Austin is a miserable place to be today.

Stodgy, overcast raininess has given way to almost unbearable humidity. Add to this a relative lack of interesting bands -- which, in this case, means bands we want to see so much that we're willing to endure sweaty, crowded venues -- and you've got a recipe for indifference. Muggy indifference.

Evening arrives, and we head down to Emo's to check out label bidding-war subjects Soviet. Sixth Street is dead...but there's a line in front of Emo's that goes all the way to the corner. This is a sorry state of affairs -- probably only the second time we've had to stand in line in the last four years; we wonder if the people at Emo's have been asked to "artificially" create a line so that Soviet can claim to have had lines around the block. Ironically, once the line moves close to the venue's band entrance, we can see and hear Soviet better than most of the people inside. They sound Human League-y, but not overwhelmingly exciting -- more like a "safe" option for labels who want to sign an electroclash act but can't quite get up the nerve to do so.

Soviet finish, of course, minutes after we enter Emo's. And that's fine -- we're really interested in Kinski. We've all been enjoying Airs Above Your Station lately, and we're eager to see if the band is as good as we've heard they are.

For once, a Wednesday night band does not disappoint. Kinski are quite astonishingly good -- especially for the portion of the audience actually paying attention to their performance (the periphery of the "semi-outdoor" venue is crowded with people who appear to be waiting for ...And You Will Know Us By the Trail of Dead to go on at midnight). A sort of leaner, muscular, less indulgent Bardo Pond for people who don't use as many recreational drugs, Kinski do the slow buildup thing, and the flailing thing, and the squalling thing, and the locked-in driving groove thing, and generally display a far greater willingness to rock the fuck out than the majority of their peers. Guitarists Chris Martin and Matthew Reid-Schwartz are far more animated than most guitar-texture makers -- they're not afraid to cavort around the stage, driven by the spirit and the energy of their music.

The set leans heavily on Airs Above Your Station -- no shock there. It's gorgeous, satisfying noise, with a few moments of bowed-guitar bliss thrown in for good notice. At roughly 40 minutes, the set is a perfect length; just when we're thinking about finding a place to sit down, the band lets the storm die. Gorgeous.

On the strength of a fellow staffer's endorsement, we head over to Privilege for Oxbow's 11:00 p.m. performance.

Privilege is awful -- it's humid, it reeks of incense and it's crowded with people who've had too much to drink. By the time Eugene Robinson and his cohorts take the stage, we're in steambath territory. Oxbow and Robinson's usual schizophrenic-Jimi-Hendrix-fronting-the-Melvins-covering-Black-Sabbath shtick is particularly enjoyed by a drunk, swaying, chinless grinning fuckhead directly in front of us, who paws madly at his chubby, bacon-scented girlfriend and stumbles into people with reckless abandon.

We recognize a couple of songs from An Evil Heat, and what sounds like a snatch of "John the Revelator". Robinson, as always, starts shedding clothing early on; by the middle of the set he's down to his briefs, and his free hand rarely strays from his crotch. We notice a number of women who seem like they'd be more at home at a country show; they're staring at Robinson, who has something like -5 percent body fat, and they seem to be slavering.

As Oxbow call it a night and get ready for a thirty-hour drive home, several of us decide to turn in early.

While the "old school" faction of Splendid decided to call it a night, some of us weren't done rocking and or rolling. A sweaty and fratboy-infested walk down sixth street found us at Spill in the midst of the Militia Group showcase, just in time to catch a set by troubadour-in-training Bryce Avary, aka the Rocket Summer. Flanked by two friends and wearing a sweet vintage Cars tee, Avary blasted though a set of delicious pop spiked with Elton John-like bouts of whimsy, punctuated by random blasts from a stage-side confetti cannon. Though the set was wrought with moments of juvenalia, Avary & Co. provided honest and youthful thrills amidst the usual Wednesday night curmudgenonry.

The 1:00 a.m. walk back to Emo's for the Party of Helicopters was doubly horrifying, as drunken white-caps stared disapprovingly at anyone not wearing Dockers or talking on a cell phone.

Escaping from the douchebaggery of sixth street into the sweaty confines of Emo's was a welcome relief, even if ducking in meant watching ...And You Will Know Us by the Trail of Dead smash the stage to pieces. A double Jack and Coke and walk across the courtyard to Emo's Jr. found us smack dab in the middle of Dressy Bessy's screeching boy-girl assault. Jovial and dressed like a huge roll of Life Savers, lead singer Tammy Ealom sliced and jabbed her way through a large portion of the group's amp-buzz oeuvre. Once their set ended, the crowd streamed towards the exits, and the twelve of us who had come to see PoH took our positions stage-side.

Looking bleary, weary and a little sauced, the boys from Kent set about the business of decimating eardrums and downing Bud Lights. Showcasing songs from the soon-to-be-released Please Believe It, the group sounded like nothing so much as Queen duking it out with Iron Maiden over who gets to fuck Lemmy in the ass first. On a night beset with disillusion and disappointment, the Party of Helicopters reigned supreme as the beer-soaked kings of their domain.