitely overshadowed by its older brother – which took the stage next.

Occupying the headlining slot, Roberta Sparrow unleashed the type of performance that the crowd which had quietly filed in throughout the night was anticipating.

Almost immediately, it was clear that the local hardcore punk act (which formed after the demise of Vice Dolls) was exactly what the two opening bands aspired to be: polished, well-rounded musicians.

Despite having only three members, Roberta Sparrow oozed greater stage presence than the more populated groups which had preceded them, anchored by drummer Greg Jaeger who impressively balanced his frenetic drumming with lead vocalist duties.

Aiming not to simply generate the most noise possible and couple it with mindless screaming, the trio injected a generous sampling of melody (of both the vocal and instrumental sort) into its heavy arrangements and at times nicely offset the unrelenting sonic attack with sing-along gang vocals and quieter bridges.

The group also seemed determined to maintain its tough guy image in the face of a maturing musical approach, at one point daring the crowd to mock a new song that featured a slower pace with poppier elements which made it more reminiscent of Rise Against than Bane.

After almost 45 minutes of churning out energetic anthems and nearly exhausting their catalog of songs, about the only feat the band was unable to pull off was organizing a circle pit around a metal table in front of the stage.

An act that would have added a visual element to the cyclical end of summer the night represented.

Back in 2005, I attended the Chicago stop of a tour that was billed as featuring Say Anything (which was at the time a relatively unknown alternative/punk group) as the opening act.

However, a few days before the show I discovered that Max Bemis and Co. had dropped off the cross-country trek and were replaced by another equally unheard-of Vagrant band: Emanuel.

Although I sampled a few songs from this unfamiliar group on the Internet beforehand, I still went into the House of Blues not really knowing what to expect – and was totally blown away.

Due to some faulty directions (or my inability to follow the ones I printed off Yahoo), my friend and I arrived late as the set was already in progress and were treated to the high-intensity track “The Hey Man!” as our first taste of the Louisville, Kentucky-based post-hardcore act.

After that initial experience, I ended up seeing the band three more times over the next two years – twice at the Creepy Crawl in St. Louis and once at Warped Tour.

Then came last fall (and the long-awaited point of this blog post), when I drove an hour to Decatur’s Millikin University to watch them perform with a few local bands.

It was to be the first time I had seen them live since the release of their August 2007 sophomore album, a record that unfortunately featured the group trading in the raw energy and hooky melodies found on its debut for more straightforward, atmospheric rock tunes (with a small amount of screaming still thrown in for good measure).

Nonetheless, I was excited to hear the new material in a live setting.

But then a strange thing happened – it became the worst show I ever attended. To be fair, the “venue” was more of an all-purpose meeting room with carpet and low ceilings, the sound was terrible and the crowd was small and unenergetic.

But the band, instead of attempting to make the most of a bad situation, only contributed to the adverse conditions, playing a short, uninspired set comprised almost entirely of new songs (instead of mixing in more old favorites that might have raised the crowd’s energy level).

After announcing there would be two more songs, lead vocalist Matt Breen decided one was enough and before the band could launch into its closer (most likely, “The Hey Man!”), threw his microphone at a wall to the left of the stage and exited the room.

Perhaps not surprisingly, I haven’t heard much of anything from the group since then, which is just as well seeing as I had lost most of my respect for them.

While I do understand that bands can have off nights and one bad performance shouldn’t cloud all of the other times I had seen and enjoyed them, this experience still left a bitter taste in my mouth that hasn’t gone away.

Ultimately, what I’m getting at is this: has anyone else ever stopped liking a band after seeing them live?

I generally think of concerts as a time and place to discover new music and/or see a different side of a favorite act then can be found on their recordings. But occasionally, as I found out that night, they can also lead one to negatively change their opinion of a musical act.

A prototypical case in point is Ryan Adams, whose egocentric attitude and sometimes confrontational on-stage persona has occasionally served to alienate him from those in attendance (or just enhance his legend).

The All-American Rejects are another band that come to mind. Maybe it’s just me, but after seeing them in St. Louis a few years back I found it strange that a group which plays squeaky-clean pop songs swear like sailors (so to speak) in front of a live audience. Imagine Robert De Niro singing “Swing, Swing” in GoodFellas and you’ll get the picture.

But that’s enough from me. If you’ve had a similar experience, feel free to vent.