The Weakerthans aren't so weak after all. Frisbie...yeah, that's about it. Not a good Robert Pollard viewing angle. Seconds after this picture was taken, Pollard did some cool rock thing -- jumped up in the air, fell down, something like that. We don't quite remember. It was late.

The evening would start with an unexpected surprise. We weren't sure what to expect from Canada's Weakerthans. While their current album, Left and Leaving, did a pretty good job of dodging the emo bullet, the band was about to go out on tour with Elliott. Were they about to bore us with thirty-five minutes of whining?

In fact they did just the opposite. Making a pretty thorough run through Left and Leaving, the band delivered a spirited, rocking set accented by blistering guitars and a drum kit cranked way up in the mix. Sounding like a smarter and more sober version of the Replacements, the Weakerthans went heavy on lyrical cleverness and world-weary atmosphere, avoiding the cookie-cutter emotional histrionics that make so much of today's punk rock seem blandly formulaic. It was an unexpectedly strong performance, and they clearly won over the crowd, selling quite a few records in the bargain.

Chicago-area rockers Frisbie had the unenviable task of following the Weakerthans, and it didn't go well for them. While they had a lot of friends in the house, it was clear that their mannered, Sloanish rock hadn't engaged the audience as well as the Weakerthans' set. Their music was catchy and well-performed but lacked the edge established by the Weakerthans and anticipated in GBV. They were too tight, too clean, too pretty...and perhaps the drum kit was mixed a bit too low. Their schtick seemed planned on a night when spontaneity was key. However, as their set progressed, some of that edginess began to take hold -- and by the finish, Frisbie were ably pairing stadium rock posturing with punk rock energy.

Now for the main event.

The lights went out, and a rousing chant of "GBV...GBV...GBV" emanated from the capacity crowd. After a few minutes of this, our heroes staggered (quite literally) onto the stage, looking less like rock stars than your father's poker buddies or that next door neighbor who mows his lawn in shorts and black socks. Guided by Voices arrived, followed by a tech staggering under the weight of a massive tub full of beer.

The ensuing performance is, of course, one of the great mysteries of the indie rock world: how in the hell do a bunch of middle-aged-ish guys from Dayton, Ohio manage to get absolutely shitfaced, then go out and play a blistering 35-40 song set that makes most sober bands half their age look like talentless tossers? Nobody knows exactly how Guided by Voices do what they do. Chances are the band itself does not even remember doing it, let alone how they did it (similarly, George has suggested that the size of GBV's repertoire has a lot to do with Pollard and the band forgetting existing songs and writing new ones on the spot to cover their memory lapse). But night after night these musical freaks of nature deliver the goods -- and as might be expected, tonight's performance is nothing short of astonishing.

Seconds after they hit the stage, the band launches into "Ha Ha Man", a demonically rocking number culled from their recently released four-disc box set Suitcase: Failed Experiments and Trashed Aircraft. More new songs follow, apparently from their yet-to-be-released/still-untitled new album. The new material rocks like a son of a bitch, but unfortunately, Bob's slurred speech and ongoing beer consumption makes the song titles all but incomprehensible. Shortly after I discovered that the band had a full two hours alotted for their set, I jokingly remarked that they could play 147 songs in that time span. Five songs down, one hundred and forty-two to go...

And go they did, as King Shit and his golden boys jumped, kicked, posed and drank their way through song after song of this monumental set. The group rammed their way through powerful versions of newer songs like "Frequent Weaver Who Burns", "Soul Train College Policeman" and an utterly bombastic reading of "Pop Zeus" from Support Your Local Volunteer Fire Department...not to mention "Teenage FBI", "Things that I Will Keep" and "Zoo Pie" from Do the Collapse. On top of this, they managed to pepper the set with faithful renditions of older favorites like "Shocker in Gloomtown", "Tractor Rape Chain", "I Am a Scientist" and "Cut-Out Witch". Their rendition of "Don't Stop Now" from Under the Bushes, Under the Stars was tender enough to make even the most ardent Pollard-o-phile weep into his Bud Light. Still, for all the Pollard-penned rock that blared from the speakers it was a pair of covers that stole the show.

First came PollardŐs short-but-sweet solo rendition of the Who's "You Better You Bet". This was immediately followed by a mind-bending take on "Baba O'Riley". which found guitarist Nate Farley doing his best (drunken) Pete Townshend impersonation, while Pollard strutted and swung the mic like a domesticated version of Roger Daltrey. Sublime readings of "Acorns and Orioles", "Far Out Crops" and "Peep-hole" followed, but for all their rock histrionics they couldn't quite match the sheer "cultural icon" intensity of the covers.

But Pollard, eager to share more than just his music, chucked full bottles of beer into the crowd, which met with the disproportionate level of approval that usually accompanies these events (i.e. beer bottle flung by audience member = probable fight; beer bottle flung by band member = keepsake).

By the time the encore rolled around, it was clear that Pollard and co. were nearly too drunk to stand, let alone play, and a full third of the stage was crowded with drunken fans who'd found their way backstage to watch from this superior vantage point. Sprawled on the drum kit riser, Pollard drained the dregs of his energy in a spirited encore, then stumbled offstage, while the roadie whose job it is to have the EMTs on hand to resuscitate Pollard went to find a phone.

It's easy to envy Pollard in situations like these. He gets to sleep off the evening's debauchery, while we have to be up for work in a few hours. Life sucks that way.