On its first tour since the release of its latest record, Fire The Lasers!, Jason Hann and Michael Travis (percussionist and drummer respectively of the The String Cheese Incident) brought their own entirely improvised live electronica duo, EOTO, to Austin’s The Parish on Saturday. An incredible ambiance was created for the show by Dreamtime Productions: a friendly bearded dude handed out flowers at the door, there was a massage chair, a sprawling gem and mineral table and live painting by local artists Pharo and Tourmaline Todd. Hann and Travis took the stage and after a brief time tinkering with their wide array of gadgets, which looked like they had been transplanted to The Parish from NASA’s mission control.

Giant Panda Guerilla Dub Squad’s recent hometown performance at Water Street Music Hall came a day after the release of the band’s latest release, LIVE UP!. For many in the crowd, it was their first chance to see the band’s new line-up after an unexpected downsize from sextet to quartet. The four-piece took the stage with an even tighter sound and an impressive two-and-a-half-hour long marathon of a set. The outfit served up the same mesh of sound that the band has aggressively worked on for three years and about 500 shows to perfect. It melds classic serene roots-reggae with contemporary and political lyricism, with a concise, repetitious modern dub. The venue was stacked from front to back with eager ears. Bodies began to sway and groove on the first walk of the bass, with opener, “Easy Way Out.” Frontman James Searl’s vocals were compelling and often the backbone of each song.

Photo: Kate Mostyn A diverse Water Street Music Hall crowd that ranged from baby boomers to 16-year-olds roared in anticipation of Sharon Jones, but were surprised to be greeted first by the dapper Dap-Kings. The Brooklyn-based funk ensemble eased into “(Introduction)” written by bandleader Bosco “Bass” Mann, from 2002’s Dap Dippin’ with Sharon Jones and the Dap-Kings. Lead guitarist Binky Griptite vamped up the crowd with a few warm-up tunes before the lady took the stage. Jones’ first tune with the Dap-Kings started with guitar which blasted out of the speakers like a funky rip-tide reverberating through the whole building. Calling it her strut song, “How Do I Let A Good Man Down” had Jones strutting her stuff along with a young audience member who left the stage with a kiss from the miss. With no barrier between the stage and Jones, it was obvious that she liked to get close with her crowd.

Photo: Ben Weiss Normally when you see crowds of people waiting to get into a Cornell fraternity house, it’s easy to guess what’s going on inside: hundreds of cans of Keystone Light, obnoxiously loud hip-hop, a 45-minute wait for a game of beer pong, and more drunken, belligerent freshman than you can handle. But on this November night, the clusters of people entering Theta Delta Chi (lovingly nicknamed “Thumpty”) were anticipating a different kind of party. While Thumpty’s Grand Hall is normally filled with comfortable couches and coffee tables, the room was cleared out for a dance party with livetronica duo BioDiesel topping the bill. With the addition of a small stage and the house’s professional grade sound system, the common space was truly transformed into a fully functional concert hall.

Photo: Jesse Borrell In an industry plagued with diminishing record sales and rampant Internet file sharing, DJ/producer Derek Vincent Smith ofPretty Lights has arrived on the scene as an adaptive artist in the digital age. His business model is simple: start small, build a fan base largely by word of mouth, tour extensivelyand release all studio efforts for free online. Performing over 100 shows in 2009, this November evening was Pretty Lights’ first headlining gig in New York City. Smith appeared onstage with his arms held high,accompanied by drummer Cory Eberhard. A massive LED light board behind the musicians flashed a “PL” logo amidst a colorful, swirling display. The lighting design, while engulfing eye candy, masked the actual musicianship at times. The audience was constantly bathed in strobes of light and often the artists’ actions were only visible as high contrast silhouettes.During renditions of crowd favorites “Finally Moving” and “Hot Like Sauce,” the elaborate display helped to make textbook run-throughs more entertaining.

Photo: Grace Beehler Hopping across the pond following a North American run, Alberta Cross returned to its roots for several London shows. London hipsters, American transplants and the band’s family members filled Bush Hall, an intimate venue decorated with crystal chandeliers and disco balls. Opening for Alberta Cross was London-based Oh Ruin, led by Eoin O’Ruainigh. While the band emitted a similar mood as the headliner, Oh Ruin blended vocals reminiscent of Ryan Adams or Adam Duritz with the melancholic tones of Bon Iver. Playing for half-an-hour, Oh Ruin successfully captured the attention of mingling listeners in the bar and drew them deeper into the cavernous venue (the band even culled several members of Alberta Cross to observe the performance). Alberta Cross (guitarist/vocalist Petter Ericson Stakee who donned a standard black scarecrow hat, bassist Terry Wolfers, guitarist Sam Kearney, drummer Austin Beede and keyboardist Alec Higgins) came onstage in ‘70s southern rock get-up, complete with shoulder-length hair.

Photo: Sara Traore Just three days after announcing plans for its first hiatus in 16 years, The Derek Trucks Band visited Montreal’s 125-year-old Metropolis theatre for an intimate Saturday night gig. Trucks, who last traveled to Montreal as a member of Eric Clapton’s band, started the evening with “Sweet Inspiration,” an uplifting Spooner Oldham and Dan Penn cover track off 2009’s Already Free. While the rest of the band broke out of the gate at full force, Trucks was only beginning to heat up. A 10-minute plus “Get Out of My Life, Woman,” gave the audience its first taste of Trucks’ leading counterpart, keyboardist/flautist Kofi Burbridge. A funky keyboard solo gave way to a raw bass and drums rhythm, indicating that it was Trucks’ turn to let loose. While Mike Mattison told the story with his vocals, it was Burbridge who matched Trucks during instrumental jams.

Photo: Eric Weinthal “A storm’s about to rage,” Warren Haynes passionately informed a near sell-out Toronto crowd Tuesday night. One of the current American guitar giants and no stranger to the road, Haynes is undoubtedly in his element in front of an audience. With a healthy smattering of Allman Brothers’ devotees and younger neo-hippies filling the friendly Queen Elizabeth Theatre, Gov’t Mule settled in for two sets of its signature soulful Southern blues-rock. The band (Haynes, founding drummer Matt Abts, keyboardist Danny Louis, and recent hire Jorgen Carlsson on bass) eased its way into a brief instrumental intro, disguising the “Blind Man in the Dark” opener right up to the first recognizable hint of the song’s melody. While the Mule can always been depended on for searing moments of honky-tonk bravado, the opening three numbers of the show, and much of the new material, would showcase its high-octane side even more than usual. The band’s seventh studio effort, By A Thread, released that very day, features Haynes’ version of rip roaring Texas blues and a whole lot of righteous riffs. While the powerful singer’s more withdrawn side occasionally emerged, this night was indeed ruled by the rage.

Photo: Courtney Boyd Myers Jona Bechtolt and Claire L. Evans, the duo that is YACHT, know how to entertain. After they jumped onto the stage at Brooklyn Bowl in coordinating black and white outfits, they leaped into the crowd, wrapped white microphone cords around their necks and knocked over their stands with karate kicks. And this is just a fraction of the duo’s choreographed performance, which relied heavily on trippy visuals like triangle automata and ancient Egyptian gods. Outside, a line of beat seeking twenty-somethings and Thursday night prowlers wrapped around the side of Williamsburg’s favorite new venue for a night of DFA versus CMJ. Other acts at the event included Holy Ghost!, Shit Robot, Still Going and Special Disco Version (James Murphy and Pat Mahoney). The sharply clad YACHT duo (officially spelled with a triangle, not an A) invited the audience to its home in Portland, Oregon, after displaying its home address and apartment on screen. The pair opened with the Afro-beat friendly and clap happy “Ring The Bell,” the first track off its new LP, See Mystery Lights.

Photo: Steven Hoffer After wrapping up a run of shows opening for Mike Gordon in Burlington, VT., the Jacob Fred Jazz Odyssey traveled North of the border to perform in the upstairs concert hall of Montreal’s La Sala Rossa. While some bands might have thrown it in for a crowd that was sparse at best, the band utilized the intimate setting as an opportunity to generously treat the fans in attendance. Following a “Good Night Ollie” opener, a whimsical tune about keyboardist Brian Haas trying to put his nephew to sleep, Jacob Fred focused primarily on tracks from its latest One Day In Brooklyn. The Middle-Eastern tinged “Imam” showcased the versatility of Chris Comb’s slide guitar and exposed the audience to the wide range of genres that the band blends. From the onset, each element of the quartet stood out clearly as part of a cohesive unit.

It was a night of exquisite craftsmanship. The Royal Conservatory of Music’s newly minted Koerner Hall, less than a week into its existence, hosted three of the finest players on the planet. Bela Fleck and his banjo have shared the spotlight many times with the impeccable double-bass stylings of Edgar Meyer, but the addition of tabla magnate Zakir Hussain to the mix effectively created a fusion super-group. The three undisputed masters settled into the magnificent auditorium on a rainy Tuesday, prepared to politely blow some minds. Touted in welcoming literature as “the jewel in the crown of Toronto’s cultural renaissance,” Koerner Hall boasted sophistication over opulence. Warm timber adorned much of the acoustically pristine gallery, providing sensual fullness. Save an early feedback issue or two, the sound quality was a delight. Fleck, ever the aloof shepherd, set the tone for crowd interaction early. The sense of excitement throughout the audience was only magnified by the mutual respect on stage. Just a scant few shows into its first tour together, the group was clearly relishing the experience.

There is no reasoning with German bouncers. This is generally true, regardless of nationality, but a velvet rope is especially imposing when combined with a language barrier and a side of Hamburg beef. But, for the most anticipated show of 2009's Reeperbahn Festival--on the legendarily debauched strip near the Hamburg waterfront--there wasn't getting anywhere near the bouncers, anyway, even with a press pass, let alone inside the cavernous Haspa Bühne to see Deichkind, who--from what I can tell--are something like Hamburg's biggest homegrown rap-metal post-GWAR superstars. I can only assume that what I missed was the biggest mindblow of the three-night festival, which opened on September 24th. Guido, our guide, told us Deichkind are hard to photograph because they wrap themselves in plastic (or maybe tinfoil) and crowd-surf on giant inflatable rafts and throw things at people holding cameras. Awesome. Outside, the entirely pedestrian Große Freiheit seethed with shut-out fans. Two teenaged boys looked aggressively heartbroken that they wouldn't be seeing their post-GWAR rap-metal heroes that night, and--after asking to consult my festival schedule--shrugged off through the only marginally-less-seething crowds spilling from the block's dozen strip clubs. There was plenty of other music on the festival docket, mostly from a European indie rock culture entirely unknown in the United States. A few blocks away, in Prinzenbar, a turn-of-the-century cinema that felt like an ornate church eave, Mattias Hellberg and the White Moose--a Swedish jamband that sounded like an Allmans-influenced groove combo from Wetlands circa 1993--sang about getting funky. (The German boys were leaving as I arrived.) In Annie's Nightclub, on the main drag, the French trio Revolver dealt in pleasant chamber pop. Only a small handful of American acts were to be found, the largest being the recently reunited Dinosaur Jr., who turned in a masterful set at the D-Club on the festival's opening night, and Times New Viking, the noise-pop darlings from Columbus, Ohio, played a blistering set in the Kaiserkeller, one of the Beatles' homebases. And this, according to festival organizers, is entirely by design. It is a European festival for European music, despite the fact that many--from Hellberg to Emiliana Torrini, who headlined the middle night--sing in English. For that matter, though, now in its fourth year, the Reeperbahn Festival has had no problem selling tickets, taking an astonishing 17,000 through the virtual turnstiles for shows scattered between a dozen-and-a-half clubs, and taking over the neighborhood's main boulevard with a pair of LED-bedecked stages that looked airlifted from a U2 gig, plus Flatstock (an exhibition of poster art), a "campus" featuring panels with titles like "Panel: Brands & Music: Is the best yet to come?," and the usual array of festival vendors. Stumbling between venues in a town where open street drinking is de rigueur, bracelets admitted attendees into nooks like the Hasenschaukel (where members of the Irish Grand Pocket Orchestra tucked into booths to play their instruments) and cavernous halls like Uebel & Gefährlich (where Orka, from the--!!!--Faroe Islands, unleashed massive post-Bjork downtempo sweeps), a dance floor inside a World War II-era anti-artillery fortress (read: Nazi bunker) next to the circus grounds and football field. The Reeperbahn Festival is something like South by Southwest held on Bourbon Street, with a dash of the old Times Square. While Hamburg's waterfront is a progressive, mixed-use quarter--a genuine shipping port mingles with a bar-and-restaurant-spangled promenade--the Reeperbahn remains of a single function: pleasure. It does this so efficiently that the corner of Davidstr and Spielbudenplatz sports both the nation's busiest police station, as well as its busiest bank. (Indeed, the lines for the cash machine on Friday and Saturday nights extended down the block.) There are sex shops and strip clubs, of course. Prostitution remains legal. Like Amsterdam's own red light district, the hookers hang out on a special block--men only, above 18--and sit in windows where Johanns might find them. But they hang elsewhere, too, aggressively grabbing those who might look in need of a shag or a lightening of Euros in their wallets. Mostly, though, thanks to the booze and sex, the place is filled with the German equivalent of drunk frat boys, bachelorette parties, and 24 hour partei people. There is still a block where genuine transvestites hang out. Not even New York has that anymore. (It is called, incidentally, Schmuckstraße. After the German word for "jeweler," though, not the more appropriate Yiddish meaning, though the latter certainly evolved from the former.) The next day, a black man in a sailor hat and a well-tailored suit hit up our gaggle of visiting journalists for money. "I need to get higher," he explained. "Like to the Arctic, to the North Pole." Guido was not particularly amused. As a representative of Hamburg Marketing GmbH, Guido's job was to present a more modern, evolved Hamburg. He hurried us into the lobby of the Busiest Bank in Germany, where Estuar--a local band--were playing. They made demure indie folk, all politely dramatic acoustic strums and breathy English lyrics. The tellers stood by their cubicles, arms crossed, bemused. An old woman nodded at me. "Haspa is mighty bank," she said. "They are the wonderment of the festival," Guido assured us, smiling at Estuar. To the extent that anybody is responsible for the benevolence that allowed a gaggle of journalists to be harassed by a genuine Reeperbahn freak, it is Guido. After the city lost its bid for the 2018 Winter Olympics, they turned to new strategies for growth, spurred by the work of Rise of the Creative Class author Richard Florida. One group they are trying to court are fresh, young entrepreneurs -- video game designers, graphic artists, and the like. Hence an old-fashioned press junket to a music festival, including representatives of several noted American hippie publications and a pleasantly goon-like squad of drunk Brits, to communicate the fresh, young hipness of the 1,200-year old city. Market research, Guido told me, indicated that people often associate Hamburg with music. And they, in turn, associated that with the Reeperbahn. This more than probably has a lot to do with the Beatles. It was in August 1960 that the then-quintet loaded their van onto a Liverpool ship and, the next day, began a stretch of several hundred performances over three residencies that would refine and define their sound. They gobbled speed while playing six sets a night seven nights a week, slept in bunk beds in the back of second-run movie theaters, got deported, came back, got their moptops, posed for iconic photographs by Astrid Kirchherr, and played their last shows there, in December 1962, just 11 days before the release of "Please Please Me," their first #1 single. The existence of Beatlemania!, a museum dedicated to the Fabs, is natural. And, to the extent that it displays a small, rare collection of paintings and love notes by Stuart Sutcliffe--the first Fifth Beatle, who died in Hamburg in 1962 of a still unexplained brain trauma--it's a pretty heavy place. But with precious few other original artifacts besides a quartet of Yellow Submarine film cels, the museum merely feels like a good-natured shrine. More effective is Stefanie Hampel's charming tour of Beatle-sites throughout the neighborhood. It is wise to remember, though, why the Beatles were in Hamburg to begin with: sex. Not precisely that, but not particularly anything else, either. The Reeperbahn, just up the hill from the port, developed as it did because sailors needed a place to get loaded while their cargo did the opposite, and--through the '50s and '60s--bar owners needed live music to entertain visiting American and British servicemen. And so, after usurping a job meant for Rory Storm and the Hurricanes (who needed to finish out a summer gig at a British holiday camp), the Beatles were invited to Germany. The Reeperbahn, in that way, has not changed an iota since the halcyon Beatle-days. "Peace and Love Tour" read a massive bus that drove by one night, trumpeting DIE FLATRATE EROTIK IM INTERNET. (Ah, yes. I see.) As such, even besides the Reeperbahn Festival, music veritably bursts from the Reeperbahn. In Hamborger Veermaster, a sprawling bar next door to the Nevada Rodeo Bar (Bullriding For All! Nicest Girls in Town! Junggesell(inn)enabschied!), genuine Germans sang genuine German drinking songs, swaying arm in arm. In an alcove next to a gas station, a DJ spun technofied accordion music while, in a corner lot across the street, a semi-permanent hip-hop/trance party rolled onwards with no outward sign of a particular organizer. (Like dance parties everywhere: too many schwanz on the dancefloor.) In one sex shop, the Animals' version of "House of the Rising Sun" burbled while customers perused dildos and DVDs, walking on slotted floorboards that looked like they'd been there since Beatle-times. Karaoke bars abound. In one, a large man in leather pants sat in a wheelchair at the back of the room, reading lyrics from a distant monitor and mouthing along with Bill Medley and Jennifer Warnes' "(I've Had) The Time of My Life." In another--a Thai joint in one of the four buildings on the site of the Star-Club, the Beatles' main Hamburg home--a posse of smashed Germans crooned along to "Bohemian Rhapsody." It is, in other words, unmitigated sonic chaos, stinking with sex and awe-inspiring stupidity, but also a potentially seething cauldron for something. Just like Southern hip-hop producers sometimes put strippers' poles in their studios to test the booty-factor of their beats, the clubs of the Reeperbahn seem ripe to plop forth some global dance sensation (maybe one that M.I.A. could jam on her next album). And though Guido downplays the seedier elements of the Reeperbahn, one gets the sense that if a sleazy-ass music scene or progressive sex-work industry took hold there, or some new trend that was equally valid and fascinating, Guido and the city would probably embrace it, figure out how to make it work for them. Which is perhaps even more encouraging. After being denied entrance to the Deichkind gig, I wandered around the side of the venue, where a group of kids hung excitedly by the stage doors, listening through the bass bombs for the music beyond. Occasionally, the door would open and a blast of hot air would roll from the venue. An ambulance with an open door parked on the street, treating a girl who'd cut herself in the melee. Around the corner, though, and I was back on Schmuckstraße, a group of trannies hanging on the corner, perhaps bitching cattily in German. In the distance, I could see a crowd on the main drag, the festival subsumed into the mass. I flipped through the festival guide, looking for a destination, half-wondering if there were unpolished superstars tucked in some tiny Reeperbahn venue, obscured behind the unappealingly translated descriptions. ("Heart-felt Pop and poignant Power-ballads"? Pass.) It occurred to me that I was looking for the same thing that nearly everybody is looking for at a music festival filled with unfamiliar bands: I was looking for the next Beatles, some heretofore unknown band that would make me feel like I was hearing music for the first time. I didn't find them, but I didn't really expect to. It occurred to me, too, that Guido was also looking for the next Beatles, albeit with a very different definition of what that means, what it might ultimately entail, and the possibility that it could actually occur. After all, who knows what form They'll take, and how they might arrive in Hamburg? It probably won't be by ship, and it might not be because of the sex. But, like club owner Bruno Koschmider sending a telegram calling for a Liverpool quintet, Guido's just putting those vibrations out there. Maybe somebody'll turn up. Maybe with a guitar, but probably not.

Photo: Ellie Dayan The Hold Steady have got the image down. As front-running exporters of the Brooklyn aesthetic, the quintet from New York City’s second-most famous borough has maximized its hip bar-band cache. Beneath the resurgent flannel, thick-framed glasses, and even thicker mustaches, however, one finds a group with a lot more going for them. Wrapping up its summer tour at Toronto’s sold-out Lee’s Palace, the band was prepared to bring the heat to the minions of anti-cool. The night kicked-off with “Positive Jam”—the conversational lead track from 2004’s debut LP Almost Killed Me, which beat Wilco to the self-referential punch by five years. Lead singer and lyricist Craig Finn peppers the band’s material with recurring characters and themes, as the song selection judiciously spanned the group’s four-album career. “Sequestered In Memphis,” a 2008 single which started out sounding like a lost Springsteen River-era gem, was deployed early and helped crank up the energy. The enthusiasm from both audience and performers remained high throughout the set.

The buzz surrounding the Rubblebucket Orchestra echoed through Rochester on a busy Friday as the members of the band made their rounds through two radio interviews, a short set at the Record Archive and an over two-hour set at the Lovin’ Cup. The chaotic day came just prior to the band’s soon-to-be released self-titled sophomore effort on October 13th. The place was loud, maddening loud, with eight musicians crammed together on stage, equipped with brass, woodwind, vocals, electric guitar, bass, and drums. The band delivered a raw, unfettered punch, as bits and pieces of several genres came to mind for comparison—none clever or fitting enough to match the far-reaching sound beaming out of the speakers. The horns derailed all conversation in the venue, easily infiltrating listeners’ ears, and remaining there. Lead vocalist and sax player Kalmia Traver took a stab at narrowing down the band’s boundless sound: “We’re trip-rock, psychedelic funk, with really bangin’ horns."

Photo: Andrea Rice With a thunderous crowd turnout at Terminal 5, Rodrigo Sánchez and Gabriela Quintero, the flamenco-metal duo hailing from Mexico City and now residing in Dublin, filled to near capacity the vast grotto of a venue, one notorious for housing popular acts like Lady GaGa and Bloc Party. “I’m going to marry this woman,” a fan next to me said during Gabriela’s solo on some type of tabla drum, a belly-dance number that she hypnotized onlookers with using her rhythmic prowess. Rodrigo y Gabriella showcased much of their new album, 11:11, and kept fans in perfect time with hand-claps, “yeah yeah yeahs” and “hey, ho” call-and-response hollers.

Photo: Jesse Borrell Approaching the noisy 41st Street Pier on an overcast Saturday evening, a long line was visible leading up to the gangplank for Rocks Off Boat Tours. Once aboard The Temptress, low ceilings and narrow passageways acted as reminders that the floating venue is like no other in New York. The United Kingdom’s Eclectic Method beagn its set with an orgy of audio-visual mash-ups presented on large projection screens. Comprised of Geoff Gamlen, Ian Edgar and Jonny Wilson, the trio remixed a vast cross section of media spanning the past century. A Missy Elliot club banger, “How We Do It Over Here,” was synched with scenes from The Breakfast Club while repetitious flashes of cultural icons from Michael Jackson to G.I. Joe made mass media culture look entirely nonsensical at times. Regardless, The Eclectic’s hooks proved infectious.

After a strong opening set by electro-reggae outfit Otherwise, The New Deal slinked onstage, almost unnoticed at The Warehouse in Hartford. The trio quickly got into a groove and soon had the crowd in their palms. “Last night was one of our sweatiest shows,” said bassist Dan Kurtz. “Let’s try and make this one even sweatier.” The Toronto band slowly warmed up, leading the crowd like cars on a rollercoaster, inching toward to the top. Kurtz and drummer Darren Shearer—in constant communication with each other—grounded the band as they played a backbeat that allowed keyboardist Jamie Shields to play spacey progressions. All too often, electronic bands build anticipation to a climax that doesn’t do justice to the extended jam that precedes it. The New Deal did not have that problem as the group proved its mastery of live break beat house.

Photo: Jesse Borrell New York’s instrumental sci-fi prog-rock outift Consider the Source found itself in its element in front of a packed house at Public Assembly in Brooklyn during its “Return from the Road” performance. Also on the bill were Ithaca natives Ayurveda and psychedelic world-rockers, Telesma, as well as interpretive dancing and an assortment of exotic and live art. The trio—Gabriel Marin (double neck electric fretless guitar and chaturangui), John Ferrara (bass) and Justin Ahiyon (drums and percussion)—put on what one longtime fan described as “a more intense than usual performance” attributable to a high-energy audience.

Photo: Grace Beehler The third annual Camp Barefoot kicked off on a beautiful Thursday afternoon at The Cove Campground in Gore, Va. Despite the long line of cars that wound through the hillside, ticket sales seemed slow: the price of a weekend ticket at the gate had been cut from $120 to $85. About 2,000 guests scattered throughout the wooded campground, which surrounded three stages. Thursday afternoon began with Raw Dawg, Silo Effect and DJ Ricochet Red, with the latter two scheduled to play again during the weekend. Baltimore’s The Bridge took the main stage and played for over an hour, opening with “New Mistake” and closing with “Pakalolo” into “Heavy Water,” a great warm-up for Toubab Krewe’s tribal jam set. During the break between acts, The Hackensaw Boys hit the second stage. They were only onstage for a few songs before they unplugged, climbed down and immersed themselves in the audience, finishing the set by jamming in the middle of the crowd. Meanwhile, Segway and Basshound threw down progressive and jazzy performances on the third stage, with Basshound putting on one of the best sets of the night. The night closed with Midnight Spaghetti playing until nearly 4 a.m.

Although fandom ought not to be a pissing contest, it’s safe to say that followers of weirdo-rock pioneers Ween are in the running for most hardcore. A packed house of fittingly giddy misfits greeted frontman Gene Ween (Aaron Freeman in the real world) on his first-ever solo venture north of the border, and the evening proved to be a die-hard’s dream. While Freeman’s prolific songwriting career speaks to his immense talent, he will never be mistaken for a guitar virtuoso, and those in attendance knew that the chance to hear some classics was the reason to be there. Dipping into a catalogue two decades strong, and not shying away from the goofy bits often found therein, the exuberant singer poured heart, soul and lungs into the performance as the crowd ate up every gesture.