More than any other group that spawned in the ’80s and has made it this far, the Butthole Surfers have the right to laugh in everyone’s face. And, in a sense, that’s what they did at Brooklyn’s Warsaw on a cold December night.

They weren’t ungrateful (though, given their history, that would not surprise), but the Gibby Haynes and Co. were clearly basking in the delight of having weathered anything and everything that’s come their way. Much of that was self-inflicted chaos (gulping acid tabs, violently provoking audiences and countless other instances of not giving a fuck), but that only makes their current success that much more of a death-defying “HA!”

Following a lengthy wait in line under an ominous full moon, Black Dice kicked things off with a potent set of booming and shifting rhythms and noise — a nice warm-up for what followed: “What up, y’all!” Haynes said as the Buttholes took the stage. “Man there’s a bunch of old ass motherfuckers out there.” The band then launched into “22 Going On 23,” a tune that embodies the group’s best exploits — bizarre snapshots of American weirdness, skull-draining guitar psychedelia and Haynes’ unearthly screams.

The rest of the 24-song set shifted mostly between songs from the band’s late-’80s heyday, but also occasionally reached back to their debut 1983 EP and forward to 1993’s Independent Worm Saloon. Yes, forward to 1993. Because a Butthole Surfers show seems to blast from an alternate reality in which the last 20-odd years never existed. Those “old ass motherfuckers” moshed like they were 15 again, and a few even got dragged out by security, likely evoking flashbacks to once being tossed from some 21+ dive. On stage, Haynes, who was on track to be a well-paid accountant when the Buttholes first formed, just seemed to grin at how many wrong decisions led to this triumphant moment.

Butthole Surfers setlist:

22 Going On 23 100 Million People Dead Fast Moving to Florida Creep in the Cellar Suicide Rocky Pittsburgh to Lebanon Bar-B-Q Pope Cowboy Bob 1401 (The Colored F.B.I. Guy) Edgar Negro Observer Bong Song Hey I Saw An X-Ray Of A Girl Passing Gas Goofy’s Concern Graveyard Some Dispute Over T-Shirt Sales To Partner Tornado Gary Floyd Blindman The Shah Sleeps in Lee Harvey’s Grave

[Photo: Kirk R. Tuck]

It was a night of firsts for both the Oranges Band and A.C. Newman, with new bands and albums waiting in the wings. The Baltimore-based Oranges showed off a steely fresh sound with the addition of ex-Guided By Voices/Cobra Verde guitarist Doug Gillard, while ex-Spoon bassist and frontman Roman Kuebler exercised a perfect amount of control with dense, classic vocals and spastic high kicks. The senior Mr. Kuebler (Roman’s pa) made a brief appearance to plug the Oranges Band’s new record, simply titled Are Invisible. A band this hard-working onstage and on record deserve to be quite visible, in fact. The Oranges treated us with the jangly new track "Artstar," as well as standout tunes "My Street" from 2003’s All Around and "The World and Everything in It" from 2005’s album of the same title. Post-show, Kuebler assured me that the Oranges are going on tour in February for Are Invisible’s official release.

New Pornographers frontman A.C. (Carl) Newman took the stage for his first solo show in years, backed by a specially assembled band, including Nicole Atkins on vocals/percussion and whole gang of bells & whistles. We were treated to equal parts The Slow Wonder (2004) and Get Guilty (out January 20), transforming the Bell House into an ornate holding cell of starved, ecstatic A.C. Newman fans. Opening with new single "There Are Maybe Ten or Twelve," Newman quickly proved that a complicated, ambitious song on record can indeed translate to a gorgeous live mélange of sound. We also heard more upbeat, typical Newman fare like "Miracle Drug" and "Seven Ways to Stockholm," interspersed with brand new songs. Unified whistling and drum-tight vocal harmonies abounded — a set catchy as all get-out. Newman’s first encore consisted of The Go-Betweens’ "Loves Goes On," reportedly rejected by Starbucks for their Valentine’s Day compilation. Wild applause inspired him to wrap it up with The New Pornographers’ "The Fake Headlines" — no other solo songs were prepared. Bonus!

A.C. Newman setlist:

There are Maybe Ten or Twelve Miracle Drug Like a Hitman Secretarial Seven Ways to Stockholm Come Crash Heartbreak Rides Palace @ 4AM The Cloud Prayer All My Days Drink to Me, Babe, Then Changeling On the Table The Town Halo
— ENCORE— Love Goes On The Fake Headlines

Andrew W.K has spent his 2008 opening a new venue in New York (Santos Party House), producing a Lee Perry record, and giving readings of children’s books. He’s made some time for performing as well, but his recent gigs have not exactly been full-bore, “I Get Wet,” bloody-faced raunch fests. Solo piano shows, improvisational experiments in art museums, and impromptu Tom Petty covers have been more the norm, and, to that eclectic list, Mr. W.K. can now add a collaboration with the Calder Quartet.

The product of this collaboration went down at (Le) Poisson Rouge and consisted of a blend of new classical works, improvisations, Phillip Glass, and favorites from I Get Wet and The Wolf, performed with the help of a varied assortment of pre-recorded material, makeshift percussion and, most intriguingly, Ensemble Robot’s Bot(i)cello (a robotic, MIDI-controlled, single-stringed, quasi percussion-y thing). The program was almost as strange as it looks on paper. The tone of the performance ran the gamut from W.K.’s goofy "Brandenburg Hey Hey Hey" (which started as a Bach piano solo and ended as a disco jam), to Christine Southworth’s austere Honey Flyers for quartet and Bot(i)cello, to a frenzied and climactic dance fest on W.K.’s show-closing "Long Live the Party." Miraculously, this all managed to form some kind of a cohesive experience.

It’s difficult to say why a well-respected string quartet would want to play "Party Hard," if you approach the question from a purely musical level, but this collaboration went further than that. Fun is the main element of both Andrew W.K.’s persona and musical style, though the more difficult to pin-down "energy" is probably second, and the energy and sense of enjoyment that the Calder Quartet instilled was definitely a sign that they were influenced by more than W.K.’s sense for apocalyptically simple melodies.

Of course, a collaboration needs to go two ways, and there were moments where the gravity of a classical concert seemed to get through to W.K. At the end of an improvisation, he performed with piano, voice, and the Bot(i)cello; the rumble lapsed into something in between George Crumb and black metal that seemed oddly fitting.

But the overwhelming feeling, which seems common to all Andrew W.K. projects, was one of possibility and growth. The Calder Quartet has a long way to go before they can inspire ecstatic embraces and dancing, and W.K. is still years away from being able to produce anything close to the breathless serenity the Calder showed in their performance of Tristan Perich’s "Interface." But everyone’s trying, and everyone’s inspired, and that’s really the best anyone can hope for.

On a cool November Friday night, Otto’s Shrunken Head became host to one of the geekiest things I’ve ever seen short of a Con of some sort. Surrounded by fruity drinks, bamboo, and ancient Land of the Lost episodes on a television, "sock puppet rock band" Uncle Monsterface take the stage.

Glancing around the room, I notice both a Dr. Horrible and a Homestarrunner shirt and know exactly what type of show this would be. The nerd — once shunned upon, this genus is now generally accepted in society. If Revenge of the Nerds taught us anything, it’s that nerds can win a rap battle using synthesizers and computer keyboards.

Blow up pool toys float over the crowd, knocking over drinks and hitting people in the head. Behind the band stands a six-foot tall blanket fort with windows and a projector showing music videos accompanying the songs. Each is a three-minute opus to Gary Gygax or video games. Mixing a hodgepodge of rock guitar riffs over synthesizer, it reminds me a lot of Atom and His Package.

Throughout the show, Uncle Monsterface would take breaks from using the sock puppets and appear from behind the fort as life-sized creatures dancing on stage. During "I’m Sorry (But Your Princess is in Another Castle)," an audience member blasted through World 1-1 of Super Mario Brothers, while the set was capped off with the most interesting rendition of Madonna’s "Like a Prayer" I’ve ever witnessed. Life hasn’t been the same since seeing a huge paper mache sock puppet writhe around on stage.

If you read Scott Pilgrim, play NES, or know the differences between the book and movie versions of Lord of the Rings, Uncle Monsterface is a band you won’t want to miss.

I didn’t have particularly high expectations for Lykke Li and Friendly Fires’ show at Portland, Oregon’s The Doug Fir. Li’s debut Youth Novel has some great tracks, but I wasn’t bowled over by it as a whole, and while Friendly Fires’ self-titled debut had potential to translate to a live setting, I wasn’t overly excited to see them. Little did I know that this would be, without a doubt, one of the best shows I’ve attended in the past year.

Friendly Fires’ feisty electro-funk came to life on stage. Dressed in a smartly fitted white-collared shirt with black pants, singer Ed Macfarlane wasted no time in displaying his unrefined, ineffable dance moves. Suffice to say, the pelvic thrusts began immediately, propelling him off the stage and into the crowd. At first, the audience stared in shock, “Who does this guy think he is?” people thought. “Does he have a single ounce of self-consciousness?” Turns out he doesn’t, and it was badass. Soon, a squadron of dancing and screaming females congregated at the front of the stage.

The musical chops were there to backup the dance moves. With its catchy nod to Stevie Wonder, drummer Jack Savidge’s arms flying like a one-man drum circle, and bassist Rob Lee’s indefatigable cowbell worship, “In The Hospital” got the crowd moving. Meanwhile, “Strobe” allowed FF to halt the funk for a moment and indulge in a ballad rounded out by Joshua Tree-esque atmospheric guitar and a bubbling synth sample. The veins in Macfarlane’s neck bulged as he lifted a fist to the ceiling, threw back his head, and shouted the chorus. It was a little much, but this band is nothing if not excessive, and such heavy-handed strokes fit the bill.

Soon after Friendly Fires’ set, the club filled to maximum capacity. A musician walked on stage, picked up an acoustic guitar, and began to play the two notes that make up Lykke Li’s “Dance Dance Dance.” Next, a drummer and keyboardist joined and commenced to pound along and lay down a groove. Finally, Lykke Li, wearing a billowing black dress, walked to the mic and began singing as the packed crowd erupted into cheers. I’d never particularly liked that song until that very moment. Pared down to its live essentials, even barer than Björn Yttling and Lasse Mârtén’s minimalist production, her songs gained a robustness that’s lacking on Youth Novel.

“Hanging High” took on a doo-wop timelessness, as Li’s pained vocals filled every corner of The Doug Fir. Soon after, Li and her band launched into a cover of Wendy Rene’s soul classic “After Laughter (Come Tears).” Hearing her expressive soprano rise above the harmonies of the band was haunting and impressive. “Little Bit” was predictably crowd-pleasing, while an adorable and skillfully executed cover of A Tribe Called Quest’s “Can I Kick It” came out of nowhere near the end of the set and brought the audience to a zenith of excitement.

Throughout the performance, Li expressed the melancholy themes of her album while simultaneously maintaining a buoyant, even playful bearing, shaking her hips and fueling the audience to dance and move passionately to the music. Not sure how she balanced it all, but the performance left me with a smile that I couldn’t force off my face if I tried.

In the interest of full disclosure, I wasn’t supposed to write this review. A friend of mine wanted to write for TMT, so I flexed my (near-negligible) muscle and got us on the list for the October 27 Jolie Holland show at Lakeshore Theater. He was supposed to write it up, and I would send it to my editor, and we could all swing up into the saddle and ride off into the sunset. As of this date, however, he has not written up the show, so I have decided to soldier on and write something.

The Lakeshore Theater is most often a comedy club, and initially the advantages of such a venue were obvious: the sound was good, booze was easily accessible, and everyone could comfortably see the musicians without having to touch each other. After awhile, though, it just seemed kind of detached. There was no energy moving between the audience and performers. People felt free to chat a little.

This was especially a problem during Herman Dune’s set. The band is touring as a duo, with David-Ivar handling guitar and lead vocals and Néman doing drums/bongos and backing vocals. They looked and sounded excellent up there, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that they were a little intimidated by the silent, seated audience. David told a little story about being confused as to why Chicago music stores do not have special sections set aside for Chuck Berry, and between the adorable accents and the goofy dancing, the audience livened up considerably. Almost all of the songs played were from their latest release, Next Year In Zion, but the older songs held up remarkably well considering the stripped-down arrangement. For a treat of a last song, they invited Rachel Blumberg up to play bongos. A++++ would ogle Frenchmen with excellent facial hair again.

Admittedly, I am almost totally unfamiliar with most of Jolie Holland’s music, including her latest record, Living & the Dead. (My failure of a friend was supposed to keep a setlist. He did not.) Holland’s records have always lulled me into a sort of alt-jazz-folk stupor, and while the addition of a bassist, guitarist, and drummer kept things varied in tempo and dynamics, I still had trouble staying engaged. She has a wonderful quality to her voice; it’s just not my thing. I was busy all day. It was a 10 o’clock show that didn’t start till 10:30, so she didn’t go on till almost midnight. I can give you any number of excuses, but no real solid information about Jolie Holland & Co’s performance. It was acceptable. The audience seemed into it. If you like her records, you should probably catch a show.

If there’s still a distinction between electronic dance music and rock ‘n’ roll, it’s fading fast. As synths mingle with, or replace, guitars and the traditional four-piece gets pared down to the two-piece or one-piece, an unfortunate side-effect has emerged: an epidemic of poor showmanship. Luckily, Crystal Castles seemed determined to buck this trend.

Opening act David Wolf, however, epitomized these boring performances. The Tacoma, WA-based solo act slowly rocked back and forth behind his computer, staring at the monitor. Every couple of minutes he took a sip of water, then gently placed the bottle back down on the table next to his computer. Afterward, Tempe, Arizona’s Lymbyc System crafted a mesmerizing mix of drums and echo-laden clavinet that was by turns tranquil and hugely magnificent. The clavinet’s keyboard/electric guitar hybrid tone sounded incredible as Jared Bell allowed the volume to ebb and swell alongside his brother Mike Bell’s superb drumming.

Crystal Castles soon took the stage with a burst of verve that didn’t let up for an instant of their 45-minute set. The moment their waves of 8-bit melody flowed through the speakers, the audience convulsed in a mass of movement closer to a riot than a rave. There were no guitarists in sight, no punk rock beats, yet the area in front of the stage transformed into a mass of hip teenagers jumping and pushing each other. Unrelenting strobe lights provided the only illumination of the stage and transformed Alice Glass into a blur of motion with jet-black hair, a black t-shirt, and raccoon-like eye shadow.

Ethan Kath didn’t add much to the performance; he stood stationary behind his electronics in his signature black hoodie. He kept the instrumental tracks faithful to the recordings and didn’t interact with the crowd. No problem though, Glass was the star of the show, as she writhed and shrieked demonically in front of a large banner of their infamous mangled Madonna image, her frenetic antics feeding the enthusiasm of the crowd-surfing audience in front of her. The stage didn’t seem to have enough space to contain her, as she kept hurling herself into the arms of the crowd. At one point, she wrapped the microphone around her neck and stared forlornly at the audience. (I think it was supposed to be edgy.)

Still, the performance was a refreshing injection of energy and engagement. While I would have preferred a crowd of dancers rather than the quasi-mosh pit, maybe I’m just getting old. In any case, it was a captivating, frenzied spectacle — can’t argue with that.