The Capitol Years Alice Texas Armor for Sleep Bowling for Soup Brendan Benson and the Wellfed Boys The Cassettes Destroyer Imperial Teen Lou Barlow Julia Darling Common Rider Mark Eitzel The Kickovers The Meat Purveyors Portastatic Pinfield Rebecca Martin Tora Tora Torrance Shiner The Turn Ons

October 30th

Brett McCallon:
My 2002 CMJ experience began somewhat less than spectacularly, as due to laziness and poor organization on my part I neglected to sign up for the CMJ opening night party/concert. This event, of course, was the one most likely to induce musical nirvana on Wednesday (traditionally the redheaded stepchild night of the CMJ festival: there's no one you really feel compelled to see, but there are several acts you wouldn't mind catching). By the time I got around to calling, the party was full, and I was left to my own devices.

Girding myself for a mixture of disappointment and pleasant surprise, I emerged onto the Lower East Side; New York's temperature dropped, and sleety rain drizzled. Clearly, shelter from the weather was going to override any notions I might have of aesthetic bliss.

Fortunately, then, on both counts, the first place I stopped was the Living Room, a Manhattan one-bedroom-sized space, into one corner of which was packed an array of musicians fronted by a young woman with an acoustic guitar. This was Rebecca Martin, and her vibe was smart and mellow. The band's lineup included a sax and violin in addition to the standard rock instruments, and the singer's folksy songs were both delivered and arranged with a jazz feel. The experience was compelling, a classic smoky jazz set that made me glad that Mayor Bloomberg's proposed smoking ban had not yet gone through (even if my lungs disagreed vehemently and audibly).

Eventually I had to emerge from the comfortable womb of the Living Room and venture further east, to Arlene's Grocery, a more garishly decorated, split-level bar/performance space, where the audience is visually divisible into music fans and drinkers. Army of Me was onstage -- a youngish group of rockers with a very attractive singer. They were pretty straightforward, with energy to recommend them, and had a very well-put-together sound. Not the most compelling show I ever saw, but I wouldn't tune them out if I saw them open up for someone better.

There's a newish venue on the block, Pianos, which still has that new-bar smell, and where no amount of deliberate distressing of the walls and accoutrements can fake that seedy, old-school Lower East Side vibe. In the back room, I saw the Turn Ons, a spacy neo-psych band (think the Warlocks, only less boring). The singer's vocal, which was thin and pretty, was unfortunately mixed far too low, a problem that was to crop up throughout the four days of the festival. I'm sure that the mixing for a show is difficult, and that difficulty is probably magnified tremendously by the need to get one band after another onstage with perhaps a fifteen-minute set-change. In any case, the Turn Ons' sound was muddier even than standard for CMJ. The band had a talented guitarist, whose style reminded me a bit of Mercury Rev's Grasshopper. Even during those songs that were less than riveting, the band put together a real wall of sound, in which the band's well-wrought feedback stylings stand out.

Later, at Tonic, On!Air!Library! took the stage after a rather lengthy, apparently perfectionist, tuning-up session. Despite the profusion of explosive punctuation in their name, the group is actually a very quiet outfit. The three band-members wielded two guitars, two synthesizers, some tape-based drum effects and assorted electronics. These latter were balanced on the least stable-looking shelf unit I've ever seen. My attention was split between the music they were producing and the seeming inevitability of its sudden cessation when the whole edifice collapsed. It didn't, however -- the precarious equipment instead releasing a hint of rhythm for the first song, a cross between Yo La Tengo's breathy susurrations on And Then The Nothing... and the VU's "Lady Godiva's Operation". Psychedelically floaty, the sound was rhythmic without beats. The two females did a semi-harmonic, flatly declarative style of delivery, while the guy, rather unoriginally, channelled YLT's Ira.

Back at Piano's, The Capitol Years had the walls shaking, trying to out-Mooney the Suzuki despite a less-than-crowded house. A combination of ear-shredding volume and that so-hip-now Nuggets-style garage band esthetic, the group was riveting to the extent that its genre is riveting; the mods onstage did a fine job, but they're not exactly creating a brand new musical paradigm. At Arlene's, Julia Darling was doing some genre-embodying -- in this case a cute girl with an acoustic guitar sang intimate songs, backed by a rock band that was both competent and unmemorable. She was, once again, quite pixieish and easy on the eyes, and her songs were enjoyable.

Luna Lounge, a bit later, was playing host to Alice Texas, a louder, more raucous cousin of the Cowboy Junkies. Once again, a fetching young lass was doing the vocal duties, but this time the material was darker: "My love has got 'x'-es for eyes." The group had a real feel for the gothic, but their lighter side was evidenced in some bouncier numbers: "Who's That Guy", for instance, was more Go-Gos than Siouxie Sioux.

Next up, the Mercury Lounge, where Boston's own The Kickovers took the stage in a blast of speed and energy. Loud, fast and clean, the group was tight as a drum; of all the bands I saw that evening, they were clearly the happiest to be up on stage. Their lead singer, sporting a Black Francis physique and J. Mascis vocal style, had a remarkable stage presence: without hogging the spotlight, he kept the crowd's attention firmly focused on what he and the band were doing at any given time. Granted, the fact that they were loud as shit didn't hurt, either. Snotty songs, of course, popped up regularly during their set (For instance, this, from "I Wanna Make Out With Your Girlfriend": "I wanna make out with your mom's mom / I think that she's the bomb bomb / I want to write for her a psalm psalm". Etc.) Childish, yes, but definitely a blast.

Back at Luna, Pinfield were perpetrating perky pop. This sunny outfit betrayed a certain prog-osity underlying their tunes; they were also, perhaps, a bit jam-bandy. The female singer, tall, exotic and indie-rock-hot, riveted every male eye in the place, though the knit cap on the bass player's head also drew a few askance glances. Okay, maybe it was only I who glanced askance, but for God's sake, is this the HORDE festival?

So that was Wednesday, ending as moist and chilly as it began. While there was nothing that completely bowled me over, there was plenty of that old thrill that comes from having no idea who and what is going to take the stage. For the rest of the festival, it was onward and upward.

Scott Jacobson:
This was my first year at the Music Marathon, so I wasn't sure what to expect. Turns out it was a lot like trick-or-treating (appropriate since the second day of the Marathon fell on Halloween), with me and legions of other badge-bearing supposed industry insiders trudging from one club to the next, sometimes making out like bandits and other times getting stuck with the musical equivalent of those crappy orange circus peanuts. Honestly, though, the good and even great candy far outweighed the bad. I saw twenty-three sets over four days -- and of those, fifteen were thoroughly enjoyable, and a few were revelatory. It took me a while to get into the groove of schlepping around Manhattan and Brooklyn in the cold, but now that it's over I'm practically bronzing my badge out of nostalgia.

I got off to an admittedly shaky start. The strictures of my day job kept me from plunging into CMJ events quite as zealously as I would have liked -- the first night, I had time to see only three bands. The first two were Paper Lions and Maserati at the CBGB's Kindercore showcase. Paper Lions sounded like a more aggressive Spoon. It was loud and intense and engaging enough to keep me from wandering over to the bar, but I didn't notice any real hooks, and afterwards I felt no strong urge to buy their record. Maserati played instrumental rock that ebbed and flowed with a good sense of subtlety and dynamics. I let the sound wash over me as I finished my beer and plotted my next move.

I was half-tempted to stick around for more Kindercore, but opted instead to check out local buzz band Northern State at the Bowery Ballroom. Northern State are three white girls from Long Island who write clever rhymes and worship Licensed To Ill-era Beastie Boys. You can't peruse a weekly paper in New York without stumbling on a Northern State write-up; the residual effect of all that hype was curiosity tempered by pretty strong skepticism. One of the rappers calls herself Hesta Prynne -- is that cool and funny or just annoying? Unsurprisingly, the Bowery Ballroom was packed, but I stopped worrying about my comfort level a few minutes into Northern State's set. They were great -- fun and energetic and charismatic enough to be stars. Their whiny, sing-songy cadences owe a lot to the Beasties, and their college-educated references ("Edmund Hilary couldn't climb this," goes a typical boast) should endear them to MC Paul Barman fans. Allow me to toss another plaudit on the blurb pile when I say that Northern State played a short set, but it was the first of the Marathon to leave me wanting more.

October 31st

Brett McCallon:
The first order of business for Thursday was taking a second look at Josh Ritter's live show. Longtime readers may vaguely recall (but probably won't) that we of the Splendid SXSW contingent already saw Mr. Ritter once, during an outdoor label showcase. At the time, Ritter's songs made a positive impression on me, but it was only when I reviewed his album, The Golden Age of Radio, that I realized just how good of a performer he was. The advertised start time for the show was 8:00, but when I arrived at Joe's Pub, the schedule clearly gave a 9:00 start time. Rudderless for an hour or so, I drifted a couple of blocks Northeast, to The Continental.

There, I saw Bowling for Soup, pop-punkers extraordinaire. Wait. I mean ordinaire. Trés ordinaire. They weren't bad -- they executed the harmonies and riffery as expected, and they played the punk rock. Unfortunately, aside from the proportions of their lead guitarist (it's always good for those of us who don't err to the thin side to see a guy who's way bigger than we are and who clearly still gets chicks), there wasn't much to hold my attention, or let me know that I wasn't just watching the credits to a teen comedy.

Abandoning ship after the third song, I hiked south to the legendary CBGB's. There, beneath the too-cool-to-be-renovated hanging duct tape/insulation, I caught Tora Tora Torrance's blistering set. Now this was what I go to CMJ for. This band came out of nowhere (at least nowhere on my radar) and tore the roof off of the place. They rocked hard, sleazy, dirty, aggressive, silly, sexy, and so so right. They ripped sassy, Steve Jones guitar riffs, the occasional Sabbath slab, and Mick Ronson flash sparkled throughout. Amid the churning mess of the music, the lead singer was a dervish, a psychotic original. He had a touch of Mick Jagger spazz-flail and ass-shake, spat lyrics like the bastard of Rotten and Vicious, broke glass, screamed and moans, dogs and cats...living together...mass hysteria. He declared to the audience "We're the new Jim Morrison!", and shortly thereafter emulated the simulated blowjob that landed the original Lizard in hot water thirty some-odd years ago. Of course, just when you thought his Johnny Rotten II: Bad Teeth Boogaloo was the authentic, anarchic, can't-believe-it's-for-real shock of the parent-terrifying new, the management commanded him to stop dropping the microphone; the attitude dropped, the respect for authority emerged. "Oh, yeah. Sorry, man."

Oh, well, though they weren't going to burn London again, they were definitely one of the highlights of my weekend of noise. Back to Joe's Pub, a strange restaurant/bar/performance space attached to the Public Theater on Lafayette street. It's a really upmarket venue, and the atmosphere let Ritter's intimate talents shine far more than did the outdoor barbecue showcase of last March. He graced the audience with a couple of new efforts, one of which captured the joy of snow season's end (just as we're moving into its beginning), but mostly stuck to the strongest tracks on his recent album. The showstopper was the brilliant "Me and Jiggs", a reminiscence about beautiful wasted youth, and I left with a smile on my face.

A short subway ride south (that gave me a chance to observe the Halloween costume choices of my fellow New Yorkers, which are surprisingly tamer than much of what one normally sees on display in the Village) dropped me close to the Luna Lounge. The previous night, this place had been a ghost town. Tonight, with Teenbeat Records in the hizzouse, it was like an indie-rock anthill. Squeezing to the front, I enjoyed several examples of the band's mix of super-cute ballads and power pop. The former were great, but the latter were truly impressive, whipping the kids into a very polite lather. Unfortunately, the claustrophobia level eventually outweighed the enjoyment factor, and I squeezed out. This just goes to show you that sometimes, seeing a great show with no cover charge can be a mixed blessing.

Next was what ended up being the end of my evening; I had planned to check out the Von Bondies at the Bowery Ballroom, but when I arrived, the door guys informed me that "badges were over" for the night. Granted, this made very little sense, as I could see people streaming out of the venue, but I was too tired (and not nearly imposing enough) to argue. Thus, the last sounds I heard for the evening came from the tired voice and gentle guitar of Mark Eitzel. The man was feeling both at ease with the crowd and rather unsure of himself as he joked his way through various attempts at new songs, some of which panned out and some of which didn't. It felt good, at that moment, to be in that place, sharing the experience with likeminded fans. It was a great end to the evening.

Scott Jacobson:
My first stop today was the Virgin Megastore, where I saw an instore performance by Of Montreal. They were playing in support of Aldhils Arboretum; the album I'm most familiar with is The Gay Parade, a brilliant, whacked-out concept album set in the cartoonish fantasy land in singer/songwriter/multi-instrumentalist Kevin Barnes's head. Barnes was wearing a lion's mane, the drummer was dressed like a bee, and the keyboard player was a ladybug. The band played great, hooky garage rock with Beatlesesque overtones as a small crowd gathered outside the store window to watch. The highlight of the set was probably "Old People In The Cemetery" from the new album -- it's an instantly memorable mid-tempo pop song that might be Barnes's response to critics and fans who bristle at his usually twee lyrics. "There's nothing precious about old people at the cemetery," he sings. The song is affecting in spite of itself.

Next I headed to the Lovitt Records showcase at Acme Underground, where I saw two intensely boring bands whose names I can't remember and the Cassettes, a duo (one of whom is Frodus's Shelby Cinca) who play poppy, bluesy rock on guitar and drums. They were solid but their sound was a little thin, and I had a hard time getting into their set.

I moved on to the Knitting Factory for the Bingo Trappers, a Dutch band whose album Juanita Avenue (Animal World) got an unlikely write-up in Rolling Stone. The Bingo Trappers made their entree into the US indie scene with a cassette-only release on Shrimper. From there they put out Sierra Nevada, an excellent, vinyl-only co-release between Shrimper and the late, lamented Omaha label Sing, Eunuchs! The band plays off-kilter rock with blues and country elements and ungainly Dutch-accented vocals. As they played, I realized they sound a lot like the Finnish band 22-Pistepirkko (a geeky realization if there ever was one, but worth noting if only because the Bingo Trappers are a band without a lot of apt RIYLs). They were tighter and more professional than I imagined they'd be, but their newer songs were every bit as charming and infectious as their earlier, more shambolic stuff.

November 1st

Brett McCallon:
By Friday, day three of the festival, I had realized that I had yet given short shrift to the shows that were transpiring in my own little corner of the city, Brooklyn. The bulk of the CMJ-related activity in the city's second borough was confined to the Williamsburg area, which has been voted the hippest neighborhood in America several times, in several publications, in recent years. This area of the city plays host to a wide variety of Spanish-speaking immigrants, as well as the bulk of the city's Hasidim. Oh, and a bulk of the city's hipster demographic.

The target for Friday evening was Northsix, a venue so hip that it's on an unlighted block and is barely differentiated from the shuttered warehouses that flank it. It's actually quite a cool place to see a show; in addition to having the requisite bar, stage, and crowd area, it features a stand of bleachers for the more "mature" element of the audience. Being solidly ensconced in the deep water of the age pool, my girlfriend and I took our seats, rising only to take pictures of each band as they kicked off their sets.

Unfortunately, the comfort level was rather compromised by the volume level. While this wasn't true for all of the bands, two of the acts we saw that night were as loud as anything I've ever seen. They had cranked their amps to a volume more appropriate for a football stadium than a medium-sized club, and the experience was rather negatively impacted by the aural overload.

First up was a band that looked as though they had sneaked past the bouncer. If any member of Armor for Sleep was legal, I'd be amazed. I know, looking at their picture, you'll find this hard to believe, but it turns out they were an emo band. I know. What are the odds.

Actually, they were really pretty good. It was Sunny Day-by-numbers, but if that approach didn't produce some satisfying work, nobody would book acts like this. They seared through their pain-drenched, barre-chord driven confessionals, and everybody who had made it to the venue early enough to see them was glad to have been there.

Next up was Schatzi. My CMJ guide referred to these guys as a power-pop band. Imagine my surprise, then, when they cranked their amps to a level beyond all reason and began to play such a distorted wall of undiscernible noise that no melody could possibly be extracted. The lead singer/rhythm guitarist's amp was so loud that it was all but impossible to hear the lead line at all, while the bass guitar was crystal clear, but bone-shattering. The effect was all low-end stew, which is particularly weird considering that from what I could hear of the songs above the din, melody should be these guys' stock in trade. It was obvious that the sound the band was going for was a Weezerish combination of volume and melody, but while they admirably achieved the former, the latter was cast aside entirely.

Hearing all but ruined for the evening, we were glad to see the next band take the stage. Common Rider was very clearly the reason that a considerable portion of the audience had showed up at all; in fact, about half of the crowd left at the end of their set, increasing the age of the attendees dramatically.

Common Rider...what can I say? From the moment they hit the stage, it was all elbows and jostling as a skanking pit played host to underfed sixteen year olds of both genders. The band's sound is a mix of Clash-esque reggae-influenced mid-tempo punk and the faster stuff that drives the kids wild. How old-skool were these guys playing it? The bass player's strap was covered with three rows of spike studs. How '78. Singer Jesse Michaels (formerly of Operation Ivy) is not only quite good looking, but quite possibly the most polite rock singer I've ever seen. He was profuse in his thanks, gracious in his comments, and generous in spreading the adulation of the crowd to his bandmates. His vocal duties were generally well-executed, sometimes dipping into white-boy drone-rap -- but his love of all things punk always dragged him back from the precipice of 311-hood.

Shiner was next up. I had never seen these guys, and though I had heard many nice things said about their latest effort, The Egg, I had yet to hear a note of their work. Set to be impressed, I was. Once again, the group was loud as all hell, and while it didn't bother me (since they were also really good), my girlfriend's head was starting to throb. To be fair, the volume level was probably a bit superfluous, but as a means of communicating the raw power of the group, it was effective. Make no mistake, this is a polished, professional band whose purpose is to pummel their music into your head. Mission accomplished. The band's rhythm section was tight as a tourniquet, and the guitars were doing the slashing and bleeding, tearing through a ferocious squall to deliver the goods. By the time they ended their set (with a stunning My Bloody Valentine cover), the portion of the audience who retained their hearing was absolutely wowed.

Finally, the Oxes took the stage. No doubt many of you have heard/seen the fake controversy this band created in order to sell more copies of their latest LP, Oxxxes. The sound is math-rock, the trio is bass-guitarless, the drums are punishing, the guitarists are wireless, the atmosphere is mayhem. The two guitarists took the stage on wooden boxes, a glam-metal mock-heroic stance that shortly ended as they surged through the crowd, smacking into several concert-goers before disappearing somewhere in the depths of the venue. As advertised, they took full advantage of the wireless set-up to surprise and dazzle the crowd, leaving all visual focus on their drummer's skillz as the crowd wondered where the hell the guitar noise was coming from. The set was great, broken only a few times for quick addresses to the crowd, and by the time we headed out, the audience had been rocked into a limp, frothing mass.

Three nights down, one to go. And Saturday would start fairly early.

Scott Jacobson:
Friday night, with the threat of getting up at 6:00 a.m. the next morning no longer looming, I packed in as much music as I could manage. Kimya Dawson of the Moldy Peaches was playing at the Knitting Factory, and although I've wanted to see her for a long time, I ended up going to Irving Plaza for Brendon Benson and the Wellfed Boys. Benson's new album Lapalco sounds great -- it's expert power pop with a '70s-style analog feel. One song on the album, the timeless-sounding "Tiny Spark", has been stuck in my head for months. It was the second thing Benson played in a set heavy on Lapalco material. The "Wellfed" is a joke -- most of the band members are skinny as bed-ridden vegans. But their sound wasn't scrawny. Every song was a melodic gem that would resonate in your head all day were it not followed by something equally strong. Even some of the songs that didn't impress me much on the album sounded great live. Benson reworked lyrical missteps (it's amazing how much better "You're Quiet" sounded with slightly altered lyrics) and generally punched up his repertoire. A perfect show.

I bailed on Irving Plaza and speed-walked in the cold to CBGB's 313 -- CBGB's cleaner, quieter next-door neighbor. Dave Dondero was playing, and though I hadn't heard him, some friends of mine in Omaha piqued my curiosity about his album, Shooting At The Sun With A Water Gun.... A few minutes into Dondero's set I knew exactly why he appeals to Nebraskans -- his voice sounds just like Conor Oberst's, except when it sounds like Simon Joyner's. It's quavery and not overly strong but extremely expressive. Dondero's loopy stage demeanor was at odds with his insightful, darkly funny, warm-hearted songs. A few -- "The Real Tina Turner" and "Analysis of a 1970's Divorce" being the most memorable -- were mini-masterpieces of human observation and sad but sober reflection, and unlike Oberst and Joyner, Dondero never lapsed into melodrama. After his set I headed straight to the merchandise table and bought Water Gun. It's my best souvenir from the Marathon -- anyone who likes rambling troubadour singer-songwriter stuff along the lines of Townes Van Zandt should own it.

After a few more less impressive acts at CBGB's 313, I made the trek to Park Slope, Brooklyn, ostensibly to see Polyphonic Spree at the Brooklyn Lyceum. Polyphonic Spree play big, billowing orchestral pop and were getting a lot of hype this year. But I had some time to kill before the show, so I stopped by Southpaw, where Lou Barlow was playing with Imperial Teen. Alaska were wrapping up their set when I arrived -- they seemed good and intense and worthy of further investigation. Then Barlow began his set, and I admitted to myself that I hadn't come to Brooklyn for Polyphonic Spree at all. I haven't heard Barlow's new Loobiecore solo album, and to be honest I didn't pay the last couple of Sebadoh albums much mind, but I miss Barlow from the days before bitterness and creative fatigue seemed to overwhelm his talent. He started with a few new songs, all beautiful and understated (especially one called, I think, "No Need"), then played old favorites "Soul and Fire" and "High School" and "Pearl", a great, countryish ballad intended for the newest incarnation of the Folk Implosion. I thought he was about to wrap it up, but instead he called a bass player and drummer on stage and tore through a few Sebadoh songs, the first being "The Freed Pig", which was so great to hear it gave me goosebumps. By the end it seemed clear that Barlow isn't through -- he's just biding his time.

With Barlow's set over, I once again considered Polyphonic Spree. But Imperial Teen were setting up, and I'd heard good things about them, too. So I hunkered down at Southpaw and the Teen (as I think some people must call them) rewarded me with a fun, frothy set of compulsively hummable pop. The band members wore dark jeans and T-shirts emblazoned with what might be their nicknames -- "Scoop", "Champ" and "Bright Eyes". They're very much about style over substance, but so are most indie bands, even if they're not so honest about it. Their latest album, On, is catchy but didn't stay on my stereo for long; their live show, though, I can recommend whole-heartedly, especially if you bemoan the frumpiness of most indie rock bands.

November 2nd

Brett McCallon:
Bloodshot Records, the Chicago alt/country/bluegrass label, sent out an invitation to come check out some of their finest acts; as a special bonus, they also offered barbecue (until it runs out). Now, Bloodshot is pretty well known for parties at music events, and I had heard tell of their annual throwdown at SXSW, though scheduling prevented me from attending this year's event. It was, then, with quite a bit of anticipation that I checked out the eats to be had at Union Pool, the Williamsburg, Brooklyn venue where the showcase was going on.

Unfortunately, the logistics of doing a full-on southern-style barbecue in Brooklyn are probably far more daunting than in Austin, and the happy fans had to satisfy themselves with hamburgers, hotdogs and veggie burgers. A bit of a let-down? Sure, but when the music's this good, who cares about the food?

The first act came on a few minutes before two in the afternoon. Bobby Bare, Jr. has been riding a wave of positive press, most notably a review of his album, Young Criminals' Starvation League, on NPR's All Things Considered. His proportions certainly worked in accord with his name, an ursine hulk occupying the right half of the tiny stage. His core band, including guitarist, keyboardist, bassist, drummer, and cute girl backup singer, were really fantastic, igniting a sparkling, country-fried cover of the Smiths classic "What Difference Does It Make", along with other cuts from the new album. On several tracks, they were joined by a mini-horn section, who played from the front of the stage with all of the heart and soul of a seasoned Stax-Volt player. The set was brilliant.

Trailer Bride, fronted by a waifish young lady and three music-obsessed malcontents, came on next, and her lines about sexual assertion and seduction played brilliantly off of the proficient, effortless guitar work that shared the spotlight with her. The band was a very basic sort of alt-country outfit, but that basicness worked in their favor, allowing them to reinterpret the classic country beer-hall sound with a modern feminist touch and a dollop of laid-back brilliance.

The Pine Valley Cosmonauts' presence onstage packed the crowd like they were the Second Coming, and when they tore into a cover of the Adverts' classic "Looking Through Gary Gilmore's Eyes", one could almost believe that the song started out with bluegrass roots. As always, the group's performance was tremendous, skipping from song to song with aplomb, working the crowd, and enjoying the hell out of themselves despite having to cram an extensive band onto a tiny stage. They were everything one could expect, and more.

The Meat Purveyors, a drumless bluegrass combo, melded lightning guitar and mandolin picking with brilliant harmonies from the two ladies in the group, one of whom wielded a mean stand-up bass and the other of whom commanded the attention of all present with her combination of showmanship and vocal prowess. Once again, two of the highlights of the set were covers, in this case brilliant reimaginings of Ratt's hair-metal classic "Round and Round" and the VU's seminal "What Goes On". This showcase just kept getting better and better.

Full-on, Grand Ole' Opry, no-"alt"-about-it country was forthcoming, courtesy of Rex Hobart and the Misery Boys. These guys knew what a broken heart felt like, and they were ready to let it bleed on the stage. The pedal steel guitar blended seamlessly with the plaintive lead and Rex's "been there, done that, and drunk my weight in the process" vocals. The music was, simply, superb, and by the time the headliners took the stage, everyone's hopes had been so far exceeded that they seemed almost superfluous.

They weren't, of course. The Waco Brothers, led by Jon Langford, have an odd, demi-English take on C&W, and they played it to the hilt onstage that evening. Too soon, I had to jump ship, heading to the Knitting Factory for what would be the last stop on my CMJ 2002 tour.

Portastatic were almost through their set when I arrived, and the band hardly seemed into the music. I don't know if Mac was just having an off night, or if the Superchunk live formula hasn't rubbed off on his side project, but I found them rather underwhelming. The same could not be said of Dan Bejar's Destroyer, who launched into a guitar-heavy interpretation of songs from their leader's last two magnificent outings, Streethawk: A Seduction and Here Comes The Night. The band's chemistry was just as good live as it was on their latest album, with melody lines falling over each other with careful abandon, Bejar's beautifully cracky voice delivering his cryptic wisdom. The show capped off what had been one of my favorite days of live music ever, and I headed home tired, worn out, and exhilarated.

Now, I'm just waiting for next October.

Scott Jacobson:
Saturday afternoon I went to the Bloodshot Records barbecue at the Union Pool in Williamsburg. Free burgers steamed and Yuenglings sold like hotcakes as bands from the label's alt-country roster played for a packed room. Bobby Bare Jr. was up first, with a horn section and a sense of rock-and-roll bombast worthy of Joe Cocker. Listening to him barrel through a set of rousing, heartfelt, hook-filled songs while I drank an early-afternoon beer was a definite highlight of the week. Trailer Bride was up next, and while I've always had a soft spot for them (mostly because they're from my home state of North Carolina and they once wrote a stunningly beautiful song called "Trains At Night"), they paled a bit in comparison with the dynamic Bare. Singer/guitarist Melissa Swingle drawled one woozy backwoods lament after another to the accompaniment of a roadhouse-worthy rhythm section. By the time Jon Langford's Pine Valley Cosmonauts took the stage, I had drunk just slightly more than anyone should before 5:00 o'clock and my critical faculties were failing me a bit. I remember enjoying the set, and that they played "Tom Dooley" and at one point invited Richard Buckner onstage to sing, but mid-way through I decamped to the outside barbecue area and basically looked around for half an hour. Then I left.

The next big event that night was the Merge showcase at the Knitting Factory. I had high hopes for that one, and wanted to make sure I got in, so I showed up about a half hour early. I saw Dan Bejar from Destroyer and the New Pornographers in the deli across the street; it was strange to see a guy who crafts such an enigmatic image for himself bitching about the guest list to his friends. Destroyer was really the cause of my Merge showcase excitement -- I'd seen Bejar play solo, but that night he had a full band with him. The showcase started in the basement at 7:00 with an acoustic show by Britt Daniel of Spoon, with Eggo Johanson on keyboard. Daniel played mostly Spoon songs, the bulk of which were from their last album, Girls Can Tell. "Lines In The Suit" sounded great, as did "1020 AM" and the Kill The Moonlight standout "The Way We Get By". The set seemed a little half-hearted, probably because Daniel was due to play again on the main stage later that night.

Mac Macaughan's solo project Portastatic was up next on the main stage. Macaughan had a bassist and drummer with him, but for all their volume the songs still sounded pretty different from Mac's meal ticket, Superchunk. Portastatic is another sentimental favorite of mine, but they needed no sympathy vote. I hadn't heard the sweet, catchy midtempo song "Hurricane Warning", but walked away from the show with it lodged in my head. Lately Macaughan's been experimenting with Brazilian pop, and his one foray into tropicalia, a song called "Baby" (I think), sounded great and not at all forced or exploitative. He ended his set with a Kinks cover and the beautiful "Naked Pilseners" from I Hope Your Heart Is Not Brittle.

Then there was Destroyer. Bejar's music reaches new levels of bombast on his latest album This Night, but the guy's so oddly appealing you're willing to cut him slack. He gets away with stuff lyrically and musically that would get any other songwriter snickered off the stage. I've been listening to This Night non-stop for the past couple of weeks, so it didn't bug me much that Bejar played songs from it to the exclusion of his entire back catalog. What did bug me at first, if only because I forgot to pack ear plugs, was that Destroyer was loud. Really, really loud. I was standing close to the speaker, so I got the worst of it, but afterwards I felt drunk, my eardrums had been rattled so much. When the band was on a roll, it made for some of my most exhilarating moments of the Marathon. I stopped paying attention to where songs began and ended and just let the waves of powerful noise and Bejar's strange and strangely pleasant adenoidal voice smack me around.

After such a loud-ass show, I was ready to hold an ice pack to my head and listen to Paul Simon. The next best thing seemed to be the Mia Doi Todd show at Joe's Pub. I hadn't heard Todd, but the reviews I've read made her out to be a songwriter in Bejar's mold -- a distinctive voice, a quasi-mystical lyrical bent and a propensity for oddball song structures. Entering Joe's Pub with Todd's set in full-swing felt like barging into a religious ceremony. The somewhat otherworldly Todd sang gentle, folky songs in a flawless voice to the flawless accompaniment of her fingerpicked acoustic guitar. Audience members either gazed at Todd in rapt attention or checked their watches at regular intervals. I fell into the latter category. Todd is clearly a talent, but her music seemed too gossamer to have the emotional effect she strives for with her purple, "Jewel with a high IQ" lyrics. I ducked out after 45 minutes.

And what next? Since the Mercury Lounge was a mere ten-minute walk south and east, the Sub Pop showcase with Hot Hot Heat, Ugly Casanova and emcee David Cross seemed my best option. But the place was packed and they were no longer accepting badges. So I tried Tonic, and was pleased to find that they had a show with Smokey and Miho -- Smokey Hormel from Beck's band and Miho from Cibo Matto. Hormel led the band through a set of infectious, mostly Brazilian dance and lounge music, the highlight of which was a soaring cover of a sugary-sweet Badin Powell song. The band finished and I stumbled out of Tonic onto cold, dark Norfolk Street. I contemplated seeing the late-night Thalia Zedek show at Acme Underground, but then remembered my battered ears and extreme fatigue and went to spend the rest of the evening lazing on a friend's couch instead. I don't regret that choice, but I do have my regrets. With all that music available and so little time and energy to cram it all in, I'm sure I was guilty of a few dire oversights in planning my nightly itinerary. But it was still the longest, most intense and probably most satisfying musical experience I've ever had.

Article and photos by Brett McCallon and Scott Jacobson.