The album’s sixth, and most mesmerizing track, “Spook,” best exemplifies the band’s coyly curious style. Slithering in and out of different musical skins with grace and ease, the song keeps its near ten minute running time alive and endearing. Although shorter tracks like “Am Gone” and “Be A Girl” prove the band capable of condensing their widescreen vision, the longer and denser pieces revel in Adult Jazz’s frantic ambition.

Whether in long or short form, the music is always evocative and playful. “Donne Tongue” finds the vocals dueling against a squall of rusty hinges and wood block clicks. “Idiot Mantra” employs snapping percussive tricks and clipped sound editing to transfixing effect.

Adult Jazz, on their very first album, have already in their own way arrived. Though some critics have been quick to punish the act for apparent disorganization, Adult Jazz create an ordered world based on a personal oddball logic. Gist Is might be a difficult record to get the mere gist of, but the experience itself is magic.

Grade: A-

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The day’s execution had its flaws: the beer tents periodically ran out of water at an event where no outside water bottles were allowed and it was not made clear that the food trucks wouldn’t accept Canalside food/beverage tickets. But overall, given 107.7’s youth and that it was a virgin voyage for the station, the experience offered was incredible. Not only did the rain mostly stay away in spite of weather reports to the contrary, the acts themselves were sharp, lively, and remarkably well-connected to the crowd of ten thousand.

After showcasing the ecstatic old-timey ramble of Artvoice BOOM competition winner Folkfaces, the event kicked off with New Jersey’s Brick + Mortar. Though the band seemed unsure of themselves based on their comments, they had no need to be nervous. They were followed by NYC’s Semi-Precious Weapons who carried the day forward smoothly.

Big Data then milked the marketing potential out of their satirical bent toward social media and NSA-inspired fear of everyday espionage. A robotic recording instructed the audience to tweet and post to Instagram about the band, simultaneously mocking and making use of modern habits. Joined by Rochester’s Joywave for their big single, “Dangerous,” the band played a more than solid set.

Afterward, Bear Hands performed a slew of slick, smart songs to perfection. When their explosive hit “Giants” closed the gig, the crowd’s couples responded instantly. I spotted more than one romantic pair singing the lyrics “I know you love me / I am loving you more” to each other.

Kongos and Bleachers both gave tremendously bright, addictive, and involving sets. The South African group of accordion-boasting brothers and the Killers-influenced brainchild of fun.’s Jack Antonoff, respectively, were both brilliant crowd-pleasers.

Cage the Elephant provided the logical conclusion to an electrifying day. Regardless of one’s feelings about his band’s music, Matt Shultz is an undeniably dynamic frontman who loves and is loved by his audience. His bare-chested crowd-surfing antics brought the night to a feverish, frenetic end.

As kids climbed street signs and moshed to the max, “kerfuffle” (def. “a commotion”) may well have been a more appropriate description for the event than its producers anticipated. Still, the chaos was invigorating and the concert was a smash. Kerfuffle is bound to become a Buffalo institution and anything that brings this much positive joy and life to the city is worth the commotion.

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Photo courtesy of Alternative Buffalo.

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For a debut record, Alvvays is modest but consistent. The band is young, taking its first tentative steps out. As they jangle forward into the unknown, they move lightly and carefully, never stumbling. Lead singer Molly Rankin has the sort of sweet, near-childlike voice that indie music lovers have always been welcoming of.

Rankin’s lyrics populate the emotional ambiguities she delves into with concrete details. The band’s lead single, “Marry Me, Archie,” opens with a memorable jab at a marriage-allergic boyfriend: “You’ve expressed explicitly your contempt for matrimony / You’ve student loans to pay and will not risk the alimony.” The album maintains a gently ironic tone overall, balancing its pleasant pop with acerbic insights. Alvvays is always an enjoyable listen, even if it never rises above its musically derivative inclinations.

Grade: B

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The British rockers will be joined by Austin’s White Denim for a night under the stars (or under the rain clouds (we’ll see)). Get there somehow.

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Familiars lacks the immediate thrust and devastating intimacy of Hospice’s tales of cancer, regret, and trauma. It also lacks Burst Apart‘s comparative accessibility. And yet Familiars is as gorgeous a flutter of genuine feeling as one can wish for from Brooklyn’s most cathartic conveyors of human desperation.

Frontman Peter Silberman’s vocals remain extraordinary and exquisite, his falsetto creeping over the keyboards or dipping into a jazzy duskiness with expert control. “Palace” opens Familiars with a loving embrace of horns and introduces the listener to the overall tone of an always pretty album. Pursuing doubles and doppelgängers through rooms known and unknown, within and behind mirrors, Silberman somehow makes the search for self as beautiful as it is terrifying.

On “Refuge,” he asks, “When you lift me out of me will I know when I’ve changed? / And when you bring me back to me, will you bring me back to me, un-estranged?” Searching for heaven in fragile spaces within, all the while losing a spiritual sense of home, Silberman may find himself becoming a stranger in a strange land, but what a wondrous land it is. From the confident winding of “Intruders” to the tender nostalgia of “Parade,” Familiars is a mesmerizing addition to an already stunning body of work.

Grade: A-

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After a solid but somewhat lackluster opening performance by Cults, Vampire Weekend were quick to take the audience by the throat, jumping immediately into the exuberant “Diane Young.” Frontman Ezra Koenig, despite maintaining a Twitter account worthy of a stand-up comedian, is straightforward on stage, keeping banter at a minimum, diving directly into his songs. Vampire Weekend require no banter to entertain, however, and entertain they did. The crowd, with its drunken teenage dancers and more conservative head-bobbers in plaid, was alive and responsive.

I caught Vampire Weekend earlier in the Modern Vampires tour during their stop through Rochester. Though their set at the Outer Harbor proved roughly the same as the previous show, the visuals and use of sonic segues felt improved. A massive mirror behind the stage served as a broadcaster of both standard rock concert imagery (flowers, stars, tunnels) and distinctly VW-brand content (a chandelier, a composer’s bust).

The quality of the sound at both events was pristine, perhaps even sharper and clearer in Buffalo. While the rhythm in “Ya Hey” was slightly inconsistent last night and Koenig appeared to cover a lyrical mistake in “Oxford Comma” by extending the song, the overall experience was one of raw joy. By the time Vampire Weekend closed out a fairly short encore with “Walcott’s” sprawling piano, the audience seemed like an enormous human grin.

Set List:

1. “Diane Young”

2. “White Sky”

3. “Cape Cod Kwassa Kwassa”

4. “Unbelievers”

5. “Holiday”

6. “Step”

7. “Finger Back”

8. “Horchata”

9. “Everlasting Arms”

10. “Cousins”

11. “California English”

12. “A-Punk”

13. “Ya Hey”

14. “Campus”

15. “Oxford Comma”

16. “Giving Up the Gun”

17. “Obvious Bicycle”

Encore:

1. “Hannah Hunt”

2. “Walcott”

Photo Credit – Andy J. DeLuca (@shmandeluca) and Brett Mikoll (@thevictorygardens)

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It’s an odd aesthetic: feigned incompetence reaching toward sublimity. Parquet Courts’ lyrics attempt to appear as tossed off as the music, but the wit and breadth of their references unveil the band’s underlying intelligence. On the title track, Savage unloads aphorisms and opaque observations like a semi-automatic (“Faces change in shape to represent the same old beast;” “I cling to your perimeter as you float in their margins”). Yet it’s the steadier, more relaxed moments (“Instant Disassembly,” “Raw Milk”) where Parquet Courts reveal their charm. “Instant Disassembly,” wearily addressed to a “mamacita,” feels shockingly vulnerable, finding comfort in the “the white noise murmur of the AM band” where “the last classic rock band’s last solid record creeps in / A call out of the blue from an old, old friend.”

Although Sunbathing Animal can be nauseatingly frustrating to listen to, it has moments so clear and devastating, so brilliant and bizarre, it feels impossible to ignore the faintly glimpsed order behind the cluttered chaos. Parquet Courts are both terrible and wonderful, splattering paint on their canvas with frantic panache but not without structure or meaning. The band has definite ideas, some stronger than others. Beneath the off-key and the monotone, the squealing and the thrashing, is something grand. It just isn’t always easy to hear it.

Grade: B

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Disgraceland revels in the raunchy, undignified, balls-out rock its title embraces. Its scuzzy, drugged, sometimes psychotically violent party anthems are out to restore a jagged dangerousness to rock n’ roll. In an interview with Rolling Stone magazine, guitarist Matt O’Keefe complains about the “safe and soft” tendencies of synthesizer-dominated modern rock. The Orwells blatantly pursue an old school classic rock set-up, infusing the standard model with wicked rebel energy.

From the beginning, the record is hungry and horny, teeth sharpened and bared, eager to devour. “Southern Comfort” guzzles down sex and alcohol with psychedelic abandon. “The Righteous One” then pushes the production into even more trippy, reverb-loving recklessness, courtesy of some killer production from pros like TV on the Radio’s Dave Sitek and Jim Abbiss (who has worked with Arctic Monkeys and Adele).

Even as the extravaganza’s orgiastic haze grows repetitive and familiar, The Orwells’ youthful zest dares the listener to defy their blood-pumping enthusiasm. “Norman” promises “you’re not gonna make it to the sequel” as singer Mario Cuomo describes the gory mash of a bash gone monstrous. And though, hopefully, The Orwells do have a follow-up to Disgraceland‘s snarling conflagration, ideally the next record will find the band exploring new possibilities, even if it means edging beyond the gritty summer slamming they’ve aggressively mastered.

Grade: B

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Van Etten’s lyrics are spare, cryptic, filled with loosely linked images and utterances that favor mood over lucidity. Are We There is a mist of impressions, held together by seemingly deeply felt sentiments and the timeless soar of the woman’s vocals. The songs contain a restrained, pointed intensity. With hawk-like drive, the music dives into textures and tones well-matched with the black-and-white on-the-road photography that informs its album art. Though variation often eludes Van Etten, the sound she has developed is mesmeric.

From the slinking synth-tinged “Taking Chances” to the direct piano ballad “Nothing Will Change,” Van Etten has created a heavy, melancholic vision. On “Your Love is Killing Me,” the singer pleads to have her legs broken, tongue cut, skin burnt, and eyes stabbed out to avoid experiencing the pull of a wayward lover.  Even the organ and horn buoyed “Tarifa,” the least macabre-feeling song on the record, involves a sunrise being scared off. Similarly, the peaceful radio-friendly “Our Love” sounds much more soothing than its hellfire verses imply.

Are We There closes with the defiant and ironic “Every Time the Sun Comes Up.” The track finds Van Etten’s persona describing herself as a sexual “one-hit wonder” who wakes to trouble each dawn. Oddly enough, given the album’s polished severity, the song ends with playful studio-room banter. Van Etten jokingly sings, “Maybe something will change.” And though little about the songwriter’s oeuvre has changed on Are We There, the aching, bitter beauty that remains intact is a wonder worth hitting up more than once.

Grade: B+

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