Frank YangContrary to normal festivals wherein the biggest names are often held back until the final night so as to finish things off with a bang, at SxSW artists who typically play multiple showcases over the four days want nothing more than to get out of town as quickly as possible and as such, the Saturday lineup can be kind of lean. That’s what I was expecting out of the last day, anyways, as I’d forgotten to RSVP for one of the last stacked day parties – the Mog to-do at the Mohawk – and assumed I’d be club-hopping through the afternoon looking for something to pique my interest. Until it came to my attention that there was not, in fact, any RSVP for the party and all it’d take to get in would be to stand in line nice and early for an hour or so. Which I was willing to do.

And so it was I was in The Mohawk just a few minutes into Smith Westerns’ set. I hadn’t seen them yet this festival, which might sound like no big deal but considering the number of higher-profile parties and showcases they were playing, it was more of an achievement than you might think. And it wasn’t necessarily that I was avoiding them, but their lauded new record Dye It Blonde didn’t do much for me and so I wasn’t making an effort. Still, they’d finally managed to get in front of my eyeballs and in doing so, didn’t make me regret not having caught them sooner. There were traces of the glam-rock adjectives that their new record has been garnering, but the not-especially-lively delivery and sludgy-sounding mix made them seem more stoner (or stoned) than anything. I certainly wasn’t won over and the rest of the audience appeared to be various shades of nonplussed. Maybe I’ll be generous and chalk it up as another casualty of the noon hour set time.

Though if that were true, then an hour extra sleep must make all the difference because Wild Flag were up next and raring to go. The supergroup, featuring two-thirds of Sleater-Kinney, Mary Timony of Helium and Rebecca Cole of The Minders were one of the must-see acts of this year’s SxSW, both thanks to their alternative nation pedigree and reputation for ass-kicking live shows, and this was their last gig of the week. And while they’re a whole new band with new songs – Wild Flag have more classic rock affection than either Helium or SK did – there’s plenty familiar about them, most notably in Timony and Carrie Brownstein’s distinctive vocal styles. And while neither frontwoman was ever shy about showing off their guitar skills in their past outfits, seeing them trade riffs and solos amidst scissor kicks and over-the-head playing was fantastic to behold. Wild Flag seems to have been assembled with the single clear mandate of rocking out and having fun and while nothing of the new material jumped right out as a standout composition, at least on a first live listen, that they give these talents an excuse to get out there and show folks how it’s done is plenty of reason to celebrate anything they do.

Though there was no real imperative to see Okkervil River at this year’s SxSW – they’d be coming to town later this Summer – it’s always nice to see them do hometown shows and hey, I was right there. And following Wild Flag, so was Will Sheff… though I don’t know who those other folks with him were. Okay, that’s not fair – I’d seen most of the new members before on past tours, but the net turnover in personnel since 2005’s Black Sheep Boy is still pretty stunning – of the band that made that record, only Sheff remains. But if the change in faces wasn’t enough to convince you that this wasn’t the same old Okkervil, the sound they made on stage should have erased any doubts. Okkervil have always been a boisterous live act, but where they once had an unhinged, ramshackle folk-rock charm, they now have a distinctly squalling electric character. Lead guitarist Lauren Gurgiolo’s contributions give them a punchier attack but also makes them sound more conventional than in the past, and I’m pretty sure this was the first time I’d ever seen Sheff pick up an electric guitar. Their set favoured the older material, but still previewed three songs from the forthcoming I Am Very Far, which sounds to be a rawer work than their last couple efforts. Of course, that could just be the live treatment – the May 10 release will tell the tale.

I’ve never really counted myself as a fan of TV On The Radio. I respect their collective musical abilities and unique sound, but their records haven’t ever really connected with me – I’ve tried, but it just doesn’t happen. That said, I’ve always appreciated how good they are live and even though it’s been some four and a half years since I saw them last, that fact hasn’t changed – in fact, based on this performance, it may be even more true than ever. The Brooklynites graduated onto much larger stages than the Mohawk’s long ago, so it was very cool to be able to see them work at the club level. What I find most remarkable about their performance is how, no matter how explosive they get, they never revert to chaos to make an impression – led by the magnetically charismatic Tunde Adebimpe, they’re perfectly calm and wholly in control of everything happening at all times. Since bassist Gerard Smith was doing battle with lung cancer, these shows and the upcoming tour in support of new album Nine Kinds Of Light had regular drummer Jaleel Bunton covering bass duties and guest Japhet Landis taking over behind the kit but even with the changes in personnel, they were firing on all cylinders and basically affirming that while they’d taken some time off over the past year, they were absolutely back.

All things being equal I’d have stuck around for the final act of the day, Big Boi, but I’d already had a hell of a day of music and there was lunch to be had.

Frank YangI went into this year’s SxSW with a shorter than usual list of must-see acts, not necessarily because there wasn’t as much I was keen on seeing but because I just didn’t have the time to do a lot of research leading up to the festival – hence my frequent “what am I going to go see now?” moments throughout the week. One of those on the list, and who had been on my to-see list be it at SxSW or anywhere else, was Baltimore’s Lower Dens.

Their debut Twin Hand Movement had been recommended to me at some point last year and though I wouldn’t say I fell in love with it, I did find myself compelled to keep listening to it over and over again. It sounded to me like a Deerhunter that I actually liked, sharing a sort of garage-gaze aesthetic but with Jana Hunter’s project creating a sense of mystery rather than Bradford Cox’s meandering. Purely subjective and not a popular position, I know, but there it is.

And for the start of the evening’s program, at the unfortunately-named Klub Krucial, there was Lower Dens. I’d been warned that they weren’t the most visually appealing band – not as in ugly but as in not doing much on stage – and it was true, but any shortcomings in that department were made up for in how aurally hypnotic they were, with Hunter’s languid and androgynous vocals and their hazy, spiralling guitarwork. Their allotted time slot was shorter than a standard set at the festival, but I had gotten what I needed.

It was then back to Lustre Pearl, which at this rate I would surely have become Foursquare mayor of had there been any cell reception there. This time it was to see Noah & The Whale, whose Toronto show I’d be missing this week in favour of British Sea Power the same night. The English quartet had just released Last Night On Earth and with it, essentially reinvented themselves for the third time in as many albums. After the bouncy folk-pop of their debut and the depressive orchestration of First Days Of Spring, Night finds them again feeling upbeat and enamoured with ’80s New Romantic synth-pop and The Velvet Underground and trying to make the two mix. And while the lyrics on Night are rather banal – Charlie Fink is not a poet and this record lacks the earnest emotionalism that carried Spring through some of its clunkier moments – the band has an irresistible melodic sensibility and inherent charm that makes them difficult to dislike. And live, they’ve also got volume at their disposal. You wouldn’t expect it, but Noah & The Whale were one of the loudest bands of the fest so far, and the application of sonic force acted as a great unifier for the different styles – folk? Orch? Synth? Rock.

Completely un-rock but wholly enthralling was northern England’s Lanterns On The Lake, who were a recommendation from a reader (thanks Giselle!) and showcasing at the Central Presbyterian Church. Recently signed to Bella Union, the six-piece often playing facing each other on the church dias rather than the audience in the pews while crafting some of the prettiest sounds I’d hear all week. With singer Hazel Wilde’s delicate vocals overtop, their widescreen songs ebbed and tided like the ocean on rocky shores, possessing the dynamics of post-rock, the textures of shoegaze rendered orchestrally and the intimacy of folk or singer-songwriter, with all the unlike facets complimenting each other rather than conflicting. Simultaneously soothing and heart-rending, Lanterns On The Lake would be one of my best discoveries of the festival.

The intention had been to close out the night at Buffalo Billiards for some familiar sights and sounds with The Joy Formidable and The Pains Of Being Pure At Heart, but I was apparently one of hundreds with the same plan and so while the badge was effective at getting me into the venue, it couldn’t help me get any closer to the stage than about 10 rows of unusually tall people back. Which in and of itself wouldn’t have been a dealbreaker but the fact that The Joy Formidable were running about 20 minutes late made the futility of the situation clear, and I cut my losses and engaged plan B.

This involved battling my way the length of 6th St to the Easy Tiger Patio for Paris’ Revolver, even though I skipped seeing them back home at the start of the month. That choice was more out of self-preservation than lack of interest, however, so I was pleased for the opportunity to make up for it. I wasn’t sure what sort of turnout to expect for a French band in the heart of Texas, but the patio was quite happily full for their set. And really, why not – their vein of power pop has distinctly Americana/rockabilly overtones and you don’t need to be of any particular nationality to appreciate their impeccable 3-part harmonies and classic(al) melodicism. Superb stuff and a top way to end the night. Technically, I could have found one more showcase for the 1AM slot but there wasn’t anything I particularly wanted to see that I could get into and by the third night of SxSW, you’d have to be a pretty damned interesting band to win out over sleep.

Frank YangI usually go into SxSW with a “no Canadian bands” mandate, which might seem unpatriotic but considering that most/all of them will come through Toronto on at least a sem-regular basis, I don’t see the logic in flying to Texas to see them perform.

That said, some exceptions are made and Montreal’s No Joy kicking off the day at the Mohawk’s inside stage was one of those special cases. Though only around a little while, it seems they’ve already gotten to the point where their local shows are as support for bigger acts I don’t want to see, so this was the only opportunity I saw in the near term to see what they were about. And what they’re about is loud, fuzzy guitar rock that’s really too abrasive for the “shoegaze” or “dreampop” adjectives that get thrown about to be accurate – they may opt to hide behind their hair but they’re certainly not shy. There’s some real aggressiveness at play but it’s tempered by a melodic sense that’s actually more evident live than on their record Ghost Blonde, and they avoid getting too sludgy-heavy thanks to some nimble drumwork. Extra props to Jasmine White-Gluz for having a cassette 4-track affixed to her pedalboard for the purpose of adding samples and static to the mix. Sure some digital sample would have been easier and more efficient, but certainly not as cool.

Catching Erland & The Carnival at the Dirty Dog Bar was a fortuitously timed and located set, happening directly en route from the Mohawk to the Convention Center for another panel. Their claim to fame is having former Verve, Blur, Gorillaz and The Good, The Bad & The Queen guitarist Simon Tong in their ranks but even though his resume certainly outshines those of his bandmates, he still stayed off to the side and leaving the spotlight to frontman Gawain Erland Cooper. His presence was most definitely felt via his musical contributions, though, adding atmosphere and texture to their distinctly baroque folk-rock. They may be a new act but the sophistication of their material and onstage composure was that of a far more veteran act. I’m pretty sure I’ve got either self-titled debut or their latest album Nightengale kicking around – I need to dig those up.

The purpose of getting to the Convention Center was a panel entitled “Your Guide To Touring In Canada” which, like the festival one I attended the day before, didn’t have any real bearing on my life – my days of piling into a van to bring rock across the great white north were over before they even began – but was certainly interesting from a “how does this work” perspective. And it was interesting, hearing representatives from Six Shooter Records, Collective Concerts, Massey Hall and LiveNation discuss the various concerns and considerations that international acts should take into account when attempting to break into the Canadian market. Unsurprisingly, much of the discussion focused on the border and getting across it, and gave some insight as to why we hear of band members being left behind in Buffalo or why some artists don’t even try to make it up here.

Shifting gears from talking about live music to seeing it, it was time to explore the east end of Austin – well, east of I-35, anyways – which in the past had been a no man’s land with respect to the festival but in the last few years had become home to many of the more and more day shows popping up, mostly in decidedly more ramshackle environs than their west-side counterparts. This certainly described Shangri-La, which was basically a shack with a bar and a backyard with a stage. And on that stage was Ottawa’s White Wires, whom I’d successfully managed to miss seeing in both Halifax and Toronto, and yet connected with deep in the heart of Texas. Not just me, though – arriving a little into their set, I saw the trio had amassed a goodly size of revellers, pogoing and voraciously devouring their punchy and barbed-wire hooky pop-punk. They don’t reinvent the wheel but are quite adept in using it to run you over with good tunes.

Across 6th St was the East Side Drive-In, though I don’t think it had that name when we thew our “Eastbound & Found” party in the same space last year – it was just the big lot north of the Fader Fort. Regardless, this year it had both a name and a new occupant for a couple days, Pitchfork and their #Offline mini-fest and with all respect to the presenter, but we did a much better job of filling the space last year. It was remarkable how empty both stages were considering they had assembled a pretty respectable lineup, but perhaps the problem was that it was a lineup better suited to filling a club with a couple hundred people than a large outdoor space intended to host thousands. But attracting the fickle masses wasn’t my problem this year, and the lean crowd meant that I was able to saunter right up the stage without issue for Edwyn Collins’ set.

I knew that Collins was recovered enough from the strokes that felled him a few years ago to record new records – the latest of which Losing Sleep is out now – but was pleasantly surprised that he was fit enough to travel and perform live. He did it with plenty of support, backed by a big band of veterans and young bucks and spending most of the set singing from his seat on a road case. His set comprised new material as well as reaching back to the Orange Juice catalog for “Falling & Laughing” and “Rip It Up”, all of it sounding like a timeless melange of pop, rock, soul and funk done with style. Though he deferred vocals to his bandmates at a couple points and invited his son William to come out and sing with him on “In Your Eyes”, Collins was up to the task of being front and centre throughout, and for the rousing set finale – “A Girl Like You” with its guitar riff proving still glorious after all these years – he stood up and belted it out. A tremendous return.

It would have been nice if that show momentum had been carried forward with Owen Pallett’s set, but after an extended setup delay – it’s never a good sign when the artist and stage manager are just standing around at the side of the stage talking – Pallett apologetically announced that his set would be a further ten to fifteen minutes late as some of his equipment – like his violin, apparently – had been left at another venue earlier in the day. Calculating my chances of seeing Pallett play again later in the week – quite good – I cut my losses and headed over to Lustre Pearl to wrap up the afternoon.

There they were hosting Los Angeles’ Dum Dum Girls, whom I’d missed when they came through Toronto a few weeks ago due to other show conflicts. I may well like them the best of all the fuzzed-out retro-rock acts kicking around these days, and I’m even reluctant to lump them in with the other “garage rock” bands – the aesthetic might be similar, but I find their songcraft is considerably more sophisticated, able to evoke dark edges around the sunshiny sound, and the presentation? Well let’s just say they’re a very good looking band. A great-sounding one, too, with terrific harmonies and sharp guitar work over top driving rhythms, all delivered with an effortless cool. Or mostly so – even the coolest-looking band wasn’t immune to the Texas heat and by the end of their set, there was sweat and running makeup but even then? Awesome.

Frank YangCertainly, in retrospect, I should have known better than to opt to see The Strokes give their free-to-all show at Auditorium Shores over any other showcasing band at SxSW, but the opportunity to see them so early on in their return to active duty with the imminent release of Angles and the attendant bragging rights that would come with it (at least with my more Strokes-obsessed friends) was too much to resist. I probably should have resisted.

At first it seemed a perfectly idyllic setting – free show on the lake, warm breeze, tacos plentiful – but as showtime neared it began to get dark, and not just literally. Firstly, despite advance instructions there was no accommodation made for media and photographers so you had dozens of people jammed between the fence at the front of the stage and the throngs of concertgoers with no one in place to offer direction, and when the show eventually started and the great inevitable surge ensued, we were swept up with them and pushed forward only to run into a wall of disabled people. Very unhappy ones. Apparently an area in front had been designated for the deaf, blind and infirm – which explained the woman in the pit dancing and signing lyrics – but someone had neglected to actually physically cordon the area off and as such, these folk were being overrun by everyone else. There was panic, screaming, crying, pleading with security for help (which was completely ignored) and a few physical altercations. It was in fact only the few layers of media between them and the rest of the audience that kept it from getting worse, though that didn’t keep us from getting yelled and blamed. Never mind the fact that the original plan of rotating a group of photographers through for each of the first three songs failed almost immediately and most only got to shoot from the crowd, which isn’t easy when you have thousands of fans pushing you from one side and deaf people screaming at you from the other. And I haven’t even mentioned that the fences around the park were knocked down after capacity had been reached and the teeming masses made even more teeming. Can you say, “clusterfuck”? I knew you could.

I was amazed that The Strokes are able to elicit this sort of – I dunno if passion is the right word, I’m sure the plentiful free beer and St. Patrick’s Day-ness of the occasion had something to do with it – but to generate such a frenzy amongst a crowd that largely skewed very young, like probably in grade school when Is This It was released. But even when they burst out of New York a decade ago, I thought the love for them was disproportionate to what they actually brought to the table, musically, so maybe it’s just been consistent and now cross-generational. At any rate, for good or for bad, The Strokes sounded exactly like they always have, like they’d just stepped out of a time capsule from five years ago (but not one that had kept them looking perfectly young, mind, or Albert Hammond Jr’s had malfunctioned) with their creatively dueling guitars and Julian Casablancas’ vocals still striking that perfect sleepy snarly balance. And just as they always have, they appeared kind of bored on stage, with their dressing amounting to a a set of pulsing vertical lights which only really got interesting during “Reptilia”. None of which is to say that they were bad at all – I thought they sounded quite good, in keeping with my recent critical re-evaluation of The Strokes in general – but they still sound exactly like The Strokes always have and always will, and that’s not worth starting a riot over. Still, last I heard no one was actually hurt in the melee of the show and the fireworks that accompanied encore-closer “Last Night” were a nice touch.

Happy to be back in the usual bedlam of 6th St rather than the exceptional bedlam of Auditorium Shores, it was back into A&R mode with the maybe-terrifically-probably-horribly-named Chapel Hill quintet I Was Totally Destroying It, added to my schedule on the basis of a single song and a recommendation from The Dumbing Of America. And while they traded in perfectly decent power pop with plenty of chunky guitar riffage and onstage energy, what stood out about them was keyboardist/vocalist Rachel Hirsh who clearly towered over her bandmates in charisma and ability. Vocally, she had that extra something in her voice, be it phrasing or timbre, that demanded your attention. At present she’s lifting up the rest of her band to noteworthy status but if they don’t step up their game in creativity and presentation, it won’t be long before she’s outgrown them. Forewarned.

I’m on record as not really getting tUnE-yArDs, at least from her debut album Bird-Brain – I certainly respect the creativity and ability that Merrill Garbus brings to her art but I just don’t find it especially listenable. That said, a spur of the moment decision whilst scanning the schedule took me to the Cental Presbyterian Church where I decided to put the, “you have to see her live to get it” qualifier to the test. And yeah, having borne witness now, I will agree while what you don’t get from her recordings may not be made up for on stage, but the spectacle that she offers whilst performing more than makes up for it. Standing behind an array of microphones and drums, Garbus was dazzling in showing off what she could do with her voice, either looper or unassisted, while pounding out complex beats. She melded African rhythmic sound sculptures with R&B-ish vocal acrobatics and moments of folkish simplicity, all laced with cascades of tones and textures and crazy sax breakdowns. There were a couple of flubs where she had to catch herself and give it a do-over, but no one would dare call her on it. So yes to all, while I still find her records impenetrable – I don’t expect her new record W H O K I L L, out April 19, is a top 40 pop gem – the live spectacle is something to behold.

Back on the main drag of 6th St, it was pretty much eenie meenie minie moe with respect to who would get to entertain me for the midnight hour, and given that a few people had expressed an interest in London’s Chapel Club pre-festival and they were setting up at Bat Bar right behind me, I figured that’d be as good a pick as any. And with their fancy pants Jazzmaster and Gretsch guitars adorning the stage, they certainly made a good first impression but musically, lacked clarity of purpose necessary to seal the deal. Guitars were loud and churny, but the vocalist didn’t offer much in terms of personality and the songs, while generally sounding good, didn’t come off as especially memorable. I suspect that the band would have agreed that they weren’t putting their best foot forward, as they were clearly unhappy with the sound and the singer was staring daggers at the sound man in the balcony through the entire set. But such is SxSW.

As was apparently the theme for the evening, I didn’t actually know anything about Oh Land before hitting up her showcase at Buffalo Billiards to close out the evening, save that she was Danish and accumulating a significant amount of press, though that may have had less to do with Nanna Øland Fabricius’ music than the fact that she kind of looked like a supermodel. And yeah, no one’s going to believe that that wasn’t a factor in my being there either, so I won’t try to convince you, but I do like me some Scandi-pop as well so give me a break. Those who give cut her a break for her looks must be really enamoured because musically, she doesn’t bring a lot to the table. It’s bubbly uptempo synth-pop, but lacks the big hooks that usually make this sort of thing irresistible against one’s better judgement. The material is lyrically pretty vapid and not helped along by her unremarkable voice. Yes, it comes together on the big single “Son Of A Gun” but beyond that, there wasn’t much noteworthy on display. But you know what? I have a feeling she’ll do just fine regardless.

Frank YangIt was nice to have the opportunity to knock off some of the “must-sees” from my list with the very start of the official portion of the festival, thanks to NPR and Stubb’s. The former’s showcase at the latter let me see British buzz acts Yuck and James Blake early and, if blown away, circle one of their shows later in the week for an encore performance.

At the risk of being all, “what’s with kids these days”, I was genuinely surprised at how indifferent the London quartet appeared to be about being at SxSW, having such a large audience, just generally everything, even though they said they were happy to be there. I realize the slacker aesthetic was a large part of the acts to which they’ve been largely compared – your Pavements, Dino Jrs, what have you – but if the nonchalance was an affectation, it was an off-putting one. There’s no shame in looking like you’re enjoying yourselves. With that out of the way, they did sound terrific, filling their set with tunes from their self-titled record made even bigger and hookier than on disc – it was good to see that they at least took that aspect of their performance seriously. People looking to criticize them won’t be able to target their musicianship or songwriting, but their charisma? Fire away.

No such expectations of showmanship accompanied dubstep/soul-pop wunderkind James Blake’s first show of the fest and one of his first on this continent. You almost felt sorry for him that he would be thrust onto the stage at one of the festival’s biggest stages for his first SxSW experience, but that’s what he gets for being the alleged next big thing, right? His live setup consisted of a couple banks of keyboards, with himself at stage far left, a percussionist with both acoustic drums and electronic pads and a guitarist/keyboardist – all seated and clearly not intent on putting on a dazzling show, unless the open space in front was being reserved for the James Blake Dancers. It was not. When they got underway, it was evident that this was a performance that would be just as effective with eyes closed as open, amounting to a sort of pulsing real-time remix, his keys and voice being cut-and-pasted over the beats. The more soulful songs where his voice was left largely un-effected, like Feist’s “Limit To Your Love” and his “hit” “Wilhelm Scream” were still pretty stirring, though. It was interesting enough but this material wasn’t really designed for live performance, at least not in an amphitheatre setting. I suspect the more intimate shows later in the week, like at the Central Presbyterian Church, were more complimentary.

Decamping from Stubb’s to The Parish Underground let me cross Minnesota’s Now Now off my to-see list, both for the fest and overall. The trio is probably justifiably classifiable as emo pop, hence their being attached to bills I’ve no interest in seeing when they come to town, but it’s crunchy and hooky and I like it. And when you’ve got two nearly-identical girls who look barely old enough to drive chunking out riffs and thinline Telecasters, well that’s just good fun. I do think they’re good and talented enough to transcend any sort of genre circuit that they might otherwise be stuck in, but if not? We’ll always have Austin.

Unsure of what to do next, I decided to break my general “no Canadian bands” rule to stop in at the Quebec-commandeered Spill to see The Dears, but already running late, the band was unable to get their gear set up – goodness gracious they travel with a lot of keyboards – and after 15 minutes or so into their allotted set time and seeing them still sorting out power cords, I aborted and decided to get a head start on my midnight appointment.

And it’s a good thing I did because getting to Bat Bar early allowed me to meet London’s Clock Opera. At first they sounded like another lightly-danceable Brit-rock band, but after a few songs it was evident they had a certain dramatic, fist-raising quality to their songs that set them apart from the usual. I haven’t had time to do more research on who they are and what they’re up to, but certainly intend to. Consider that they had jammed the floor space with fans, sending latecomers like myself to the venue balcony, and several people asked me, in the capacity of total stranger, who they were and where they were from. I consider that a very good sign.

In the audience turnover between sets I was able to scootch downstairs and get up front for Ellie Goulding, about whom I knew only that she was declared the sound of 2010 by BBC, though all I needed her to be was the sound of the next 40 minutes or so. It’s always nice when established international acts come to SxSW and have to prove themselves again, because you get them delivering their finely-honed performances in much smaller venues than they’re used to playing. Case in point was Goulding, who was clearly used to bigger stages and as such was able to pretty well blow the roof off of Bat Bar. I’ve seen her referred to as “folktronica” and I suppose that’s descriptive, what with her building a kind of snarly electro-pop on an acoustic guitar base (though she only strapped on the guitar for a few songs) but her stuff sampled so many styles and genres that really, only a descriptor as broad and meaningless as “pop” could apply. And great. Definitely great.

And the greatness continued to the night’s close over at Latitude 30 for London’s Summer Camp. The duo of Jeremy Warmsley and Elizabeth Sankey made some headlines last year by cultivating an air of mystery around their identities when first releasing their tasty sun-kissed retro-pop, but since coming out as who they are, they’ve remained conversation-worthy thanks to the general wonderful-ness of their tunes. That said, I didn’t necessarily expect too much from them live as studio duos who don’t recruit additional players, as they didn’t, aren’t normally equipped to bring it on stage. But playing in front of very specifically-assembled video montages, Summer Camp were far more charismatic and energetic performers than I ever would have expected. Warmsley’s guitar and keys and both his and Sankey’s vocals brought a lot of liveliness that more than made up for the reliance on canned backing tracks. Without a finished album they didn’t have as much material as one would have liked but what they had was pretty much bliss.